Packing had been a very strenuous activity. Putting all my books, clothes, and other belongings into cardboard boxes never had the potential of being fun. I sat in the middle of my empty room, looking around at the barren walls. The room that was once so secure and comfortable was now lonely. The small cracks in the walls became apparent, and dust that was once hidden behind furniture had begun to invade the center of the room. The curtainless windows longed for covering and the empty closet stood uselessly with its door half open.
I walked over to one window and glanced out at our small yard. The swing set that my father had built for me would now be used by another child. The daffodils and tulips that I had planted would probably be left to die. I glanced across our lot and into the neighbor's yard. A small wooden structure that served as a playhouse rested against the fence. I could remember making mud pies and flower crowns in that little hut.
A knock on the door frame interrupted my reminiscing. I knew it was Alberta before I even turned around. "Hey, Al," I said. I tried to predict how she would be dressed. She would be wearing a cotton T-shirt with matching shorts and her dark, thick hair would be pulled back in a single braid. I spun around and saw her standing there with tears rolling down her chocolate skin. She moved swiftly toward me and embraced me in a hug. "Oh Debbie, I'm gonna miss you so much."
I hugged her back. "I'm gonna miss you too, Al. I promise to call or write every day."
The summer of 1958, when I was nine years old, my father's company transferred him from Boston to a small town in Mississippi. I was forced to leave my school and friends, including my best friend, Alberta, whom I called Al for short. The new house in Mississippi was nice, but it was very different from what I left behind in Boston. It was a small one story farm house, and it was situated on many acres of property. It took ten minutes to walk to our nearest neighbor's house and even longer than that to walk into town.
I didn't start at my new school for another month and it only took me a day or two to unpack my boxes, so I spent the majority of my time wandering around the town looking for children my age to befriend. On one of my journeys to town I noticed a black girl, who looked to be about my age, sitting by herself on the side of the road drawing in the sand. I ventured over to her and sat down next to her. "Hi, my name is Deborah," I introduced myself. "I just moved here. What's your name?" She said nothing and just stared at me with questioning eyes. I smiled at her. "You can call me Debbie if you'd like," I encouraged her.
The girl looked down at the stick in her hand. "My name is Bessie, ma'am," she said softly. The formality of her response startled me. I didn't know how to reply.
"You can just call me Debbie," I told her, "or Deb, if you like that better." She looked up from the road and stared at me with amazement. She obviously wasn't used to being treated as an equal. I tried to begin a conversation by asking her how old she was.
"I'm ten years old," she hesitated, "Debbie." She removed the sweat from her forehead with one swift movement of her arm. Bessie looked up at me and the corners of her mouth smiled, but her teeth remained hidden.
"You look hot," I commented. "I've got a pond behind my house. Would you like to go swimming with me?"
Bessie looked at me surprised. "I really shouldn't," she declined. " 'Sides, I don't got nothin' to wear."
"That doesn't matter," I rebutted. Before she had the chance to refuse again, I grabbed her small wrist, helped her off the curb, and guided her behind me toward my house.
That afternoon we swam until our fingers shriveled up and the sun began to disappear behind the tree tops. We emerged from the water giggling like two children who had snuck candy from the kitchen without their parents permission. Our clothes hugged our bodies and dripped of pond water. We sat on the shore of the pond talking and laughing. Somehow it came up that Bessie's horse had just had a foal.
"I would like to see it" I commented.
She didn't respond to me right away, but after a short delay, she replied, "I'm not sure that's really such a good idea."
"That's nonsense! Come on, let's go!" I said picking up my sneakers. Again, I grabbed Bessie by her hand and guided her out of the woods and back into the field behind my house. Reluctantly, she led me to the barn on her family's property.
She slowly pushed open the barn door, which revealed a small horse nestled up in its mother's warm body. It was a deep brown with chestnut colored fur on its nose and around its hooves. The mother looked up and shifted her weight to hide her baby from us when we entered. Wanting to see the foal more closely, I crept around the other side of the barn. The mother's eyes followed me the whole way, and as I reached the far wall, she began to get protective of her offspring.
"Move away, Debbie!" Bessie yelled at me, but it was too late. The mother horse stood quickly and pushed me away from her baby with her nose. I screamed and tried to step backward, but I tripped over the trough. Everything went black.
I must have hit my head hard because when I woke up I was laying on Bessie's bed and my head was wrapped with bandages. It was dark outside and Bessie was sleeping on the floor snuggled in a quilt. My head throbbed and I was extremely tired, so I turned over and went back to sleep.
Late that night, I awoke with a start. Something wasn't right. I heard the shattering of glass. Something was broken. Bessie heard it too. She was sitting up on the floor with a fearful look on her face. Still half asleep, I rose from her bed. Simultaneously, she stood up. Clumsily, we walked out to the hallway and down the stairs. The lights below were on. Her parents must still be awake. I heard her mother scream. Nervously, Bessie began to search for her parents. I ran along right behind her. What was wrong? Where were they?
She was crying now out of fear. We found her mother hugging the door frame of the backdoor, trying to keep herself from falling over. She kept shrieking, "No! No!" It was a horrible sound. Bessie ran over to her mother and held her tightly. I stood further back in the kitchen, looking past them out the doorway. I saw a man being carried away by a group of white figures. I didn't understand what was going on. He was struggling, trying desperately to break free. "Daddy!" Bessie cried.
She turned to her mother, "Help him! Why aren't you helping him?" Her mother looked down at down at her, then over at me. Her eyes were now blood shot and swollen. Her face was stained with tears. She put her hand on Bessie's shoulder and turned her away from the door. Bessie buried her face in her mother's dress and cried. Her mother cried too. They stood there holding each other and crying. I was frozen to my place behind the table. Out in the field, I heard noises. People were shouting. Her father. Someone needs to help her father.
I don't know how long I stayed there. I had kneeled down on the floor, rested my head on a chair, and buried my face with my arms to try to keep the images of those ghosts from entering my head. Some time later, however, I heard someone moving in near me. I looked up and saw Bessie and her mother run out into the field behind their house. I instinctively followed them. They led me to their father. He was laying limp in the grass. Blood was dripping from his lip and his clothes were ripped. His cheek was bruised and scratched. I stayed back and didn't get as close to him as Bessie had. I was completely enveloped in the moment. I saw his pain, I saw Bessie's pain, I saw her mother's pain, and began to cry. The tears began to flow from my eyes and roll off my cheeks, wetting my clothes.
"Why did they do this to you, Daddy?" Bessie asked.
I saw him reach out for her hand. She placed her tiny hand in his. He squeezed it weakly and stared into her eyes. "You're never gonna be like that, my Bessie. Promise me you're never gonna be like that."
His wife helped him stand and walk into the house. She laid him down on the couch and began to delicately nurse his wounds. Bessie helped her clean and bandage the cuts. I followed behind her, mute, not knowing what to say or how to act. It was so surreal that I was having trouble comprehending what had just happened. "Who were those people?" I naively asked. Bessie and her mother looked at me, but ignored the question. I took a seat on a chair in their kitchen, rested my head on the table, and drifted back into sleep.
The next morning I awoke abruptly drenched in a sweat. I wasn't sure whether it had all been a bad dream or not. My sleepy eyes scanned the room. Bessie's father was still sleeping peacefully on the sofa. His right hand was draped over the side of the couch and lay on the floor. Bessie was sleeping by the couch resting her head on her father's stomach. Her mother was sleeping in a nearby wooden rocking chair. She had taken a pillow and a blanket from upstairs and had made the best out of an uncomfortable seat.
Quietly, I stood up and walked around the kitchen. I stepped on a piece of broken glass and pain shot up my leg like a ball from a cannon. I bit my lip to keep from yelling and disturbing their sleep. While I sat at the kitchen table and cared for my foot, I looked for where the glass came from. The window over the sink was broken. The absence of glass allowed the yellow curtains to dance in the morning breeze. As they blew open, a structure out in the field caught my interest.
I hobbled outside and examined the wooden figure. It was shaped like a "t" and had obviously been burnt. Ashes covered the ground at the base of the framework. I held my hand over them. The remains were still warm.
I walked along the road in town kicking a single rock. People were talking about me. I could hear them. People would point at me. I could see them. I needed a friend. I looked around and saw Bessie sitting where I had first introduced myself to her. I ventured over to her and took a seat beside her. "Hi Bessie," I said as cheerfully as I could manage.
Bessie looked at me with no emotion, stood up, and walked away.
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