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Fifteen. Return to the Lindseys
- Syracuse University Press
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119 f i f t e e n Return to the Lindseys come the day after tomorra,” Bette had said on the phone. “You can meet our new son. He arrived in November.” I had wondered how she would sound. At Christmas I had sent them my card, a sketch of black and white kids racing across a meadow, and I had speculated about the Lindseys’ reaction. Bette’s voice was warm. “We got your card at Christmas , and we certainly appreciated hearing from you.” I smiled. Noncommittal but not hostile. “Come about ten.” Bette led me through the new sunken living room. Two masons were chipping bricks for the raised Bermuda fireplace, oblivious to our passage across the room. “Did you notice I’m using Negro workmen?” she whispered. Her impudent grin lit her sunburned face as she led me onto the new patio. The year that had passed had done nothing to harness the irrepressible qualities of Bette Lindsey. Lake Lindsey unfolded from the wicker chair with the gracelessness of an overgrown boy. He held out his hand and smiled. “Glad to see you again, Tracy. Meet Dick Milburn.” A slim man in his late thirties stood at his side. He stepped forward, his head slightly extended in a frank and searching sweep of my face. “I’m happy to meet you,” he said amiably in a gentle voice. “Bette and Lake had told me about you. I hope you’ve found the Delta interesting.” His smile was disarming. “I certainly have. That’s why I’ve come back.” The conversation moved lazily through the heavy July air. The three had recently returned from a holiday in Yucatán, a celebration of the birth of young Kevin. “Dick is the only person in the whole world who could persuade Lake Lindsey to fly away from Ruleville on a vacation,” purred Bette. She fondled the memories of the Yucatán like an excited child. Her 120 | Return to the Delta eyes flashed, and an evil grin lit her expressive face. “Dick had told me that when we got to Mexico I should respond to any question in Spanish (which I do not understand—not one single word) by saying, ‘No, no, no.’ I’ll tell you,” she giggled, “one look at those Latin men, and I decided to say, ‘Si, si, si!’” Milburn’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, relishing the story. Lake mopped his neck with a moist handkerchief, his narrowed eyes restlessly moving across the great glaring expanse of the sky. “It’s damp as hell,” he muttered, “but not a real rain in three weeks.” He leaned forward, his thick arms making small, moist stains on his khaki pants. “Tell me, Tracy, what do you think about this Mississippi Freedom Labor Union?” “Oh, no,” groaned Bette. “I want to talk about the Yucatán!” “I never heard about the union till the other day,” I said. “What do you think?” “Damn, damn, damn,” muttered Bette and went to tend the waking baby. Milburn stirred his coffee, listening attentively. Lake’s eyes were bright. The face that had seemed so indolent in repose now was alert. “A dollar twenty-five an hour is going to hurt the niggers. Hurt them bad. In the end they’ll be the ones to suffer. The plantation owners will have to let two-thirds of them go if the union insists on that kind of money.” He tapped my knee. “Take my place. I’ve got more tenant families than most around here, almost thirty. If I have to pay a dollar and a quarter, I’ll have to run twenty of them off my land. I’d hate like hell to do it, too.” The wicker chair creaked as he leaned back, surveying the pearl brightness outside. “What’s going to happen to those families? Just forget them? Let them starve to death?” His chin dropped to his chest, and his troubled eyes sought mine. “I’ve known most of those folks all my life.” “I don’t know the answer,” I said. “Maybe the government will have to subsidize people like they subsidize cotton, Lake. Come in and teach these folks some modern skills. Hasn’t automation been pushing the Negroes off the land anyhow?” Milburn, nodding quietly, set his coffee down. “That’s true. These Delta towns have become the way stations north for the people being automated out. This union is just going to speed up the...