Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-10-
The First Phone Call Home

I decided not to venture into the “Eden Cafe” from the outside looking in. I could see two dozen white men in greasy overalls gathering around a few broken down tables. No doubt they were holding a fellowship breakfast for the local branch of the Ku Klux Klan. And by no means did I want to be the guest speaker or be invited to semi-weekly cross burning. I'll take my chances somewhere else.

And so I circled back to the gas station and there out front, by the front door I found what I was looking for: an old Bell South pay-phone. It looked sad and lonely looking,  and I think somebody had taken a bowl movement beside it because there was this massive, brown pile of something that looked like melted chocolate sitting right beside it. God damn I had died and gone to hell.

Taking a deep breath and trying to breath through my nose I inched toward the booth. It was then I noticed what terrible shape the parking lot was in. Pot-holes the size of small fishing ponds dotted the dirty concrete parking lot. Many of these pot-holes were filled with brownish looking water that had the tail-tale shine of grease and chemical run off in them.

To my horror I saw some half-crazed looking man hunching down, he was holding what appeared to be an old tin can in his hand. His face was redder than a tomato and his teeth were rotten, he was missing a good dozen of them and that remained were yellow and rotten. He looked dead at me, then he dipped the tin can into the water and to my horror he took a sip of it. After he finished drinking his fill, he turned his head toward me and then I almost vomited. He looked like an extra from the one horror movie called “Deliverance”. Like I expected him to rush toward me and in a thick, backwooded accent say. “You gotta, pretty little  mouth on you. I’m going to make you put that pretty mouth of yours to work boy. And you're gonna swallow every pearl I give you too like a good little boy.” 

It was at that moment the old glass to gas the station flew open and a woman stepped into the doorway. She was wearing old, greasy looking daisy duke shorts and a shirt that had long turned yellow. A half burned out cigarette was clinched in her mouth and in her hands she held a shot gun.

“I told you, you damn retarded son of a bitch to get gone!” She hollered and she still held the cigarette in her mouth as she hollered this out. “And you carry your ass before I send you home now! And stop drinking that water! That shit will kill you.”

The man who had this pointed stooped down to get another drink of this foul, gut-wrenching smelling water, looked up, dropped his tin can and ran off on all fours. He vanished behind an old metal dumpster, the woman took another drag off her cigarette and then flicked it into the water. I heard her mutter darkly under her breath.

“Dump, retarded son of a bitch I wish May-Lee had held him under the water for a few more minutes when she was bathing him yesterday. Lord knows she could have collected the insurance money from him and gotten herself a better house.” She then stepped inside.

“...” I crossed myself. Then I stopped. It was a Catholic habit. And I'm sure anything that even faintly smelled of the Church of Rome would stir these folks up. They would be like sharks who smelled fresh blood in the water. At that moment I recalled some advice my uncle had once given me, well I won’t go as far as to call it advice, I would call it a warning. “Remember. The Klan hates three things above all else. Niggers, Zionist, and Catholics.” Shaking and scared I walked gently over to the old pay-one and slipped in a few quarter dollars I had jingling around in my pocket. I then dialed the only number I could think of off the top of my head. I dialed the house. And after a few tense moments I heard somebody pick up on the other end of the line. 

“Hello?” It was dad.

“Hey Dad.” I said, taking a deep breath.

“James? Where are you son? Your mom and I are worried sick!” He said.

“I'm in a little village called  Eden dad. I got turned around last night.. Listen, is there any way you come and get me?” I paused and then I felt my heart sink.

“No.. listen son, you kind showed your ass last night. And well, your uncle, my brother out for blood. As soon as you left, Sarah Elizabeth, your cousin called her dad and told him what happened. Now, son I need you to be honest with me, did you shove or slap either Sarah Elizabeth or Mary Grace?” Dad's voice was calm but I could tell he was forcing himself to remain calm.

“What.. no.. Dad, you know me better than that! Listen I just showed my ass a little and now that I've had a chance to cool off. I want to apologize..” I said my voice started to trail a little.

“Son..” Dad swallowed hard. “You can't come home, Sarah Elizabeth told her father that you slapped her right across the fast and then you punched Mary Grace so hard she vomited. I know you'll never put a hand on a woman, I raised you better than that. But well it is her word against yours and the way you ran off last night. Things are not looking good.”

“.. Dad..”

“Son listen to me, Your uncle has the whole damn police force out looking for you. All fourteen of them.. He even has the Police Department of Yazoo city looking for you. And the whole bloody sheriff office. Listen, your best bet is to get out of Yazoo County..” I could tell by the way dad's voice sound he was very tired and very stressed. 

“Dad..”

“Son, just once in your life listen to me, Your uncle is a well connected Master Mason.. through the lodge he has connections that I can't even phantom. And he's pissed at you. He wants you to suffer. Those old men, those old Masons control everything in town. From the Vestry Board of Saint Mary's Episcopal Church right down to the board of directors of Bank of Yazoo. The Sheriff of Yazoo County is one, the police chief of Yazoo is one, heck even the police chief of Benton is one.” His voice was rising.

“...”

“And right now they're all looking for you talking about dishing out some 'Country Justice' or 'Backwood Justice'. Son it looks bad.. Listen, I'm going to make some phone calls. See if you can't go live with your moms brother down in Blue Bayou or something..”

“...”

“I love you son.. but right now I can't help you..”
“..” I felt tears starting to sting my eyes.

“Your best bet is to get to Lexington and from there catch the Delta Coach Bus Line to Greenwood. From there you can ride the train to Blue Bayou.. Listen, the only way I can support you now is to wire some money into your account.. Like I said the Masons control the board of directors, they can fire me with a click of their fingers. I'll do my best, but son, once you get a chance you should take out every penny you have in your checking account and your savings account before they force me to close it.”

“Dad, what would happen if I decided to come home?” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Then, I'm afraid I would have no choice but to make good on the promise I told your uncle. In order to keep peace in the family, I promised if you came home, I'll unenroll you from Benton Academy and send you away to Chamberlain-Hunt Academy.” Dad's voice broke.

Chamberlain-Hunt Academy was a reform, military school for boys that was located near Port Gibson, Mississippi. Being sent to Chamberlain-Hunt was either considered the highest honor or the worst possible punishment depending on one's take of the world. If one desired martial glory, and envisioned themselves leading men in combat. Then Chamberlain-Hunt provided the first step up the ladder that would hopefully in their near future lead to an appointment to West Point.

But for the rest of us it was a death sentence.

“Okay..” I paused.

“Another thing I'd like to cover, son.. I found a notebook in your room.” Dad paused. “It seems you've been doing research into transgender stuff.. Listen I don't know what you're dealing with, I can't start to phantom what you're dealing with. But I know Benton does not have the resources to help you.. Blue Bayou is just thirty minutes out of New Orleans.. I think New Orleans would suit you better.”

“Gotta.”

And that was the last word I managed to get in before my time ran up.

“I guess it's time to let the little song bird sing.” I said, taking a deep breath.

End of Chapter Ten.

Note to the readers. This concludes the first volume of a three part series I plan on writing. Our next story will follow James as he goes on the run. The second volume will have far more development than the first. Thank you all who let comments, kudos or just took time out of your busy day to message me. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.