John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“Are you mentioned by name?”

“I am not, damn it, but if he ever dare print it in this vile rag, I will—”

“Mr. Manly is not reticent with his opinions.”

“His opinions are criminal! This is part and parcel of what has become of the entire state. Our homes are no longer safe, the streets are overrun with insolent darkies who have been told they are our equals, no, that they are su per ior to us, men of proven value and social standing are ignored while the governor doles out state commissions to every shitheel Republican with two nickels to rub together—”

“The governor,” says MacRae, laying a calming hand on the Judge’s shoulder, “will not plague us for long.”

“His term is—”

“His term has meaning only so long as he controls the legislature. We have an election coming up.”

“And every one of these grinning monkeys will be lined up at the polls, lording it over us—”

“That will not be allowed. Not this time.”

The Judge is brought short by the bluntness of MacRae’s reply.

“And who will prevent it?”

The difficult part will be the timing. Building the pressure without letting it explode too soon, keeping secrets from your friends as well as your adversaries.

“Men of substance,” he says. “Men of honor. Men, as you put it, of proven value.”

“But the legalities—”

“The legalities will be dealt with as they arise. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

They are distracted then by the loud rattling of an empty dray, a high-stepping horse heading directly at them and the teamster, a young, hatless negro, pointedly neglecting to rein it in.

“Pardon me, gennemen!”

The Judge and MacRae both have to scramble back onto the curb to avoid being trampled. Both men stare after the wagon as it speeds away toward the river, incredulous.

“When the time comes, Judge,” says MacRae, his voice shaking with anger, “trust me — you will be called upon.”

Jubal pulls the dray in front of the loading dock at the lumberyard. Dap Mosely, the foreman, is sitting with the others eating their lunches, legs hanging over the edge of the platform.

“Got Mister Rankin load ready?” asks Jubal.

“Lunch don’t end till I say it do,” Dap smiles. “An I aint said so yet. What’s your hurry, young man?”

“This one always in a rush.” His Uncle Wicklow sits on a pile of railroad ties back in the shade of the awning, shoes off, wiggling his toes. “In a big rush to get nowhere.”

“What you doin here, Wick?”

“Oh, just resting my feet. Listening to Broadnax here read the news.”

Percy Broadnax, who is missing two fingers from a sawmill accident, waves a copy of the Record . “Gonna be trouble over this one. Get all the white folks in a fuss.”

“I just put a few of em up on their toes,” says Jubal, stretching out on the seat of the wagon. “My Nubia pert near run Mr. Hugh MacRae and that old Judge Nannygoat over.”

“What you want to do that for?” says Wick, leaning forward with a frown.

“They was standing right out in the middle of Market Street like they own it. You got to leave people room to do their bidness.”

“Hugh MacRae probly does own Market Street,” says Dap. “Spect he thinks he does, anyway.”

“What you care about them, anyhow?” says Jubal. His uncle has done livery work for plenty of white families over the years, but none of them lived in a castle. “They aint your people.”

“Got to treat white folks and snakes just the same,” says Wick. “Don’t rile em less you got to.”

“Well this gonna get em hissin and spittin, all right—” Broadnax holds the paper at arm’s length to read it, “ If these alleged crimes of rape were so frequent as has been reported in our state’s newspapers, Mrs. Felton’s plea might be worthy of consideration .”

Teeter Williams, brushing cornbread crumbs off his pants, whistles. “Damn. That boy Manly can ar tic ulate.”

“Say his grandaddy was governor back before the war, had him a fondness for the gals back in the cabins.”

“Well, he act like he’s king of somethin.” Jubal shakes his head. “I haul his paper around every morning to them that sell it. I see him up there in his office — he hardly look at a man. Just cause you look white don’t mean you got to act it.”

“It’s his mama the one got the brains in that family,” says Dap Mosely, who is nearly as old as Uncle Wick and seems to know everybody in the city. “Woman is sharp . She aint so light-complected as her boys, cause she don’t come from the Manly line, but she don’t miss nothin.”

“ However ,” Broadnax reads, raising his voice to regain their attention, “ some white women who cry ‘Rape!’ in this regard may be exaggerating the truth .”

“How you do that?” says Jubal. “Exaggerate—”

“He means lying.”

“Right. Some lowlife dog either rape a woman or don’t. Aint no exaggerate about it.”

“Only the truth and a lie. But either one get your neck stretched.”

“ Many black men ,” Broadnax continues, “ are sufficiently attractive for white girls of culture and refinement to fall in love with them .”

Jubal straightens and shows them his profile. “Yeah, an I’m one of em.”

The men laugh, all but Wicklow.

“You be careful how you talk,” he says.

“Relax, Wick—”

“ Here it’s a joke. Somebody else be listening, you find yourself tied up to a tree.”

“Uncle Wick still got them old plantation ways in his head.” Jubal winks to the others. “Fraid the Massa gone come back and get him. Them days over.”

Dap stands and stretches. “You go back and ask your Mr. MacRae about that, young man. See what he got to say about it.” He turns to the others. “Stir your bones, gennemen. We got some wood to load.”

Judge Manigault is in the editor’s office when Milsap arrives. The Judge comes at least once a month, fulminating about one outrage or another that must be redressed in print, but Milsap has never seen his face quite this crimson before.

“ Furthermore ,” reads the Judge, shouting though Mr. Clawson sits only feet away from him, “ in the light of the continued rape and seduction of black women by white men, we must ask these carping hypocrites how they can cry aloud for the virtue of their women while they seek to destroy the morality of ours . Sir, I ask you—”

“It came across my desk this morning,” says the editor, calmly.

“This must not be tolerated!” The Judge hurls the folded newspaper on Mr. Clawson’s desk. “Scurrilous, vile—”

“Yes, Judge, they gone way past cheeky in this town.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?”

Clawson swivels in his chair, scooping up the paper. Milsap can tell from the doorway it is the Record . Eight pages, cheap paper.

“I have only just begun to formulate my editorial comments — you may read them in tomorrow’s issue. Mr. Manly’s absence from our community is strongly advised. As for this fortuitous bit of calumny,” the editor slashes a blue pencil across the first and last paragraphs of the piece in front of him, then holds it out toward Milsap, “we must first be sure that our readers are aware they have been so maligned.” He finally looks over. “This goes in today, Drew.”

Milsap steps in to take the paper, glances at the article. “Just the middle part of it?”

“Cut to the heart of the insult. Header—” the editor tilts back in his chair, musing for a moment—“ ‘A Negro Defamer of the White Women — of the Chris tian White Women of North Carolina.’ Lead column left, change the typeface from our own.”