Nobody Said Amen

A Negro kid was sitting next to him, and he was driving down Highway 49 in the Mississippi Delta. It was a new feeling, edgy, uncomfortable. Did Dale feel as exposed as he did? Safer if he sat in the back? So approaching cars wouldn’t notice? Ted was ashamed to think this way. Christ, he couldn’t take his eye off that damned rearview mirror! He tapped Dale’s knee and stepped on the gas. “Joe Louis said it, Dale. You can run but you can’t hide.”

Dale laughed. “Look at that country out there, Ted. Good for running, terrible for hiding!” It was suddenly very clear. He couldn’t work down here this summer if he was going to be running scared. His story was right here—young kids moving into “who knows what” to try to register black Americans so they could vote. They were all silent now. Just watching. And he had work to do. When they reached Clarksdale, Dale made the decision for him.

“We’re getting close to Klan country, Buckley. You get up here. I’ll hunker down in the back with Parker when we’re approaching Shiloh so it looks like it’s just two white guys in the car. When you see the Kilbrew gas station on your right, Ted, take the next left and you’ll pass the Sojourner Chapel. Jimmy Mack said we’ll meet there at seven tomorrow night.” Dale’s eyes swept the car. “Meanwhile, get to know the families you’ll be staying with.”

Ted Mendelsohn breathed easy for the first time since he’d left Memphis. He had brought the wheels they’d need. Now the baton had been passed.