Magic
Time
A Novel
Doug
Marlette
IN
MEMORY of Doug Marlette (1949-2007) killed near Holly Springs,
Mississippi, Tuesday, July 10, 2007. In the summer of 2006, the following
excerpt from his novel, released in September, 2006, was published
in Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal at the request of Farrar,
Straus & Giroux. They provided the author's unedited manuscript,
and I selected a passage from Chapter 5. I had the privilege of
meeting Doug Marlette at the 2006 Southern Festival of Books in
Memphis. I bought Magic Time there, and he signed it: "To
Kathy, Mississippi girl--you'll know these folks!" A truly
great talent, a truly great voice has been lost.
Excerpt
from Chapter 5
Carter Ransom pulled up into the parking lot of Magic Time. It
was nine in the morning when he stepped out of his air-conditioned
’62 Ford Fairlane, and already the heat and humidity felt
like a sodden fur coat. The fragrance of honeysuckle and pine
resin sweetened the heavy air. Carter had visited Magic Time a
few times in high school but never in broad daylight. Sometimes
on Saturday nights, he and his friends, Lonnie, Stephen and Jimbo
would sneak out late and listen to blues players making the rounds
on the chitlin circuit on their way to becoming legends—Howlin’
Wolf, Big Joe Williams, Junior Kimbrough and Memphis Minnie. Even
then, Magic Time had been in need of repair. And now in the bright
light of morning the joint had no glamour at all. It looked vulnerable
and foreboding at the same time.
Set
back in a stand of pines, the squat cinderblock building was barely
visible from the highway. From where Carter stood, the place looked
deserted, a road-scarred pick-up in the rutted gravel lot the
only sign of human presence. Beside the boarded-up window hung
the remains of a Jax beer sign, the smashed neon lettering glinting
in the dust below. A string of dead Christmas tree lights encircled
the weather-warped plywood. Flies moved in a lazy cloud above
an overturned oil drum that might have doubled as a garbage can.
Carter thought he heard a radio playing inside. He knocked on
the screen door. “Anybody home?”
He
knocked again, then jimmied open the screen and banged on the
wooden door behind it. It creaked open. He poked his head inside
and called again, “Anybody here? Lige?”
Before
his eyes could adjust to the dim interior, something cold and
metallic jabbed his temple. A split second later a click, the
sound of a pistol being cocked, and then a female voice. “One
more step, cracker, and you’re going to go see Jesus!”
“Please.
Don’t shoot. I’m a friend of Elijah Knight. I’m
here to see Lige.”
The
girl holding the gun took a couple of steps back, glanced at the
parking lot to make sure Carter was alone and keeping the gun
leveled at his forehead, waved him inside. Now out of the shadows,
he could see that his captor was pretty, slender and white, dressed
in faded jeans, a blue work shirt and dusty tennis shoes. Her
dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail that ended just below
her shoulder blades. Carter, hesitating, stepped inside, his hands
raised and eyes locked on the gun.
The
temperature inside was much cooler than outside. Two ceiling fans
suspended from the ductwork overhead churned the dank air. The
pool table in the middle of the room was serving as a desk from
the looks of the papers covering its surface. A manual typewriter
over-hung the edges of a chipped and dented filing cabinet. The
walls were papered with posters advertising blues acts and placards
emblazoned with the words “Freedom Now” and “Register
to Vote” and “No Poll Tax.” Posters of Mahatma
Gandhi and Frederick Douglass completed the gallery.
“Who
are you?” said the girl, gripping the gun handle now with
both hands, as if she were afraid she would drop it.
“Carter
Ransom. I’m here to see Elijah Knight.”
“Who
sent you?”
“Nobody.
I mean Nettie. His mama. Please. It’s hard to think with
a gun pointed at your head.”
“How
do you know Mr. Knight?” she persisted.
“He’s
a friend.”
“How
do I know you’re not one of those thugs who’s been calling
here and hanging up? Or who firebombed the church in Hattiesburg
last week?”
“Because
I’m wearing Weejuns?”
Despite
the gun, she did not look dangerous. A smile threatened her face.
She motioned Carter toward a chair. After he sat down, she pulled
over a metal folding chair and sat facing him. After a moment,
she frowned, uncocked the pistol and rested it on her lap. “Welcome
to the Ellis County headquarters of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating
Committee.”
“Thank
you,” Carter said. “Okay if I lower my hands now? And
do you mind if I ask, where does the nonviolence come in?”
“That’s
becoming a figure of speech,” she said, removing the bullets
from the cylinder of the Smith and Wesson. Then she stood up,
snapped off the radio and pulled a large handbag from the filing
cabinet. “Did I scare you?” she asked hopefully.
Carter
said, “I’m still shaking.”
She
slipped the pistol in the handbag and locked the bundle in the
cabinet drawer. “Lige is out with the others getting supplies.”
“Will
he be back soon?”
“Should
be.”
“Can
I wait?”
“Suit
yourself.” She took a swig from a Dr. Pepper, sat down at
the pool table desk and picked up a dog-eared copy of Anna
Karenina.
Carter
scooted forward and offered her his hand. “I’m Carter
Ransom.”
She
looked up from her book. “So thou sayest.”
He
withdrew his hand. “You’re not from around here, are
you?”
“Perceptive.
New York City.”
“That
would explain the rudeness.”
Her
expression was blank. “Rudeness: what a quaint concept. You
must be a local.”
“No.”
“Where
then?”
“Troy.”
“I
got news for you, bubbleleh—that is local.”
“No,
it’s not. Troy’s a good three miles from here.”
“Ah,
the South’s Legendary Sense of Place!”
“Oh,
you’re down here to get a good grade—anthropology class,
I bet.”
Ignoring
him, she walked to the front door, scanned the parking lot and
stepped outside. She appeared to be checking the thermometer affixed
to the door jamb, the one with the fading Dr. Pepper logo that
Carter had noted was registering a hundred-plus when he came in.
A moment later she returned, fanning herself, the screen door
slamming behind her. “How can you stand living here? It’s
hotter ’n hell.”
“You
could always go home,” Carter answered.
She
smiled for the first time. “So could you, white boy.”
“My
name is Carter. I live here. What are you doing here?”
“Registering
voters.” She waved a hand, indicating the fliers, forms and
envelopes on the pool table.
“Colored
voters.”
“That’s
right.” She raised her eyebrows, as if challenging him. “Colored.
Like your friend Lige.”
Sarah
started at the sound of an automobile pulling up outside. She
went back to the file drawer, took out the pistol, and darted
to the boarded-up window and looked through a gap between the
boards. Carter, too, felt anxiety. He had to remind himself that
he was in his own hometown, or at least three miles out. After
a moment the tension left her and she returned the pistol to the
file cabinet. Behind them the screen door squeaked. Then the front
door opened, and three men walked in, their arms full of grocery
bags. Two were Negroes, one in overalls, wearing horn-rimmed glasses,
and the other in khakis, a madras shirt and sunglasses. The white
man had short dark hair and was dressed in blue jeans, a brown
corduroy jacket and a clerical collar. The men—Lige was not
among them—were laughing and joking, but they fell silent
when they saw Carter. The Negro in the madras shirt took off his
sunglasses and said, “Sarah, who the hell is this?”
“He
says he’s a friend of Lige,” she answered. All three
men eyed Carter as they set the groceries down onto the pool table.
Carter
stood and introduced himself.
The
white man shook Carter’s hand. “You here to help?”
“No,
I—uh—“
“Where
are you from?” the Negro with glasses asked.
“Troy.”
“He’s
spying on us,” the third one said.
“I’m
no spy,” Carter said. “I just wanted to see Lige.”
“Why?”
“That
your car out there?” asked the bespectacled one. “Mississippi
tags. Vanderbilt sticker. You go there?”
“I
was in law school there.”
“Then
you should know what ‘you’re trespassing’ means,”
said the stocky one in madras, as he unloaded the groceries.
The
Negro wearing horn rims extended his hand. “I’m Randall
Peek.”
The
phone on the file cabinet rang. For a moment they all stared at
it. As Randall reached for the receiver, the front door swung
open. A tall, lanky Negro entered, saying, “I told y’all
to park in back. Whose Fairlane is that?” He spotted Carter
and stopped in his tracks. Then a smile like a sunrise broke across
his face. “Carter Ransom,” he said and cackled in disbelief.
“Lord have mercy if it ain’t Brother Man!” He dropped
his bag of groceries on the pool table and wrapped Carter in a
bear hug.
“Lige,”
Carter said when he could breathe again, “thank God.”
“Brother
Man!” Lige swept his arms wide. “Welcome to the Ellis
County headquarters of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee
Voter Registration drive!” Noticing Sarah’s amused expression,
Lige said, “I take it you two have been introduced.”
“Oh,
yeah,” Carter said, and managed a small, dry laugh now that
Lige was here. “She’s the finest hostess south of the
Smith and Wesson line.”
“Dadgummit,
Sarah,” Lige said. “I told you to get rid of that thing.
You’re going to hurt somebody.”
He
turned to Carter. “Some of us are divided on the philosophy
of nonviolence, but Sarah’s heart’s in the right place—for
a Yankee white girl.”
“From
New York, no less,” Carter said.
“Sarah
Solomon,” Lige said, “officially meet Carter Ransom—my
oldest friend in Troy. Sarah’s down here from Barnard College.”
“We
got another death threat this morning. I thought he might’ve
come to carry it out.”
Carter
was stunned.
“Local
sport,” Lige explained shrugging it off. “It’s
the ones who don’t call you got to worry about.” Lige
motioned the others toward him. “This is Dexter Washington
from Dee-troit,” indicating the short, stocky Negro in madras,
“and Daniel Johnston from Boston,” the white on in the
clerical collar. The bespectacled Negro in overalls, Randall Peek,
was from Atlanta. They all gave perfunctory nods and returned
to storing their groceries.
“So
how you doin’, man?” Lige asked, pulling up two folding
chairs. “How’s law school?”
That
Carter had dropped out came as no surprise to Lige, who was curious,
though, how the Judge was taking it. He asked how Carter was spending
the summer.
“Helping
out part-time general assignment at the Troy Times till
I figure out what I’m going to do when I grow up.”
“Come
work with us,” Sarah said, without looking up from Anna
Karenina. “We could use a lawyer to spring us when we
get thrown in jail for believing in the Constitution.”
“I’m
not a lawyer.”
“We
got some catchin’ up to do,” Lige said.
Behind
Carter, a deep voice asked, “Who’s this?” Carter
turned to see a newcomer, a wiry, angular black man standing in
a doorway at the back of the room. Smoke from a newly lit cigarette
shrouded his face, then broke apart in the downdraft from the
ceiling fan. Taut and muscular in a white tee shirt, he looked
older than the others to Carter, and his skin was lighter. He
was wearing sunglasses inside, so Carter couldn’t see his
eyes, but he sensed his disapproval nonetheless.
Lige
smiled. “Carter Ransom, Charles Lloyd from Brooklyn. Carter’s
a friend.”
Charles
raised his shades to stare hard at Carter. “Ain’t no
friend of mine. I don’t trust the white man.”
Sarah
said in a mock sulk, “Hey, I’m white.”
“And
who says I trust you?”
Lige,
softly but with authority, said, “I said he’s family.”
But
Charles wasn’t backing down. “And what does that make
you—three-fifths family? Where I come from, a drawl like
that means he’d as soon kill you as look at you.”
“Well
down here,” Carter heard himself saying, “and we’re
the experts, we call that prejudice.” This insolence toward
their comrade brought astonished looks from the others.
“Lige,
it’s Yolanda at COFO in Meridian,” Randall said, cupping
the phone. “The three boys who went up to Neshoba County
yesterday haven’t come back.”
“Shit,”
Lige said. Then he quickly dispensed with Charles, saying with
finality: “Carter’s o-kay.” Then he turned to Randall,
“What happened?”
Jim,
Mickey, and “the new college kid from New York” had
been arrested for speeding late the previous afternoon and were
put in jail in the Neshoba County seat, Philadelphia. That night
they were released and told to leave town. Nobody had heard from
them since. “Sheriff’s saying it’s just a hoax,”
Randall replied. “That they’re hiding out to get the
publicity.”
“Maybe
they followed orders and left,” Carter said.
The
group gave him a disdainful look. “Who is this cracker?”
said Charles.
“Lige,”
Randall said again, holding up the receiver. “Yolanda wants
to talk to you.”
“Just
a minute.” Elijah escorted Carter to the door, whispering
as they went. “I’m sorry, man, but we got an emergency
situation.”
“Come
by the house,” Carter said.
“Can’t,
Pross. Mama’d have a fit.”
“Lige,
your mama sent me. She’s worried about you.”
Lige
called back to Randall, “Tell Yolanda hold on.” After
a quick look at the lot, he hurried Carter out to his car, all
the while watching the highway for passing vehicles. “Carter,
I don’t imagine you understand this, and I sure don’t
expect Mama to. But this—” he indicated the cinder block
building behind him—“this is my life now.” Lige’s
pronouncement left Carter speechless. Worse, his opportunity to
talk to Lige was now gone. Lige seemed to see the confusion and
fear in Carter’s face. “Listen, meet me Tuesday morning
at Naked Tail. Nine or so. Okay? You remember how to get there,
right?”
“Sure,
but—”
“We
can talk then. By the way, congratulations. You’re blazing
your own trail now, Brother Man.” Lige jogged back toward
Magic Time.
Carter
climbed into his old Ford. The air within was hotter. He looked
back toward Magic Time. Lige had disappeared inside. Sarah Solomon
stood behind the screen door and peered out at him.
Carter
cranked the ignition and threw the Ford in gear. As he passed
the doorway he rolled down his window and called out, “Nice
meeting you, Miss Solomon.”
Sarah
stepped out, smiled sweetly, and said in a dead-on Scarlett O’Hara
drawl, “Y’all come back and see us now, y’hear?”
Carter
flushed crimson, and hit the gas pedal a bit too hard, spraying
the building with dust and gravel before he could bring the car
back under control. When he pulled onto the highway he glanced
in his rearview mirror. He thought he saw Sarah Solomon still
standing there behind the silvery sheen of the screen door, watching
him.
BUY
MAGIC TIME AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR ORDER ONLINE!
Publisher--Farrar,
Straus & Giroux, 2006
Excerpt used upon request of publisher