Lawrence Daily News

KKK Rallies. Negro Church Burns in Neighboring Town

'Promised Land' Songs Boost Civil Rights Morale

10 Clergy Arrive as Negro Voter Rights Blocked

Scottsburg Post-Tribune

Illinois Governor Vows Investigation into Cairo Race Riot

Pres. Kennedy City Tour to Stress Urban Renewal

Garment Union Tells US Congress, 'No Racial Bias'

Chapter 1

Curled into a tight fetal ball, Rachael lay on the disheveled bed and sobbed. Her monsoon of tears was not for what she still felt, although the pain was bad enough to make the strongest of women weep. No--these tears were for her soul--drowned by a flood of disgust. Only sheer determination kept her half-digested breakfast down. She mustered her remaining strength and again rolled to her other side. The sobs she held back for that fraction of a second erupted once more.

From the instant she heard the cabin's front door slap shut as her rapist left, she had struggled to quiet her sobs and quell the mind-numbing fear.

She glanced at the wind-up Westclox, ticking away on the apple box next to the bed. 11 a.m. No matter how badly her torn insides ached, she must do something. Her father would arrive home for lunch in less than an hour, and she dared not let him see her like this!

The Mexican's numbing slaps to her face would surely mature into bruises and wherever he'd manhandled her, his vise-like grip would show on her arms.

She tried to open her jaw. It popped with excruciating pain, and she hoped that meant it had only been dislocated, not broken. But the damage her father would never see caused the worst pain of all. The ruin of her stolen virginity burned inside her, along with fear so intense she quaked each time she relived his words.

"Bitch, you scream even once, and I'll slit your worthless black throat," he said as he lunged at her through the shack's front door.

His knock had provided no warning; it sounded no different from one announcing the rare visit from a neighbor. But the switchblade in his hand cemented credibility to his threat.

He grabbed her by an arm as she spun and attempted flee to the back room. "Come here! You give me what I want and I just might just let you live." Once he got a solid hold, he pulled her up tight against his chest and with his other hand, he pressed the knife blade against the delicate skin quivering at her throat.

She could do little but gasp in panic as he wrestled her through the door and into the room she had just sought as refuge. He forced her toward the bed, his knife tight against her throat, its razor edge scraping her skin every time the motions of their bodies differed. He kicked the door shut and threw her onto the bed.

"Get your clothes off!"

She scrambled to the farthest end of the bed and gathered herself together--as far away from him as possible. A drop of blood swelled from the most severe scrape on her neck and began its slow trickle to her collarbone.

"You hear me? Take 'em off ... or I'll cut 'em off!"

Still, she did not comply. Instead, she brought her elbows tight against her sides, her fists together under her chin, and her knees scrunched tight against her chest and forearms. Her eyes locked on his, and she shook with fear, oblivious to the blood oozing onto her knuckles. After a moment she looked away, unable to face the dominance in his eyes and the mocking smile at the corners of his mouth.

He came at her from the foot of the bed. She scrambled to one side, but he caught her by an ankle and dragged her back toward the center. With each grab he ripped away more of her thread-bare clothing until nothing remained except her shredded panties low on one thigh. After that, it didn't take him long to accomplish the purpose of his visit. Just that quickly, she discovered what overpowered meant.

Once released, she scurried away from him and again cowered at the head of the bed. She shuddered in terror and disbelief.

He stood, glaring at her, and then pulled up his jeans and buttoned them. "All right, Bitch, you just had the best man you'll ever have." His laugh matched his garish smile. "In fact, you were better than I thought a Jig would be. Maybe I should take you with me. You could be my regular punch, until I get tired of you, anyway."

"No, please!" she whimpered.

He started toward her, but then halted--why she could only guess. She could have done little to stop him. He had already proven that. Perhaps her fear masked something he took as a warning. Thank God, he stopped!

He reached into his pocket, and in a flash his right hand again held his open knife. Surely he would now slit her throat and that would end everything.

But instead he said, "You tell anybody, and I'll come back and make you wish you didn't." He made a quick slashing, then stabbing motion in the air. "And if anybody comes after me, I'll kill 'em. Even your old man, big as he is, I'll kill him. Then I'll come back, we'll do this again, and afterwards I'll slit your ungrateful Black-bitch throat." He paused a moment to observe the effect of his threat. "So you're gonna' be smart, aren't you, ya little slut?"

Her nod wasn't agreement. She would have said or done anything at this point.

"Remember, no cops. You call them and I'll get even with you! It's a long way from here to the Sheriff's Office, especially for someone like you."

She nodded again, too frightened to cry.

He must have again recognized whatever had raised his caution before. He folded his switchblade with menacing ceremony, slipped it into his pocket, and with a few steps across the adjacent room, he was gone. She didn't move until the shack's front door had clattered shut. Then her terror turned to tears, and their flood had raged for the next hour.

But Rachael dared weep no longer. What she faced was worse: the realization she must somehow prevent what would certainly happen if her father learned what the Mexican had done to her. If her father discovered what had happened, either the young Mexican would kill her father or her father would kill him. If the Mexican lost, her father would spend the rest of his life in prison. Or more likely, he'd be executed for it.

Although barely fifteen, she knew the realities. If her father killed the young Mexican, that would be murder--premeditated--first degree. Her rape would not change that. Not here, not in 1962. But if the thug bested her father, he would surely follow up his threat to 'get even with her.' She was only a 'Jig.' A Mexican was 'almost White.' That's how it was. Either way, she lost her father, and if the rapist won, she'd likely suffer rape again, and when he was through, he'd surely kill her.

Rachael wiped her reddened eyes and sat, huddled, on her feet and haunches in the middle of the bloodied bed. In less than an hour, her father would return home for lunch. She had that long to straighten up the shack, clean herself up as best she could, and concoct a story to answer the questions he would surely ask.

She was lucky he came home late for lunch that day.

Selected Headlines, September 4-6, 1962

Lawrence Daily News

Pres. Kennedy Pushes for A-Bomb Test Treaty Progress

Negro Students Refused Entry at White Georgia School

Chattanooga Sees White Schools Accept 58 Negroes

350 Pupils Boycott 'Segregated' Englewood, NJ. School

Scottsburg Post-Tribune

9 Fined for Baltimore Anti-Integration Protest

Negroes Enter 30 Church Schools, New Orleans Calm

First 5 Negroes Enter Florida University

Dallas Public Schools Allow More Negroes

Chapter 2

When Rachael Good arrived at Independence High School that first day, the fall of 1962, it really stirred things up. It was the first time a Negro had attended our school. There were none in the town of Independence or any of the neighboring farm towns, either. I was six when I first saw a Negro, but that was twenty miles away in Lawrence.

Sure, we had a few Indians, but except for coming to school, they pretty much stayed on the reservation. And there were quite a few Mexicans and one family of not-at-all-popular Japanese. But no Negroes.

Along with three of my fellow students that morning, I stood outside on the front steps waiting for the class warning bell. They spotted her before I did. Their eyes, mine belatedly in tow, followed her up the stairs and through the tall wooden doors.

"Looks like we're getting some of 'em now, too," Frank, the tallest, muttered.

"Who?" I said.

"Niggras. Just like those ones causing all that trouble back home."

"Ah, come on!" This wasn't the first time I'd heard him comment on the civil rights news.

"You just wait. I'm tellin' ya! They'll take over the place--worse than the Mexicans."

"It's just one girl, Frank. How can she take Independence over all by herself?"

"You'll see, Bret. It only takes one."

"Ugh," I grunted, hoping my tone of voice conveyed my lack of concern. Before I could say more, the bell rang and all four of us stood up from leaning against the stair's stone banister and headed for class. By the time we reached the first floor, she must have already entered one of the classrooms, because she was nowhere in sight. Or maybe my mind was more concerned about Advanced Algebra class and whether the grade I'd get would improve my grade point or sabotage it.

As I was leaving Algebra at the end of the hour, two students bumped into me but I hardly noticed. What I did notice was Rosie Sanches across the hall--not that I would have admitted it, had someone asked. She was tall for a Mexican girl, slim, and always seemed to wear something red. Just walking by with her never-ending smile, she captured my attention every bit as much as the prettier White girls. Wouldn't have admitted that, either. I sure didn't want to be lumped in with those few low-life White boys who dated Mexican girls, or the three or four White girls who went out with Mexican boys. In a school of less than three hundred, everyone knew who dated who. But a guy could look all he wanted, as long as lust was his motivation, not love.

Frank caught up with me. "You still gonna help me fix my car after school?"

I nodded. He'd helped me more than once when the hand-me-down car I had driven the past two years quit on me, so I owed him.

"I'm gonna get me a Chevy, too, soon as I can. I sure like that one you just bought."

I was proud of it, too. The deal took all my summer's wages, but it definitely was higher class than our old Model-A Ford sedan I traded in on it. Even at twenty years old, my '41 Chevy still looked good. It was a coupe instead of a sedan, and I figured that made it a fitting set of wheels for someone planning to graduate in under nine months and head for college in a big city somewhere.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Rachael walk down the stairs from the second floor.

"Good?" Frank said under his breath when he spotted her. "What kind of last name is that for a Niggra? Sounds like they think they're better than us Whites."

"Oh, I don't think it means--"

Frank interrupted. "Not better than me, I'll tell you that!"

"Your name's King. Does that mean you're better than me because my name's not royalty?"

He shook his head, but I doubted he took my logic to heart. I figured the best thing to do was change the subject back to his car. "I have to go to Wood Shop next, Frank. What time you want me to come over? You want me to bring any tools?"

"Can you bring your father's socket set, and maybe some end wrenches? Dad'll have his out in the trap wagon."

My dad didn't often repair machinery out in the field so didn't have a trap wagon. Our tools, such as they were, would most likely be in the garage at home. "Sure. Anything else?"

"That should do it. What time you wanna be there?

"Soon as I get home, change clothes, and gather up the tools."

"Okay." With that, we turned in opposite directions: he to Senior Ag and I to Advanced Wood Shop.

In the following days I saw little more of Rachael than a glimpse now and then. By the end of the first week, everyone knew she was a sophomore, and her father milked for one of the local dairy farmers. Beyond that, who cared? She sometimes stood in the hallway between classes, but always alone. Being a senior, I had no classes with her, so I didn't see what happened in her classes. I suppose no one except the teacher spoke to her, just as no one spoke to her in the hall between classes. Of course, no one said much to the Indian kids, either, and the Mexicans had their own cliques.

One day the second week, Frank and I were walking down the stairs from the third floor. At the landing, we met Rachael coming the other way. She and Frank bumped into each other at the blind inside corner.

"Out of my way, Niggra," he said.

She looked at him only for a moment, then her eyes retreated. "Sorry."

"Watch where you're going!" His voice took on the same tone it had when he'd complained about her name the week before.

"Sorry."

"Frank..." I said in a tone I hoped would shift his attitude, but he paid no attention to me.

"You Niggras walk where you're supposed to. Don't get in our way."

"Sorry."

"Frank, she's a girl, for Christ's sake! Act like a gentleman. Treat her like a lady."

He glared at me, and turned to give her a withering look before stomping away down the stairs.

Rachael looked at me for the first time. "I hope you don't lose your friend."

I was thinking much the same as I helped her get a firm hold on her armload of books.

"Don't mind him. He's okay most of the time."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll try to remember that."

I'd heard the British term, stiff upper lip, in a war movie on TV the other night, and the look I saw on her face fit that pretty well.

The third Tuesday of September, I left school late after one of my many long sessions in our 'make-do' photography darkroom. I stepped outside into Indian Summer, weather cool and quiet with the sun low and the air so still the occasional cookstove smoke hung in level, gray bands just above the houses. My car was the only one left in the gravel parking lot, not prestigious or a boost to my ego, merely my ride home. I approached it from the rear driver's side, and because of my preoccupation with my photography work, I was half into the front seat before I realized Rachael was already sitting on my passenger's side.

"Hi," I said, a pronounced question mark flavoring my voice.

She said hi, but she didn't look my way.

I certainly didn't need to ask who she was, or how she got in. None of us bothered to lock our cars--those that had doors that actually locked--and would have thought anyone who did was quite strange.

"You need a ride somewhere?" Pretty obvious, but I asked anyway.

She nodded but still didn't really look at me.

"I got time and gas if it's not too far."

"Just to Crew Town," she said, almost in a whisper. "The labor camp."

I knew the place. It had housed CCC workers before the war, and now the State ran it as cheap housing for migrant farm workers. I visualized it as a few junk cars and lots of trash scattered everywhere within its dilapidated boundary fences. From what I had seen from the county road, its depression-built, clapboard shacks reinforced that impression.

"Not far off my way home," I said.

She nodded again.

I don't remember either of us saying anything during the entire three miles to the camp. At the gate I stopped and she got out. I didn't want to drive in there--too many Mexicans. Too much of what is now politically correct to call 'low income'--depressing and probably dangerous, if the two murders a year and the frequent stabbings were any indication.

"Thanks," she said, still looking down as she had the whole time.

"You're welcome," I said, hoping that was the end of it.

For no reason obvious to me, she looked up and her mouth momentarily formed a nervous smile before she turned quickly and walked away without looking back. I dismissed it from my thoughts and focused on getting home to feed our cattle before suppertime at 6:00.

Friday, three days later, I found Rachael waiting in my car again, except this time she had a heavy armful of books, so I could hardly just drop her off at the camp gate as I had before. It turned out her shack was at the southwest corner of the camp, farthest away from any of the three gates. I couldn't politely do otherwise, so I followed her directions, drove on in, and stopped where she indicated. Shack J34 wasn't much, but it was no worse than J32 and J36 on either side of it. In fact J34 was better. At least there was no trash scattered around its weathered exterior, and two pots of tired petunias on a window ledge struggled to hold onto their flowers.

Rachael gathered her books into both arms and got out. I'll admit, I wasn't chivalrous; I didn't help her with them, or even get out and open the car door. She smiled and mouthed her thanks again, and I hurriedly drove out of there. The camp looked no better from inside than what you saw from the county road.

Wednesday night she hitched a ride again; this time we didn't drive the entire three miles in silence. And I didn't drop her off at the camp gate, either. "C'mon!" she said. "You got out alive Friday night. You'll make it out alive again tonight."

Next day one of the school bullies cornered me. "You getting it off that Coon?"

"No."

"What sa' matter? Can't even get her, huh? Maybe I oughta train her. You know, show her what a real White man can do for a Pickaninny? 'Course, after I did, she'd never want you!" His ugly chuckle made a big part of me want to shove my fist down his throat.

"Mind your own business, Carl."

"Women are my business."

I guess you could think that if you were a hotshot football jock like he was. "You wish," I said under my breath and turned away.

"Jig fucker," he said to my back. "You can't even get a Mex." I ignored him and walked away.

Carl wasn't too smart, so if he knew about Rachael riding home with me, he wasn't the only one. I supposed by now half the school was making the same assumption about her and me.

When I went to my car after school, she was already there. "You have to quit telling people about riding home with me," I said even before getting into my car.

"I didn't say anything, honest. I know better than that."

"Then you better find another way home after this."

"Because I'm a Negro?"

"Sorry," I said. I didn't want to agree, but it was true.

"I'm sorry, too. It's nice of you to give me a ride when I'm too late for the bus and Daddy's working. But I'll find another way, even if I have to walk."

She didn't show up again in the parking lot for long enough I decided she had accepted that was the end of it. I went out of my way to avoid facing her during the school day and took a back route home to avoid seeing her walking the road to the labor camp.

But a month later, she had again helped herself to a seat in my car. It was late October by now, and she shivered from the chill of her wait for me. We drove toward the camp as we had four times earlier.

When we stopped by her shack, she was silent for a moment but didn't move to get out. Then she blurted, "You and I are going to get married, I'm pregnant." Her words came out so fast, they all ran together.

As soon as my mouth recovered enough from the shock, I said, "Not by me!"

She nodded.

"I'm not marrying you or anybody else!"

"Yes, you are."

"No..."

"Yes, whether you like it or not."

I could see this 'are, are not' argument was accomplishing nothing, and if I let it go on, I'd lose my temper and I couldn't let that happen--not since my sixth grade fit of rage when I almost strangled Jimmy Morrison. I decided I better try another tack.

"Why pick me? Why not somebody else?" My voice trembled, but I kept my temper under control.

"Why not you?" Her rebuttal came so quickly it had to be premeditated.

She never took her eyes off me. I met her gaze and glared back.

"You're tall and slim," she continued. "You're strong. You're healthy. You're clean. You don't waste your money smoking and drinking. You work hard and earn your own way. You're smart. You are planning on college. You don't have a girlfriend and should have one by now. I need a husband ... and my baby needs a father. Those enough reasons?"

"No, damn it! No!" I vigorously shook my head. "You got it all wrong! You and your baby don't need me. I'm never getting married. Never having kids, either ... ever!"

"Sorry. I've chosen you. And besides, I think blonde boys have an edge when it comes to looking good."

"That's not fair! It's not my kid!"

"Right. It's not fair, and it's not fair that I got raped, either. But that's the way it is."

"Raped?" I had heard about rape. But it had always been a case of a girl gamboling with some guy, getting caught by Mother Nature, and then calling him on it, or simply setting up a reluctant boyfriend on purpose. I heard once about forced rape, but never considered it actually happening, not here.

"Yes," she whispered. "Raped, and you're not to tell anybody."

"Who did it?"

"Nobody from around here. Not any more."

"Well then, it's his problem, and yours. Not mine!"

"I can't solve it alone."

"Then get him to save you!"

"I can't. He's a problem, not a solution."

"Well, get rid of it then. I'm not your solution."

"I'm Catholic. Officially, we don't even believe in birth control, certainly not abortion. You must know that."

"So? That's your choice, not mine!"

"I'm not about to change."

"Then adopt the kid out."

"Not much chance. There are too many Negroes and half-breeds to go around. Doesn't matter if it's a blameless little baby."

"Then let the Catholic Church raise it! They preach big families. Let them live by what they teach."

"They won't, Bret."

"Then don't be palming your problems off on me. You made the choices."

"Not all of them."

She paused a moment. I suspected she was searching for a new tactic.

"Why don't you want kids, anyway?" Her eyes did not retreat.

"'Cause I'm basically lazy. And selfish. And impatient. And I don't give a damn about them, so I shouldn't be breeding kids I wouldn't raise right."

"You don't have to breed this one. That's already taken care of. And besides, I'm certain you'd make a good father or I wouldn't have chosen you."

"You and half the girls in Independence High ... and their mothers!"

"So there!"

The long pause that followed said she figured I had already lost the argument and had only to admit it. I looked away because she didn't have tears in her eyes as I would have expected from the abruptness of that exchange, and this fact made me certain she was much more dangerous than she appeared. She had thoroughly planned her attack and would be tough to deflect, let alone defeat. A silence hung in the air for several minutes, and at the end of it I felt even less likely to escape than I had at its beginning.

"So here's the deal," she said. "You marry me and this baby, and I promise you I will make you the happiest man in the world for the rest of your life."

"What do you mean? How can you do that?"

"Why would you think I can't?"

"Well..."

"I'm not exactly ugly, am I?"

I sort of shook my head--not to disagree, but to fake a lack of data. There were lots of good looking White girls I had the teenage hots for, not to mention Rosie Sanches. I wasn't about to admit that within her first week at school, I had evaluated the looks of this tall, if somewhat gangly, fifteen year-old Negro girl and decided they were at least 'interesting.'

My lack of verbal response didn't have any effect on her that I could see.

"And don't tell me you wouldn't like to get me undressed in the backseat of this car! You don't whistle and sneer and make crude remarks like lots of boys do, but sometimes you sure look like you want to! Well, whistle, anyway. But you always act like a gentleman, even toward someone like me."

I think I nodded without knowing I did.

She got the beginning of a coy look on her face. "You've heard all your life Negroes are sexier than Whites."

I missed her point, and I guess it showed.

"You know, when Whites want to degrade us, they claim we're animals, that Negro men can't control themselves and are prone to raping women, particularly White women."

I didn't nod, because had I heard that, it wouldn't have made sense, and I would have ignored it.

"Here's your chance to find out if being over-sexed applies to Negro women, like a lot of White women claim it does."

Still I didn't move; I was afraid to.

"Besides, somebody had to raise you."

This wasn't the first time some female had reminded me of that debt to humanity. I didn't respond.

"So all you gotta do is get used to the idea of having a Negro wife and raising a half-Negro baby who's not yours. In return, I'll work just as hard as you. Together we'll make ourselves successful, Bret. Raise this baby and as many more kids as I know you'll eventually want, and when you come home to our family, just as soon as the children are off to bed, I'll make you believe you're the luckiest man in the world. Every night, every time, every way." Her Perry Mason expression said she had just won her case, and the only thing left was for me to confess to murder and show the cops where the body was hidden.

"No!" I shook my head. "I'm not marrying you or anybody else. And meanwhile, I've been real careful not to get anywhere close to a situation someone could misinterpret into me being a father!"

"Humph," she half grunted. I could tell she was thinking, I'll change his mind, yet! I stood my ground, looked her straight in the eyes, and set my jaw.

"You queer or something?" It was a strategic insult, not a question.

I shook my head, no.

"Must be something like that. Or maybe you already done something you're afraid might make you a father and you're trying to hide it by being too pure?"

"No chance." I shook my head just enough to let her know how far that was from reality.

"Then you're a scared little boy and you're going to graduate a virgin. Huh!" She looked away for the first time, for almost longer than I could stand. Then, apparently to herself, but certainly loud enough for me to hear, she said, "Tall, good looking, smart, a virgin, has half the girls wishing he'd ask them out, and he's scared. What a joke on me!"

When she turned back, she looked more determined than ever. She had an I can fix that look reinforcing her expression.

"Okay, then, here's an even better deal. You promise in front of my father to marry me and our baby and you won't go to sleep tonight a virgin unless you want to. Now how's that for a deal? Sort of like the signing bonus major league baseball players get."

"No!"

"Well then, you go home and sleep alone again tonight, and while you're doing that, think about what we could be doing together, what I could be doing for you. Think about what you're missing, just to put off what's going to happen anyway. At noon today I mailed a letter to your parents, and I will give the carbon copy of it to Daddy when he comes home tonight. I'm telling them exactly what I need them to believe. It won't matter what you and I both know is true."

"Mine won't believe you!"

"I'm betting they will, at least enough for me. Everyone I asked said your parents are good people. I'm betting they'll do what they think is right, and you'll do what they believe is right. You and I will know the truth, but it won't matter."

"They won't believe you," I said with a whole lot less conviction this time, because Mom and Dad wouldn't have forgotten about the time I ... Well, let's just say she was right about them.

"Sure they will. I know you haven't always told the truth--not every time. No boy is ever that good, and now those times will come back to haunt you. Besides, almost everyone in Independence High has seen or heard about you taking me home. They'll believe it."

"You lying bitch! You set me up!"

"I set you up for a good deal you haven't sense enough yet to appreciate! I'm not telling anyone except our parents tomorrow. If that doesn't work, then I'll tell everyone else." Saccharine dripped from her put-on smile.

"Why you ... you ... you conniving bitch!"

"You shouldn't say that about the woman you'll be marrying before you graduate."

"God damn you! Get out of my car. Get out! Now!"

She did, and stood there confidently but safely out of my way while I horsed my car toward the street. Before my car's exhaust noise buried her voice, I distinctly heard her say, "The deal for tonight is still on if you come back and we go find Daddy."