at home in the chapel, had moved confidently to the front benches, stirring the heavy air with their funeral parlor fans. Behind them were most of the young women and girls, many in bright summer cottons, giggling and whispering as they stole glances at the boys who lingered restlessly at the entrance, not yet deciding to settle in. When Mr. Williams led his family into Sojourner Chapel the elderly men at the rear obligingly made room for the deacon.
Like the rest of the old men, Percy craned his neck to see the volunteers. “They’re Davids, come to slay Goliath,” Rennie had said to Percy on their walk to the church, but Mr. Williams frowned when he looked at the young whites, noting that only Mack and Dale Billings were Negroes. He’d never before seen whites in Sojourner Chapel. When the door closed behind him, Mendelsohn estimated there were perhaps 150 souls in the uncomfortably warm room.
The wide-eyed volunteers stood awkwardly, scanning the faces of these strangers they realized they must get to know. But . . . all these women? All these kids? Jesus! What do they think we can do? Where are the men? There was a hush of expectancy as Jimmy stepped to the podium. With a loud slap of his hands he sang out in his husky voice: “Go tell it on the mountain . . . ”
Startled, the crowd quickly responded: “Over the hills and everywhere!”
And now the clapping and singing soared as Jimmy brought the volunteers on to the platform with him, confidently exhorting the crowd: “Go tell it on the mountain . . . ”
Mendelsohn’s eyes misted, caught up with the wonder of this moment as every voice began to join in a sweet commonality not hinted at only minutes before. Here, in this wretchedly needy church, weary heads lifted and unbelieving eyes were shining. Filling the place with a joyous noise were the poorest of the poor and America’s most favored children, smiling at each other and shouting out, “To let my people go!”
Mendelsohn watched Jimmy Mack, who seemed to throb with aspiration and optimism, believing in himself, but even more believing in all of them, making them braver.
“These folks on the platform with me,” he cried out, “have left their own families to come to Shiloh because they think we are being cheated down here! They know, like you know, that we are being kept from registering to vote because Mr. Charley wants it that way!”
“Oh, yes!”
“And Mr. Charley’s going to try to put us down whenever we stand up and say out loud, ‘We want to have what other Americans have!’”
“That’s right! Preach, son!”
“Well Mr. Charley’s gonna have to stop all of these volunteers standing here when you go up the stairs at the courthouse to try to register because they’re going to be right with you. And then the whole country will know about it!” He paused, searching the audience until he spotted Mendelsohn and waved him forward. Making his way up the aisle to the platform, Mendelsohn saw a look of pride in Rennie Williams as she held up Sharon to see.
Jimmy said, “This is Ted Mendelsohn, and you’re gonna see a lot of him this summer. He’s a reporter from Washington and he’s here to tell the truth about Shiloh and the Delta, and what’s happening to brave folks like you that want to change things!”
By meeting’s end, each of the volunteers had been introduced to Shiloh, and the excited chatter of a new beginning seemed to follow them all as they began cascading out into the darkness.
The only light visible was across the highway at the Kilbrew gas station and Mendelsohn could see three men, silhouetted in the open door of the office, watching them exit Sojourner Chapel. Two cars idled at the entrance of the Kilbrew garage. Rennie Williams came down the chapel steps, carefully cradling Sharon, who was asleep in her arms. Mr. Williams followed behind. His head nodding, he stopped in front of Ted, meeting his eyes directly. “That was something I never saw before.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I’m seventy-one, Mr. Mendelsohn.”
The two idling cars suddenly raced their motors, wheeling to hurtle into the neighborhood. Screaming curses, the men in the cars hurled empty beer bottles at the lighted target of the open church door. Bottles crashed against the doorjamb, showering glass on the scattering crowd as Mr. Williams pushed Rennie and the baby to the safety of the darkened road. Ted saw them disappear behind a neighboring house. The summer volunteers froze at the door.
Jimmy yelled to Hollis Watkins, “Kill the lights!” Mendelsohn thought, There’s a smart kid, good reflexes he learned in Korea. In the sudden darkness they watched the tail-lights of the two cars disappear down the rutted road. Johnny Buckley led a weeping child and her terrified mother across the shattered glass to the sheltering darkness beyond the road, then trotted back to the wide-eyed volunteers, who made a ring around Jimmy. “Who, Jimmy? Rednecks? Klan?” The questions hung in the dark.
“Rednecks? The Klan? Don’t matter,” Jimmy said sharply. “Get home and keep your lights off. Try and get some sleep. After canvassing during the day tomorrow, we’ll meet at the chapel at eight, tomorrow night.” With no further word, the students fled down the road but Mendelsohn could hear Dale Billings’s voice, ripe with contempt, “Missafuckingsippi!”
From the shadow of the chapel, Jimmy Mack and Mendelsohn watched the two cars barrel back onto the highway, tires squealing as they swung into the gas station. Hooting and gesturing at the darkened chapel, the boisterous men disappeared into the office. A moment later the outside lights of the Kilbrew station were turned off. Only the pale light of the office window was visible.
Jimmy and Ted walked together, hugging the side of the road, half-waiting for another run by the cars from the Kilbrew station. When they reached the Williams house, Jimmy Mack touched Ted’s arm in the dark. “They’re coming back, but not tonight. Those bottles were just meant to let us know they’re watching.” He heard Mack’s low chuckle. “Why don’t you go meet the mayor tomorrow?” he suggested. “Let him know you’re here, writing it all down. Let him know we’re watching.” His laugh was so surprisingly boyish, it startled Mendelsohn. It was easy to forget how young the always composed Jimmy Mack really was. “Time he welcomed you to Shiloh, Mississippi, Ted. Southern hospitality.”
When he left Mr.Williams’s house it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, yet the yellow Chevy already felt like an oven. Little Sharon was pushing on the screen door, waving as though he was leaving her forever. Rolling down the dusty window, Ted waved back. “See you later, baby!”
Easing past the deserted Sojourner Chapel, he squinted through the shimmering heat at the Kilbrew station across the highway. Nothing seemed to move in the breathless air. The dusty town square was nearly deserted as he parked next to a lonely pay telephone outside the feed store, where he called the office of Mayor Burroughs. The secretary said that the mayor was not yet in, but she would take the information and make sure to tell him that Mr. Mendelsohn, a reporter from Newsweek, wanted to meet him and would come to his office at 11:00.
The damp heat seemed to smother the town. When he got back in the overheated car, he eased out from the curb, and drove slowly around the square. Life in Shiloh appeared listless, its existence justified by the few stores and services it offered to the great plantations that stretched regally from horizon to horizon. Guarding one end of the square, the Tildon Bank threw its shadow, offering a brief blessing of shade to the black men who were now carrying bales from the Brion Brothers’ feed store to waiting trucks, and to the few housewives making their way on the steamy sidewalk to the small Stop and Save grocery. Mendelsohn stared at the small, well-appointed bank
