Absalom's Daughters by Suzanne Feldman

Slick helped him spread it out on the convertible’s silky red trunk. Cassie pressed herself close to Ovid Beale before Judith could climb out of the shuddering junk car and gallop over.
    â€œSlick says you know where Porterville is.”
    â€œShore I know,” said Ovid Beale. “Who tol’ you ’bout it?”
    â€œYou ever hear of Beanie Simms?”
    Judith was there, pushing the hair out of her eyes, hands on the map.
    Slick tapped an unmarked point near the leftmost edge of the map. “We here,” he said. “This the railroad you bin followin’.” The railroad showed as a hatched line across the green background of the state of Mississippi. The road from Heron-Neck beside it was marked in black and as thin as mending thread. The state roads and highways cut wide paths in reds and blues.
    â€œNewcome down here.” Ovid Beale pointed out a dot no bigger than a speck of pepper. “Two hours away.” He traced the length of the road from Newcome to the next intersection. Two thready black lines ran together; the one paralleling the tracks, the other crossing them. The road crossing the tracks was marked STATE HIGHWAY 18. “This here crossroads is Porterville.”
    â€œPorterville?” said Cassie in amazement. So close?
    â€œA good twenty miles from Newcome, and you got to be there by sundown.” Ovid Beale straightened and held Cassie by the wrist, looking right into her face. “I don’t want you gals to think we inhospitable, but you need to be well past Newcome by afternoon so you can git to Porterville by night.”
    â€œWhat’s in Porterville?” said Judith.
    â€œColored folk,” said Ovid Beale. “It ain’t safe campin’ by the tracks after dark. Y’hear me, lil white gal? An’ telling folks this lil colored gal is you sister is jus’ plain stupid. Get you both wuss’n kilt. Y’unnerstand that?”
    Judith looked like the idea had never crossed her mind. “Yessuh.”
    â€œWhen you git to Porterville,” said Ovid Beale, “you ask for Mistah Johnson Mallard. He one of my uncles. You tell him Ovid Beale sent you, and he give you a place to stay.”
    Behind Ovid Beale, more and more people were arriving at the church. Most were wearing black and red. The women had red head-wraps, and the men wore red sashes across black suits. One of the women made her way over to the cars with a basket on one arm.
    â€œYou gettin’ that shirt dirty?” she said to Slick. “That the only white shirt you got.”
    â€œI ain’t,” he said and showed her the sleeves, which were pristine.
    â€œService ’bout to start,” said the woman. Cassie thought she was probably Slick’s wife. The woman turned to Cassie and gave her the basket. It was heavy and smelled of ham and fresh bread. “Don’t want you to consider us inhospitable, but you cain’t stay. This a private service.”
    â€œYessum,” said Cassie. “Thank you, ma’am.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am,” Judith said.
    Ovid Beale folded up the map and handed it to Judith. “Don’t dawdle now,” he said and went to untie the mule from the tree.
    They got into the car, Judith in the driver’s seat. She put the car in gear, ready to roar out of town as soon as the mule was out of her path. The junk car belched a cloud of blue smoke right into the mule’s face. Cassie expected the mule to startle or balk; instead, it turned its head toward them and curled its lips across its teeth. Judith twisted in her seat to watch Ovid Beale lead it toward the church.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” said Cassie. “We got to go.”
    Judith swung around in the seat. “Din’t you hear that?” Judith gunned the engine, and the car jerked into motion.
    â€œDid he say somethin’?” said Cassie.
    â€œYou did too hear it.”
    â€œMister