One Night in Mississippi by Craig Shreve Page A

and loose sweater, he looked more slovenly than athletic. I guessed he was probably about Papa’s age, but his years had not been as hard as Papa’s. He didn’t have the creased skin, the greying hair, the stoop from years of hard labour. The man extended the journal towards me, his hand trembling as he did so.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. I made a few notations. I hope you don’t mind. It was open,” he added hastily. “I didn’t pry.”
    I opened the journal, and he showed me where he had made corrections. The tremor in his hands was more pronounced as he traced the figures across the page.
    â€œAre you a math student?”
    I laughed off his question and lifted my mop. “No, sir. I’m a floor washer.”
    â€œWell, for a floor washer, you’re pretty good with numbers. Who taught you math?”
    I gripped the mop tighter and looked at the floor. I thought of Graden often of course, but it was when he came up unexpectedly that his absence hit me the most. I exhaled and muttered something about getting back to work.
    â€œOK,” the man said. “But if you want to keep learning, you should call me. I’m Tim. Tim Barnes. You’ve done well, and I’m guessing you’ve done it mostly on your own. Everybody needs a little help sometimes.”
    He scribbled his number in my notebook, gave me a brief smile, and returned to his table. I laid in the bed at the shelter that night, going over the corrections. I wanted Graden to be there to show me where I’d gone wrong. I pictured Graden’s writing on the page; Graden’s fingers going over the figures; Graden’s voice explaining the error.
    Two days later, I called Mr. Barnes from a pay phone, and he invited me to come see him, giving me directions to his house. I was still wary of white people, but he seemed completely harmless.
    His house was a plain brick duplex a few blocks from Lakeshore. He welcomed me in and offered me a slice of meatloaf and a baked potato. I thanked him, and he apologized for not having something more.
    â€œI used to be quite the cook,” he said. “Even before my wife passed, I was always the one to make dinner.”
    He held up his shaking hands and smiled wistfully. “It’s getting harder though.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your hands?”
    â€œPalsy,” he replied. “I have good days and bad days, but lately even the good days are not so good. And your hand?”
    I pretended to chew while I considered how to answer.
    â€œI made a mistake.”
    â€œI see. Well, I hope you find Chicago more … forgiving.”
    He raised his glass, and I was thankful he didn’t press for details. I cleaned the dishes after our meal and put them away in the cupboard. He laid out textbooks on the kitchen table. His hands sometimes locked so that he could barely turn the pages, but he tutored me in math, science, and literature, much like Graden had. At first I only visited occasionally. Then I began going to his house more and more often, cleaning the yard, clearing the eavestroughs, and performing whatever chores he couldn’t do himself, although my own crippled hand was often scarcely more useful than his.
    I told him about life in the South, about growing up on the farm, and about leaving Mississippi to come north, but I never mentioned Graden and he never pushed me for more than what I was willing to tell him. After a few months, I moved out of the shelter and into his basement. He arranged for me to attend classes at the high school where he taught. I graduated at the age of twenty-nine.
    I enrolled in college with the money that I’d saved from my job at the diner. It wasn’t enough, but my history was. The dean gave me special dispensation to attend.
    I excelled at my courses, but avoided social contact as much as possible. I was the only southerner on campus, and the wide-eyed and idealistic