For as long as I could remember, “Oh Shenandoah” was my favorite folk song. But, after that one unforgettable night back in Glendora, it took on a whole new meaning.

From my bed near the window, I gazed out at stars that had once shone down on ancient mariners. I wondered what sea shanties they sang while sailing across uncharted oceans in an endless darkness. As my eyes ventured from one constellation to another, I heard something in the distance, something familiar. It was the faint whistling of that song.

I peered down Longacre Road that ran in front of our house. But, with the moon behind clouds it was nothing but impenetrable ebony. Nestled down at the boggy end of the south field, choruses of bullfrogs had long stilled. Even barn owls now sheltered in high lofts. Yet, that song cut through the humid Mississippi night.

Slipping from my nightgown, I stepped into cut off dungaree shorts and a plaid cotton top. With shoes in hand, I tiptoed past the bedroom door behind which my unsuspecting parents slept. Gravel crunched beneath my bare feet as I walked the driveway towards our mailbox. The whistled refrain carried up the road, sometimes disappearing behind swaying limbs of hickory and pine, only to re-emerge louder, closer.

Although only thirteen at the time, I didn’t fear being alone outside at night because most folks in Glendora were protective of one another. Even our ill-tempered neighbor, Mr. Carlisle, had been known to walk a child home along about dusk.

Still whistling “Oh Shenandoah,” an indigo shape materialized some dozen yards away. When only twenty feet separated us, I called out, “That you, Biloxi?”

The whistling stopped, as did the shuffling, an unsettling silence followed. Finally, A stuttering voice challenged, “Who’s…there?”

“It’s me. Katie.”

“What…are…you…doing…out…here…at…this…hour?”

“Might be asking you the same thing, what with you being so far from your place,” I replied.

“Going…to…get…my…Pa,” Biloxi said.

“He ain’t home yet?” I asked.

“Nah.”

“It’s after midnight. Where can he be?”

“Finishing…up…his…work,” Biloxi said.

I met Biloxi when he and his family moved to Glendora the previous year. It being 1953 most folks around Tallahatchie County didn’t approve of blacks and whites mixing. Neither Momma nor Papa had any problem with us playing together. I do recall Papa telling me it would be best for Biloxi if we didn’t flaunt our friendship, especially around town. “The Klan has eyes everywhere,” he sighed. So, Biloxi and I would meet out along the back roads or creeks or abandoned farmhouses we would explore.

Now, as Biloxi and I stood in the dark, I could not for the life of me imagine what his daddy could lawfully be doing at this time of night, especially down Allen Creek way. Surprising both him, and me, I said, “I’ll go with you.”

Although Biloxi said no, I simply ignored his attempt to dissuade me. So, we walked like cloistered clergy, silent until Biloxi began whistling “Oh Shenandoah” again. Though that song always affected me, that night, along that stretch of black road, it made the swamp fog that sometimes looked like spirits hovering over the bog seem less threatening. With Biloxi carrying that tune, I felt safe.

We approached the old Teed place near the bend. Local legend had that big old mansion once housing runaway slaves, but it was deserted since ’45 when the last surviving member of the Teed family that at one time owned half the county died.

Biloxi led me towards The Shack, which Reverend Tyler of the Congregational Church called, “A den of ill repute and sinful music.” It was common knowledge that if one wanted a scoundrel willing to settle a grudge against a neighbor or torch a money-losing mill, The Shack was the place to find them.

Tangerine light escaped The Shack’s two front windows and reflected off the pond in front of it. I could not believe we were actually heading directly for that questionable place.

The air filled with a raucous sound that was, at once, driving and tinny. The closer we got, the louder the music swelled, rivaling a steam calliope. Its percussion pounded out the rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum.

A coronet blared like an air raid siren, while a guitar twanged, both chased by a clarinet wailing like a feline queen in heat. Beneath it all, the steady thumping of a bass drum maintained the rhythm. Though the music was unlike the Cajun records I played for Papa when he was recuperating at the state hospital in Flowood, it did match the enthusiasm.

“Why are we here?” I asked.

“S’where…my…Pa…works,” Biloxi said.

“What’s he do in there?” I was beginning to picture all sorts of less than honorable things in which Biloxi’s father might be engaged. For the first time that night, I yearned for the safety of my bedroom.

“He…plays…the…horn.”

“That him?” I said as the coronet let loose a blast that would make Gabriel proud.

“Yep…I…wait…round…back.”

Biloxi led me past the side window. Thick with smoke, the room glowed violet and blue. Silhouettes moved back and forth, paired, arm in arm, sliding, gliding. Cigarettes dangling from unseen lips punctuated the haze with flickering points of orange that would flare, then fade. Carried by the pulsating music, the pong of tobacco and alcohol wafted outside. I spotted four shapes swaying on a low stage.

“Come…on,…Pa…don’t…like…me…looking…in.”

Given the loud laughter and language, I understood why.

We sat on a plank that bowed between two empty lard pails just outside the rear entrance. From that makeshift perch we watched a huge man in a sleeveless undershirt and grease-stained apron cast a great blue shadow across the screened door. The kitchen was as bright as the other room was dark.

Harsh white light reflected off a tall white enameled icebox. Black-bottomed pots and wide pans blued by the flames of a wood stove hung from hooks. The aroma of ribs and collard greens set my mouth watering. The way that man tossed those pots around made clear he wanted to go home and soon.

While we watched the cook clean up, the quartet played, quickening its pace, and building to what my piano teacher called a crescendo. The music pounded in syncopated unison like a runaway steam engine. So rapid, I thought it impossible for it to go any faster, but it did.

The instruments melded into a single unstoppable force that concluded with the abruptness of a crash followed by several seconds of absolute silence. Then, yelling, stomping, and howling erupted. It sounded like the folks inside were troubling for a fight, but they were simply showing appreciation for a powerful performance.

No sooner than Biloxi said, “Pa…should…be…finished…now,” did a gaunt figure appear in the kitchen doorway alongside another smaller outline. Animated by music and abundant liquor, folks spilled out the front door, laughing, shouting, and carrying on. They went off in pairs and quartets, heading in various directions through the damp darkness.

“Hey boy,” came from two men exiting the kitchen.

“Hey,” Biloxi replied.

Several others followed, each greeting Biloxi cheerfully. “Here he is, Roy. Looks like he got a friend with him.”

“Hello…Pa,” Biloxi said.

“William,” the taller shadow replied.

I heard a question buried in that single word.

“Uh,…this…is…”

Before Biloxi could finish, his Pa said, “Katie Ciboulette. Right?”

“Yes…sir…it…is.”

“Hello, Mister Oxey. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I extended my hand as Papa had taught me. But, instead Biloxi’s Pa stepped closer and smiled. At least I thought he did, because the only light came from the open kitchen door behind him, leaving his face shadowed.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Katie. Boy’s told his momma and me a lot about you.” Biloxi’s Pa leaned close and in a loud whisper said, “He likes you bein’ his friend.”

“Paaa…” Biloxi moaned like a sheep with the bloat.

“I’m glad. He’s my friend too,” I grinned.

“Come on, William,” Mr. Oxey urged, “we better get this young lady home. Night, Jake.”

“Night, Roy,” the other musician called, then vanished into the gloom.

Mr. Oxey cradled that brass coronet in one hand, the other resting on Biloxi’s shoulder. We marched towards the Allen Creek Bridge and, in a few minutes, came upon Elmer Beatch’s filling station where a cone of yellow light bathed a solitary gas pump.

Though Elmer locked his door at six sharp every evening during the week and at four on Saturday, one could always get gasoline any time. If you had to drive across the state or down to Jackson in an emergency, you simply pumped your gas and dropped the money in the cigar box atop that bright red pump. No one ever took a gallon of gas without paying and no one ever removed so much as a penny from that box. Fact was, most folks left a little extra to show their gratitude.

Biloxi and his Pa entered the soft glow of that single light bulb around which moths flitted and swooped. The shadow cast by the overhead light masked their eyes in black and painted long dark triangles beneath their noses.

“Ya’ like that Lilac Bouquet soap do ya?” Mr. Oxey asked me.

Between the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and the lingering stench of gasoline and axle grease, Mr. Oxey’s ability to discern the light fragrance of my bath soap was amazing.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“Smells nice. Clean,” Mr. Oxey said.

“Katie…always…smells…clean,” Biloxi added.

“Not after I help Momma in the garden I don’t,” I joked.

“Well, anybody who doesn’t smell after working in a garden is somebody who wasn’t truly working,” Mr. Oxey chuckled. “You know, Katie, ever since you been spending time with William, he’s been talking ‘bout college.” Unsure how Mr. Oxey felt about that prospect, I didn’t respond. “He’d be the first in the family and that would be somethin’ special,” Mr. Oxey said. Then, he gave his son a stiff hug.

Just then a car came barreling down Bayou Road and flew past us like a fire truck on its way to a blaze. Mr. Oxey stood motionless for a moment before suggesting we move on. He turned to me; tilted his head back; and, grinned. The overhead light caught his eyes. They were milky white.

Seeing no pupils, I gasped.

The corners of Mr. Oxey’s mouth tightened as the sound of my shock thundered in his finely tuned ears. He squinted those blank eyes closed, lowering his head so it was again one elongated shadow. An uneasy stillness fell like a heavy curtain.

“S’okay, Katie. Guess ya’ didn’t know,” Mr. Oxey said reassuringly.

I was simultaneously mad and sad. Sad at Mr. Oxey’s misfortune, and mad at Biloxi for not warning me. In that moment, I was glad Biloxi’s father couldn’t see the embarrassment that turned my face red.

“Katie…you…all…right?”

“Yeah,” I snapped at Biloxi.

Trying to soften the impact, Mr. Oxey said, “I can tell you didn’t expect this. Yo’ reaction’s no different than most folks. Prob’ly better.” All the same, my throat tightened. “Come on son, let’s get your friend home. How about a little of Katie’s favorite song?”

Biloxi hooked his arm through his father’s and steered for the Allen Creek Bridge.

“Oh Shenandoah” rose again in the night. Starting with Biloxi’s whistling, it was soon accompanied by the mournful wail of Mr. Oxey’s coronet. That song lifted me as we neared the span. In perfect timing, Biloxi and his Pa finished their impromptu duet at the far end of the bridge. With the music behind us, the last mile to my home passed in a silence that soothed my soul.

Biloxi and his Pa bid me good night at the mailbox. Mr. Oxey thanked me for accompanying them and said he was glad we met, for I was even nicer than his son had let on. “Go ahead, Katie. We’ll wait ‘til we hear the door lock.”

“Good night, sir.” Instinctively, I held out my hand, but before I could withdraw it, Mr. Oxey, guided by his son, took hold; and, clasped it firmly.

“Good night, Katie.”

“Are…you…still…mad…Katie?” Biloxi asked.

“Nah.”

Two indistinct shapes stood at the end of the driveway as I set the lock. Once back in my room, I wondered what it must be like to live in darkness even deeper than the night now enveloping me. I lay on my bed with my head near the open window listening to father and son playing that song anew. A lone tear rolled onto my pillow.

The following morning a line of cars and flatbed trucks sped past our house. Considering that on a normal day there weren’t but a half dozen going down Longacre Road, I wondered why.

I learned the reason when Papa returned, his face ashen, his hands clenched in anger. Biloxi and his Pa had been found hanging from the Allen Creek Bridge, beaten and shot dead.

I never again heard Biloxi whistle.

But, I learned the piano version of “Oh Shenandoah” and played it at every school, every church, and every social function I could. I was not about to let that evil rope silence my friend or our song.

# # #

Michael Anthony is a writer and artist living in New Jersey. He has published fiction, poetry, illustrations, and photographs in literary journals and commercial magazines. Most recently these include the Paterson Literary Review, Terror House Magazine, Tall Tale TV Podcast, and Pithead Chapel. His work may be viewed at: MichaelAnthony.MyPortfolio.com

Photo: Tincho Franco