Have No Shame Read Free Page B

disgust that followed me like a shadow. I sank to my knees and cried for those boys, for Mr. Bingham, and for the loss of my love for Jimmy Lee.

Chapter Three
    Every mornin’ began the same way. Before sunrise, Daddy would creep downstairs, listen to the weather on the radio, and walk softly into the kitchen. I’d lay in my bed, listenin’ to his mornin’ noises—the refrigerator door openin’ and closin’, a mug drawn from the cabinet, the sink water runnin’, the kettle settlin’ on the stove—and then, I’d roll over and fall back to sleep feelin’ the safety of his familiar rituals.
    Mama and I were in the kitchen when Daddy came in from the fields. I swear he has a sixth sense, because every mornin’ he came inside just as breakfast was bein’ prepared. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that Daddy watched the sun, and when it had risen to just above the roof, he’d know it was time for breakfast. Today he patted my head, as he’d done every mornin’ for as far back as I could remember, and though I was too old to be patted, his touch brought comfort.
    “Good mornin’, Pix,” he said. His tired eyes lit up at the smell of the warm eggs and hot, buttered biscuits. The deep lines that etched his forehead softened as he reached out and gently touched the small of Mama’s back, and whispered in her ear. She turned to face him, her eyes wide. Her hand flew to her gapin’ mouth. All of the color drained from Mama’s face.
    “Mornin’ Daddy,” I said, watchin’ Mama press her lips into a tight line and rub her neck. I knew better than to ask for specific details of whatever they were wrestlin’ with, so I kept my question light; the kind of question Daddy didn’t mind answerin’. “Is everything okay?”
    “Sure is,” he said. He washed his hands, then sat down at the table.
    Mama set our plates on the table then wiped her hands on a dishcloth, removed the apron from her waist, and set it on the counter. Her fingers remained clenched around the fabric. She didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, one hand on the crumpled apron, the other coverin’ her eyes.
    “Mama, aren’t you gonna eat?” I asked. I glanced out the window. Jake’s bicycle was already gone. He had class in an hour, and it was a long ride to school.
    “Eat up, Pixie,” Daddy said.
    Mama was a quiet woman who rarely let her opinions be known, and I was used to Daddy speakin’ in her place. I picked up my fork and swallowed my questions.
    “Is Jake at class?” I asked, just to break the silence.
    My father nodded, and shoved his third biscuit into his mouth, chewin’ fast. “He’s comin’ back early. We’re down one hand today. Some dumb boy got himself beat up.”
    I put my fork down as my stomach lurched and twisted. “Who?” The smell of the river came back to me like a bad dream.
    “I dunno. One of them coloreds.”
    I set my napkin on the table and stared at him. “You don’t know who it is, but you know he’s missin’?”
    My father glared at me. “Alison, know your place young lady.” He took a sip of his coffee. The tension in his cheeks softened. He reached out and patted my hand.  “Sorry, Pix. Albert Johns, if you must know. Why are you so interested?”
    Albert Johns . I repeated his name over and over in my mind. I could no longer listen to Daddy refer to the coloreds in town, or the ones who worked for him, as “them coloreds.” I’d been ignorin’ how Daddy’d spoken of them forever, as if they were invisible. But now, havin’ come face to face with a dead colored man, a man who I was sure had died at the hands of a white man, I could no longer pretend they didn’t matter. They were people. They had names, and families, and feelin’s, and thoughts.
    I looked down. I’d overstepped that thin, gray line Daddy saw so clearly. “I’m just…it’s just…after what happened to Mr. Bingham, I just wanted to know his name.”
    My father set down his fork and wiped his