The Parchman Preacher

Prologue

Solo, Mississippi, had always been a smidgen of a town, too small for a stop sign, much less a stoplight. Our views were of corn and cotton fields, and roads that hadn’t been repaired in years. Living in Boston for the past three decades, I’d seen the world changing day by day. But not Solo. It hadn’t changed one iota, and probably never would.
I’d come back home for the funeral. As mourners drifted from the cemetery that chilly afternoon, I stood next to Mother’s grave, realizing how much I was going to miss her. I loved her like an only child should. Her name was Mary Grater. She was eighty-six when I laid her to rest.
A few minutes had passed when a distinguished-looking man approached. “You must be Michael,” he said.
“I am.”
Handing me a thick manila envelope, he said, “I’m Judge Adams from over in Greenlee. I believe this belongs to you now.”
The Memoirs of Martha McRae was scrawled across the envelope. Martha had died eighteen years ago. How was this possible? I looked up to ask the judge, but he was halfway to his car.
“What’s this about?” I shouted.
He stopped and turned. “I have no idea. It’s never been opened in fifty-five years.” He got in his car and drove off.
I sat on the grass next to Mother’s grave and opened the metal clasps. Scrap paper, a daily journal and notepads filled the envelope, along with one thick, rubber-banded stack of pages—all typed, double-spaced, on onionskin paper. I removed the banded pages. Handwriting—not my mother’s—covered the top sheet.

July 30, 1956
My Dearest Michael, I believe in my heart that you will understand why your mother and I did not want you to know about your father, or your mother’s past, until after we were both gone. Please forgive us if you think we were wrong.
—Martha McRae

Something thumped in my chest—curiosity? Warning? I’d never known my father; nor had I wondered much about him. Even down to my looks, it was as though I’d sprung from my mother alone—dark wavy hair, full lips, deep brown eyes, her tall cheekbones. She—and Martha, too—had cheered me on at Little League games, chaperoned school dances, embraced the girlfriend I knew would become my wife. Was it any wonder I thought she was perfect? That I had no need of another parent?
It took an anxious hour to read the 110 pages. Finished, I slid them back in the envelope, exhaled, and prayed. Thank you, God, for never letting me know this earthly father of mine. And may you hold my mother tightly in your loving arms.
Martha’s memoirs began in late 1954. She and my mother had been good friends even before I was born. A forty-year-old widow and publisher of the weekly Bethel County Gazette, Martha had also inherited a boarding house from her enterprising late husband, Shorty, which she continued to run for extra income.
My mother and I lived with her for eight years before moving into a shotgun house a block away. Martha’s tidy place offered the only two spare rooms in Solo. Her other renters were mostly state officials visiting Parchman Farm Penitentiary, ten miles south. I suppose Solo was best known for being the closest town to Parchman. Growing up, the older boys would taunt, “Those bad men are gonna break out and come straight for you!” A youngster can have nightmares over such thoughts, believe me.
While I never had nightmares about Martha’s stories, it took me time to come to grips with it all. Her memoirs had landed in my lap during a dark period. Not only had I lost my mother, but my wife, Sophie, and I had separated. Things hadn’t been quite right between us in a while—not since we’d entered the empty-nester stage. After our third and final had left for college we had nothing to talk about. I escaped into my routine, putting in long hours as a journalist at the Boston Globe. Love hadn’t left us; I’d pushed love out. It was my nature. It was, as I now knew, in my genes. But what I learned about the evil and the good that had taken hold in Solo, Mississippi, opened up a new avenue of self-reflection. Would it change me? Would this knowledge affect—for better or worse—my relationship with the only remaining woman in my life, my Sophie?