Cotton: A Short Story

           My father told me long ago that I should take this story with me to my grave. He swore me to secrecy and made me promise I'd never tell anyone. The older I get, though, I wonder. I think I owe it to him. I think I owe it to Cotton. You see, the story is mine, but it's really his. Benjamin Jasper Cotton. Benjamin to his mother, BJ to his daddy, and Cotton to us boys. The day I'm fixing to tell you about was the day my life changed. I can't say it was for the better, but it did make me who I am. Even at eighty with bad eyes, bad knees, and a full life, I can only point to that day. That moment, really. The  look in his eyes, Cotton's eyes, and the nearly imperceptible shake of his head.  That's what changed my life.

            Well, there I go getting ahead of myself. My daddy always said that the best place to start is at the beginning. But with Cotton, it's hard to tell the beginning. You see, I don't have a single childhood memory that doesn't include him. We were as different as night and day, but inseparable from the moment our mamas laid us side by side long before we could walk. Cotton was a month older than me, not that you could ever tell. I was tall for my age right from the beginning and he was always small. I was dark; he was light, the color of a cafe o' lait. My eyes were so brown they were almost black. Cotton's eyes, they were blue gray. His daddy had those same eyes. Cotton was everything I wasn't – outgoing, daring, fearless. He was also a really good tennis player. I guess that's where I could begin. Tennis.

            It was spring 1947. Wilmington, North Carolina. Cotton and I played tennis. Well, that's to say we hung out at the only tennis court we could play on in the hopes that one of the older men would take pity on us and let us hit a few balls. Dr. Washington owned the court. He'd built it in his backyard because there weren't public courts for Negros, as they called us back then. Things were segregated – movie houses, soda counters, and tennis clubs. Up North, they say there were grand places for Negros to play, but that wasn't the case down in North Carolina.

            That day, a Tuesday. Cotton and I went to Dr. Washington's after school. As usual we took our rackets and dressed in our white shorts.  As we approached the court, Cotton broke into a jog.

            “Come on, Grimes. They ain't no one playin'. Bet we can sneak on.”

            My legs were longer, but his were faster. I fought to keep up. When we got to the court, we saw that Dr. Washington was talking to a man we'd never seen before and a tall, leggy girl. Cotton went up to the fence. I hung back. I remember trying to balance the butt of my racket on my left pointer finger. I was getting pretty good at it.

            “Mr. Jackson!” I heard a voice shout at me. My reverie broken, my racket clunked to the ground.

            “Yessir?”

            “You feel like playing some tennis today?”

            “Yes, sir!”

            “Well, then come on over here.”

            I jogged over to the gate. All eyes were on me.

            “I was thinking,” Dr. Washington said, “that you boys might want to play against Althea.” He nodded in the direction of the gangly girl.

            “Both of us? Against a girl!?! Cotton, we can't do that?”

            “Aw, come on, Grimes. What you 'fraid of?” Cotton baited me. He was always up for things like this. I wasn't.

            “I ain't afraid.” I didn't much like the idea of playing a girl. If we won, people would say we should have let the girl win. If we lost, they'd make fun of us for losing to a girl.

            I stepped out on the court. The girl extended her hand.

            “Althea Gibson.”

            Cotton handled the introductions on our end.

            “I'm Benjamin Jasper Cotton but you can call me Cotton. Everybody does. This here's Grimes Jackson.”

            I was tall, nearly six feet and I wasn't yet fourteen, but that girl was nearly as tall as I was.

            “Why don't you go ahead and serve.” Cotton, ever the gentleman.

            What's funny is that after all my years in and around tennis, I've never told that story either. Once upon a time, before she made history for my people, I played (and lost to) the great Althea Gibson. Why haven't I told that story? It would mean telling about Cotton and that day. You'll understand.

            So, yes. Cotton and I lost. Even playing two on one, we only managed to get one game. On the way home, Cotton was excited. He jogged and skipped along side of me while I meandered at my usual slow pace.

            “Grimes, we got to play. Even though it was against a girl, we played!”

            I nodded. Cotton was the talker.

            “If we was white, we could play all the time. Even on that grass court at the country club. What I wouldn't give to hit just one ball on that court!”

            Ever since Cotton had come with me to take my daddy his lunch one Saturday, he'd been obsessed with the grass court we'd seen. My daddy was head grounds keeper at Magnolia Ridge Country Club and as he escorted us back to the main gate, Daddy walked us past the tennis court. Cotton stopped and took a couple steps toward the hedge that surrounded the court.

            “Now, Mr. Cotton, you don't go getting any grand ideas. Colored folks like us don't play on courts like that.”

            Cotton's gray-blue eyes shined in the hazy sunshine. His grin told me everything I needed to know. Benjamin Jasper Cotton was going to play on that court.

            “Naw, Sir. Naw, Mr. Jackson. I know we can't.”

            That day tennis changed for Cotton.  Just like when he'd met May Ellen Jones the previous year and swore he would kiss her before school was out, he was focused. And fearless. I should have known what he was thinking that fateful Tuesday when he started in.

            “What you doing tonight?”

            “Homework, I expect.”

            “Naw, after that.”

            “Sleeping?”

            “Aw, come on, Grimes. Homework and sleeping? You can do better than that?”

            “Alright then. What you doing?”

            “I'm thinkin' I'm gonna play me a little more tennis.”

            “Where at? Ain't no lights and besides Dr. Washington would kill us.”

            “It's a full moon tonight. It'll be bright enough. Let's sneak out and go to the country club.”

            “I can't sneak out.”    

            “Sure you can. It's Tuesday. Your daddy will be working at the restaurant and your mama always stays late at the Abernathy's.”

            Clearly Cotton had given this some thought.

            “We ain't got any balls.”

            Cotton dug something out of his pocket. It was an old gray-brown tennis ball. It didn't even look like it would bounce it was so worn.

            “Where'd you get that?”

            “The trash at Dr. Washington's.”

            “You stole it? Without asking?”

            “Grimes, this ball has a higher purpose. This ball is going to play on that beautiful grass court at the country club. What do you say?”

            I don't recall saying yes, but that night under a full moon I met Cotton at our usual meeting spot. We stuffed our rackets and the ball in a knapsack and hiked the two miles to the country club. We had to stay off the main road. There was no telling what the white folks would have done had they seen us two colored boys walking up the road at that hour. Cotton led as we slogged our way through the trees and underbrush. We emerged from a trail and stood on what I would learn was the seventeenth tee. I could see the hedge in the distance and the court just beyond. Cotton was right. It was bright enough to play.

            Cotton handed me my racket and stuffed the ball in his pocket. After taking a moment to see if the coast was clear, Cotton burst into a trot across the fairway. He looked back at me. I was frozen in place.

            “Come on!” His voice was a strident whisper. I took a breath, looked around me, and broke into a jog.

            Cotton got to the court first. He found the opening in the hedge and took a reverent step forward onto the court. When both his feet were on the smooth grass he stopped and looked up toward the heavens.

            “Boy! Boy! What you doing on that court?”

            At first sound I dove to the ground and rolled up as close to the hedge as I could. Cotton stood still.

            Three boys came crashing through the hedge on the side opposite me.

            “What you think you're doing, Nigger?”

            “Yeah, this court is for Whites only, Boy!”

            I recognized the first voice. It was Lee Jack Duval. His daddy belonged to the country club and when I used to come to work in the summers with my dad, I'd run into Lee Jack. He was a few years older than Cotton and me and dead certain about his superiority. He never hesitated to spit at me and my daddy.

            “Get him, Scotty.” The second boy was Robert. E. 'Scotty' Scott, heir apparent to the biggest car dealership in town.

            I saw Scotty and the other boy charge at Cotton. He stood firm, his racket leveled and ready. He cracked one boy on the head.

            “That nigger hit me!” The boy took a staggering step backwards.

            “Damn it, Tommy. You gonna let a little nigger boy best you?” Lee Jack Duval laughed loudly.

            Tommy, Tommy Abernathy, oldest son of my mother's employer, went after Cotton again. Cotton landed a few more glancing blows but the boys were highly motivated. Lee Jack was not someone to anger or let down. Scotty grabbed Cotton's racket and threw it far out of reach. Cotton still struggled but he was no match for the older boys.

            Lee Jack approached twirling a putter. He spat in Cotton face. This whole time I lay silent against the hedge.

            “We gonna teach you what happens to niggers when they play on our court.”

            Scotty and Tommy cackled.

            “Let's go. We can't do this here.”

            Scotty hefted Cotton over his shoulder. Tommy picked up his racket. As the boys walked off, I dared to peak my head over the hedge. I should do something. I should call out. It was then that I saw his eyes, those gray-blue eyes, for the last time. They implored me to stay silent. He shook his head imperceptibly. I think in that moment, he knew his fate. I ducked down and stayed quiet. Tears ran down my cheeks.

            I waited a few minutes before running back across the fairway and down the trail toward home. As I ran, I thought about Cotton showing up the next day at school bruised and beaten, but angry because he hadn't been able to hit even one ball. Somewhere inside, though, I think I knew that I was never going to see Cotton again.

            I burst through my front door. Daddy jumped out of his chair. I could see the anger in his face subside when he saw the tears in my eyes. I couldn't speak.

            “Boy, what is it? Grimes? You better speak to me!”

            “D-d-d-d-addy. It's C-c-c-otton. Them boys got 'em. They got 'em. They gonna hurt 'em.” I stammered barely making sense.

            “What boys? Where?”

            “C-c-c-otton and me, we went to the grass court and them boys showed up. They didn't see me. They got Cotton. They got him, Daddy.”

            “The grass court? At the country club? You boys went there? How foolish. How foolish can you be?”

            I started to cry again. Tears streamed down my face.

            “Sshh, son. Who were the boys?”

            “L-l-lee J-j-jack Duval, S-s-scotty, and T-t-tommy Abernathy. They got him, Daddy. They got him.” I don't recall ever stuttering before or after that night.

            My father fell back into his chair.

            “D-d-daddy, don't we oughta call the po-lice? I seen 'em. I seen them boys.” Usually he was pretty  particular about my grammar, but not just then.

            He breathed deeply and exhaled into his hands.

            “Boy, have a seat. Sit down here.” He patted the footstool in front of his chair. He leaned forward and spoke very quietly.

            “We can't do that, son. We can't. You're sitting here so I assume those boys, they didn't see you, did they?”

            “No, Sir.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

            “You see here, Grimes, there are things about this world that we live in. I think you know, but you don't know. You can't play tennis at the country club and when you ride the bus, where do you have to sit?”

            “In the back, Sir, so the white folk can sit in the front.”

            “Exactly. Now you know Mama and I, we both work for white folks. And they're nice people. They take good care of us. Put food on our table and pay us enough to afford that fancy tennis racket of yours. But I tell you, son, we know our place. Whites are in charge. What do you think would happen if we called the law tonight?”

            “I don't know. I guess they'd go find Lee Jack and the rest and arrest them.”

            “Now, son. Think about that.”

            I thought and I thought and I thought.

            “You mean because they all white, the police and them boys, they wouldn't do anything about it?”

            “That's exactly what I'm saying. And even more, they'd know who accused them. Then what would happen?”

            “I don't know, Sir.”

            “Son, Son... Those boys will retaliate against you. And do you think the Abernathy's would keep Mama on?”

            “No, Sir. So, we supposed to do nothing and let them boys get away with it?”

            I felt anger my anger boiling. Daddy sank back in his chair. When he spoke, his voice was a little louder.

            “You believe in God, son?

            “Of course, Daddy.”

            “You believe that God sees everything and knows everything?”

            “Yes, Daddy.”

            “Then don't you have to believe that God will take care of this? Those boys won't get away with it before God. Have faith, son. Come what may, those boys will get theirs.”

            I nodded and swallowed my anger.

            I went to school the next morning. No Cotton. When I got home from school, my daddy was waiting on the front stoop.

            “Have a seat, Grimes.”

           

            “Sir?”

            “They found him, Son. They found Cotton.”

            “Can I go see him? Is he home?”

            “Son...” My father paused. His head dipped to his chest. There were tears in his eyes when he looked at me again.

            “Cotton is dead, Grimes. He was beaten and left at the seventeenth tee.”

            “We still ain't gonna call the police, are we, Daddy?”

            “No, Son. No, we're not. This needs to be our secret. Promise me you'll never tell a soul about this.”

            I hung my head.

            “Promise me, Son.”

            I didn't want to. I was angry. I wanted those boys to get what was coming to them. I wanted to tell the world about what they did to Cotton. Deep inside, though, I knew. I knew my Daddy was right.

            “Yes, Daddy. I promise.”

            He smiled and put an arm around my shoulder. “Trust in God, Grimes. He will make sure that they are punished for what they've done.”

            The years went on. Little Rock, the Montgomery Bus Boycott, Selma, the Civil Rights Act, and Dr. King. Oh, and that girl, Althea, that Cotton and I lost to that day finally broke the color barrier at Forest Hills on a grass court. I thought of Cotton that day. He would have been proud. I went off to college at North Carolina A&T, got a degree in Biology, and eventually went to medical school. With Cotton as my inspiration, I started talking to pretty girls, even convinced one to marry me fifty-five years ago next month. Oh, and I kept playing tennis. Every time I set foot on a court, I look toward the heavens like Cotton did that night. I owe him my life. Who am I not to live it?

            Whatever happened to those boys, you ask? I don't know whether it was God or just bad luck, but Robert E. 'Scotty' Scott was decapitated one night shortly after his twentieth birthday. Story goes, he borrowed a convertible from his daddy's dealership, got drunk, and ran himself into a tree. He got his, I think. Tommy Abernathy enlisted in the Army and was sent to Korea. They say he was shot in the back seven times, by one of his own men. I'd say he got his, too. As for Lee Jack Duval, he died in an alley beaten to a pulp with an old tennis racket about twenty-five years ago. Yes, Sir, I know he got his.