The Other Parts

I.

Evergreen, AL

1956

Olivia sighed and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in her navy dress. She was proud of the way it turned out, having copied the pattern out of an Aldens catalog. It even had the golden ball and chain detail, and she hoped the ensemble made her look much older than her 19 years. Olivia kept imagining herself as an elegant, grown  woman when she was asked what she wanted to drink. While she really wanted an Orange Crush, she ordered whatever Philomene was drinking. It smelled like rubbing alcohol, but the giggling woman was sipping it like water.

"Yall ain't ready to go?" Olivia leaned over and whispered to Ellen.

"Go?! We just got here."

Olivia rolled her eyes and checked her watch. They had, in fact, just gotten there; but Olivia longed to get home and play her jazz records. Her father had left an Oscar Peterson on her dresser that morning, and she knew she could play it as much as she wanted while her mother was away. Olivia's friends had promised her a good time, but she wasn't having one. The blues, whiskey, and bodies pressed close excited Olivia, but she wasn't particularly interested in participating.

Juke joints.

Jazz records.

She could almost hear her mother rapidly throwing scripture at her. Olivia grinned and tried another sip of the drink. It didn't taste good, and she knew then that Philomene was crazy.

"I'll be right back," she told Philomene. Her friend quickly untangled her arms from around the gentleman's neck whose lap she sat in and rummaged through her small handbag. Olivia reluctantly took the offered switchblade.

"Just in case. You look extra good tonight, and these negroes won't hesitate to sample what you got."

"But I ain't offering," Olivia countered.

"Some won't care," Philomene tossed out, lighting a cigarette. Olivia grabbed the slim blade, tucked it into a pocket and eased through the tight crowd to the front door. More than one hand grabbed hers, but she politely shook them off and made her way outside. The October night air was chilly, and she regretted that she didn't wear a sweater. The ones she had didn't match, and she had no money for a new one.

"You just had to be cute," she murmured, wrapping her arms around herself and walking to the side of the building where a few rough hewn benches were under a magnolia tree. It wasn't safe to be out alone in the dark, but Olivia was enjoying the cicadas and faint sounds of Bessie Smith. Just as she began to hum along, a tangle of bodies tumbled roughly out of the door. Three men were beating one.

Three Black men beating a White man, to be exact.

She wanted to go back inside, but she was afraid they'd see her. So she sat there hoping they didn't notice her, and watched them splatter the dust with his blood. No one spoke, so Olivia couldn't make out what the scuffle was even about. The taller of the three landed a hard kick to the man's ribs, and that was that. Olivia thought him dead until he began groaning.

"My God," she gasped, running to his side. Olivia had her share of White folks at her job cleaning a few houses around Evergreen, and she didn't want anything to do with them in her free time. Still, she didn't know what made her rush to his aid. He lay face down with his left arm under him and the other at an odd angle.

"Sir?" she said, turning him onto his back as gently she could manage.

He cursed pitifully.

"Sorry, just trying to see where else you hurt." She ran her eyes quickly over his bloodied face. He looked young, and he was big. Olivia could clearly see muscles straining underneath his light blue shirt. He could've put up more of a fight, she thought.