The Pine Bluff Project

The Pine Bluff Project

A NOVEL

Phil Matthews

Copyright © 2013 Phil Matthews

Published by M. Ande Publishing

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Pine Bluff Project

Chapter 1  |  Chapter 2

Chapter 3  |  Chapter 4

Chapter 5  |  Chapter 6

Chapter 7  |  Chapter 8

Chapter 9  |  Chapter 10

Chapter 11  |  Chapter 12

Chapter 13  |  Chapter 14

Chapter 15  |  Chapter 16

Chapter 17  |  Chapter 18

Chapter 19  |  Chapter 20

Chapter 21  |  Chapter 22

Chapter 23  |  Chapter 24

Chapter 25  |  Chapter 26

Chapter 27  |  Chapter 28

Chapter 29  |  Chapter 30

Chapter 31  |  Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

1

I wasn’t in attendance that first night. If you saw me you’d understand why.

I knew many who were.

All but a handful are long gone.

Based on my extensive involvement, I’m more than qualified to tell the story of the Pine Bluff Project.

Not until it’s essential will I reveal my identity.

Sixty-two of my ninety years have been spent in Pine Bluff, AR.

Though we’re less than a decade from the Project’s fiftieth anniversary, I remember even the mundane details.

Over the years I’ve spoken at length with nearly every citizen about their experiences in Pine Bluff during the fall of 1957.

I didn’t need to be there that first night to know the young host’s face was teeming with cavernous scars. His equally deep tan couldn’t hide the fact that his life once hung by a thread. A man with that many marks doesn’t shy away from a fight and gets a big kick out of starting them. I don’t know how a fellow so deformed could be considered handsome, but that’s exactly what they called him.

The tall drink of water was at least thirty. Tops, he’d been on this earth 35 years, most guessed. His slicked-back, sandy blond hair was cut short but there was a lot of it. The recent transplant to Pine Bluff loved the sound of his own dignified Southern accent, as did the crowd he was mesmerizing.

I didn’t need to be there that first night to know his eyes on you were two massive shots of adrenaline. If the gaze lasted, a blessed rarity, thousands of pins and needles pricked you from beneath the skin.

With him on your side, you were ready, even if he’d yet to detail your mission.

Women sprinkled throughout the audience were enchanted with his blue eyes, square jaw, and sly smirk. Teenyboppers for a night, their animated faces put to shame those girls in the front row fortunate enough to witness Elvis shake and shimmy his midsection while singing Hound Dog on The Ed Sullivan Show. Had it been suitable for the women of Pine Bluff to gyrate their hips, scream, and cry tears of joy, the cacophony would have made the host’s vile words nothing but a rumor.

"Your children need protection from the same government you elected just last November. How quickly they turn. Are you surprised the integrationists are attacking the most vulnerable among us?" Dr. Michael asked his numerous guests.

Scanning the occupationally diverse group, the Jefferson County Sheriff leaned against the wall. Earlier, he’d shaken more hands than the day before the hotly contested election of 1956.

Two officers from the Pine Bluff Police Department sat in the third row. Another, George Brewster, flanked by his wife Myra, occupied a chair in row fourteen.

Discreetly fanning his better half, a truck driver for the Pine Bluff Beverage Company, Samuel T. Puddephatt, was parked near the back.

A delivery man from Shainberg’s Department Store nodded along next to a civic leader who once tried to convince the mayor that the mansion in which they were settled should be property of the city. Squabbling heirs of the banking magnate who built the massive dwelling in 1903 were so anxious to unload that the price was more than reasonable. While the mayor’s office piddled around as usual, Dr. Michael swooped in with a suitcase brimming with cash.

Those men and women were all on the third floor of that mansion, the only private residence in Pine Bluff with a ballroom the size of a basketball court. To reach their seats, they’d entered through the mahogany front door, twice ascended the leftward most staircase, took a sharp left, then made the lengthy trek down the wide hallway while wondering what in tarnation could be on the other side of all those doors.

Militarily, scotch neat in hand, relishing the eyes of those hanging on his every word, the host paced from stage right to stage left. I can tell you first-hand that silence is mighty stressful when you’re standing in front of a bunch of people who eagerly anticipate what you’re itching to get off your chest. To Dr. Michael, a good hush was a fall breeze in the heart of summer.

By bussing in the coloreds, they’re destroying God’s plan for us, he said. As with everything He did, He separated the races for our avail, placed huge bodies of water in between when swimming was the only mode of intercontinental transportation. He did this not for the benefit of white people, He did this for the benefit of all colors.

Dr. Michael straightened his tie. The Negro can’t learn at our pace. Science tells us that. If your son struggles to master his multiplication tables, you do not enroll him in an advanced algebra class at the University. Instead, you steer your boy in a direction that suits his natural aptitude. The coloreds are not void of talent. They’re physically strong, and fast, and tough of body. Your ancestors enhanced those qualities, gave the Negroes means by which to make a living once they were freed. Did you know that the NAACP registered those nine colored teens for entrance into Central High School based on their attendance records? Mimicking a yokel, he drawled, Them bright young Negroes can read a clock, let’s give ‘em access to our daughters.

In his standard voice, he continued, Those of you whose only skill is deciphering your timepiece may not understand why I’m making such a fuss. Dr. Michael chuckled at his own joke. The pack followed obediently.

The host took a slow sip, swished around the sauce, then evened his lips. The integrationists will soon commence their ad blitz--say something about how governmental studies have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that society would function with greater efficiency if distinctions between coloreds and whites dissolved. Propaganda they call it--The Nazis perfected it during the war. Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels would be envious.

Dr. Michael picked up the tempo. "Make everyone the same. That’s the goal of the integrationist. That, too, was Hitler’s grand plan. Current progressives strive for a globe full of mulattos; want to make sure your grandbaby is burdened with a face that takes after a pile of mud. I admonish Hitler for attempting to populate Eastern Europe with a master race through the elimination of parasitic untermensch. I admonish the integrationists for attempting to populate America with subhumans through the elimination of the pure Caucasian race."

The host grinned. "Our enemies are more cunning than the Fuehrer. They’re prepared for a long and drawn-out battle. Decades they’ll wait. A fulfillment of their goals won’t happen overnight, and they’re okay with that. Forcing nine colored students into Central High School made quite a few people celebrate humanity. Most opposed to the invasion stopped fretting over the plight of white students at Central once their initial rage dissipated five minutes after they folded their newspaper, turned off David Brinkley, or changed the radio dial from Paul Harvey to a tune that stimulated their tapping toe. Before those Negroes in Little Rock found desks in the middle of their white counterparts, a lot of you probably filled your mind with troubles you deemed more pressing."

None could translate parasitic untermensch to English, but they all savored the way it rolled off the host’s silver tongue.

Dr. Michael clinched his teeth. His anger wasn’t detectable to those stationed beyond the second row. Marching emaciated Jews into those ovens made you sick, didn’t it? Made you cheer our brave Allied troops as they stormed the beaches of Normandy. The progressives know violence isn’t the way to achieve their lofty aspirations. So they’ll meticulously endeavor to wipe out individual races using tactics that generate feelings of euphoria.

A smorgasbord of odors arriving from the third floor dining room melded perfectly, overtaking the aroma of old wood.

Hitler should’ve been so shrewd, Dr. Michael continued. That’s why the integrationists are starting with our children. You can’t prevent kids from experimenting with their bodies. They don’t know what’s good for them and are enthralled by what’s bad for them. Even the integrationists may be surprised at how rapidly their scheme works. I can picture their gleeful faces as they watch you rear that grandbaby of yours, a tyke with all kinds of blood running through its blue veins. They strive for a world inhabited by human mutts. Your apathy is their comrade.

In unison, creating an awful racket, awestruck members of the horde occupying the grand ballroom moved to the edge of their straight-backed chairs.

"Integration is phase one. Those attempting to force their will are far from their end. There is no conclusion. I reckon not one extremist has ever thrown his hands into the air and said, ‘I’m satisfied now--will spend the rest of my days basking in the utopia I’ve created.’ Their methodical actions are designed to keep you in your chair, sedate you as if a powerful tranquilizer is continually being pumped into your system. They hope your only response will be slamming down the Pine Bluff Commercial in disgust. Were they not happy to take it slow and steady, they would have bussed half of Central High to the nearest colored school, and vice-versa. Nine Negroes into Central got the ball rolling without sparking a political firestorm. Not a lick of violence erupted after all."

His pause was fleeting, but every single person in the room swore afterward that he looked them square in the eye. The schools in Pine Bluff must provide your children with a quality education. I know you all want your sons and daughters learning a thing or two from their teachers . . . Otherwise, you’d live in Mississippi.

The man spoke with impeccable comic timing. His fury disappeared faster than it had arrived. His normal cadence suggested that confining young Negroes to their own schools was a pleasurable hobby, as if he was extolling the virtues of coin collecting and everyone knowing at what temperature to store their favorite silver dollar was vital if the pastime was to thrive for generations.

The captivated crowd was a good size, what with the 101st Airborne Division having escorted, amidst throngs of potentially violent protesters, a week prior, nine of the finest colored teenagers the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People could round up into previously all-white Central High School in Little Rock. Depending on the color of a man’s skin and his political leanings, that late September day was either groundbreaking enough to induce tears or the end of civilization.

As did many whites in Pine Bluff, and throughout the South, Dr. Michael expressed outrage at President Dwight D. Eisenhower for providing soldiers from the United States Army to protect those Negro students as they entered Central High. General Eisenhower gave the order after he nationalized the Arkansas National Guard.

The nationalization of the Arkansas Guard was necessary because the Governor of Arkansas had used them to keep the Little Rock Nine, as they came to be known, out of Central High School earlier in September of 1957. September 4th was the specific date.

Basically there was a standoff between the Feds, who said to admit the colored children, and the Arkansas governor, Orval Faubus, who said the colored students should carry on learning where they’d been learning.

On a page in Life magazine, a telling photograph was published of a white Central High student named Hazel Bryan screaming at Miss Elizabeth Ann Eckford around the time Miss Eckford initially tried to access the school on the morning of the fourth. Miss Bryan’s wicked expression gave the illusion some sort of demonic entity had possessed her being, which was the reason the image found its way onto the pages of such a prestigious periodical. Fifteen-year-old girls aren’t supposed to get that angry about anything other than their boyfriends’ unquenchable flirting habit.

Miss Eckford was alone on the morning of September 4th, a speck of pepper in a salt mine. Her family didn’t own a telephone, so she had no way of knowing where the Little Rock Nine were scheduled to meet before school. Mrs. Daisy Bates, head of the Little Rock chapter of the NAACP, had planned to personally relay the rendezvous point to the Eckfords. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bates dozed off while waiting for Miss Eckford’s father to arrive home from work at 3:00 AM.

So, a month shy of her sixteenth birthday, Elizabeth Ann Eckford, unmistakably a Negro, attempted to integrate Central High School all by herself, wearing a brand new homemade skirt she and her sister fashioned for the occasion. Actually, the brave soul tried twice, but the Arkansas National Guard, still under the control of the governor, had other ideas.

Two, four, six, eight, we ain’t gonna integrate! the potentially violent protesters chanted as Miss Eckford later made her way to a city bus stop where she’d soon board a bus to her mother’s workplace. Of her experience, said Miss Eckford, I tried to see a friendly face somewhere in the mob, someone who maybe would help. I looked into the face of an old woman and it seemed a kind face, but when I looked at her again, she spat on me.

Nearing the end of that same month, Miss Eckford finally made it into Central High. While getting through the front door was no walk in the park, staying sane between those walls would prove the hardest part.

2

Before and after his spellbinding lecture, the host talked little about where he’d been or what he’d accomplished during his short life. Living like a hermit since moving into his lavish quarters about six months earlier, Dr. Michael had Pine Bluffians dying for details.

He did reveal that a pediatric patient first addressed him as Dr. Michael because she couldn’t pronounce his lengthy surname. He’d been left a small fortune by a timber baron uncle he didn’t know all that well. Might open a practice in Central Arkansas one day, as soon as he tended to the matter he deemed most urgent. Came to Pine Bluff from Western Alabama for the simple reasons he sought major change and fell in love with the mansion at Fifth and Walnut, just west of downtown.

The ladies of Pine Bluff stuck out their bottom lip when they heard redecorating instructions had been sent by his wife that he’d implement as time allowed. They were too polite to ask why the fourth finger on his left hand was bare; there wasn’t even a tan line.

Dr. Michael couldn’t say when his bride would make the journey southward, but they’d start a family within the month of her arrival. Mrs. Dr. Michael was tending to sick kin in another state, her husband said.

Some women inside his estate that night weren’t positive they’d ever see a wife; thought Dr. Michael was just keeping up appearances. When they got close enough, all swore he oozed a feminine scent, and they made it their mission to get close enough.

Perhaps Dr. Michael’s spouse was tired of sharing. Maybe a scandal back home sent him running for the hills. Guesses went wild, and nobody arrived at the same conclusion. They all created their own torrid back-story, like authors of unseemly paperback novels that no one admitted to owning but somehow sold millions of copies.

If those ladies bothered looking above the ornamental living room fireplace, pure black silhouette cutouts of Dr. Michael and Mrs. Dr. Michael would have caught their attention. Over a lily-white background, surrounded by a gold leaf frame, the couple faced each other. If examined with the eye of a detective, the male was obviously Dr. Michael. It was a simple piece worth giving a second glance.

His wife was a beauty the likes of which they’d never seen, so stunning they would have struggled to tear themselves away from what amounted to her shadow. Dr. Michael enjoyed looking at those silhouettes. His face sliced to the bone when the artist sketched his profile, the finished product exposed no blemishes.

The buffet Dr. Michael served earned rave reviews. The spread was endless; fried chicken, ham, chicken and dumplings, corn bread, both collard and turnip greens soaked in bacon drippings, corn on the cob, home-grown tomatoes mixed with succulently slimy okra that slid down the throat without the least bit of chewing. Too many dishes covered those three tables to mention. You did not cook all this, Dr. Michael! You did not cook any of this! the ladies said.

Men aren’t inherently incompetent with a measuring cup in hand. And having a great desire to preserve the dignity of this fair city doesn’t render one old fashioned, ma’am. And, my dears, I’ve been blessed with the gift of time. Raising his glass, Dr. Michael said, Thank you, Uncle Joe. Everyone laughed too hard.

I can’t say for certain what life in Little Rock was like in 1957. I can say that integration was a bad word in Pine Bluff. Still, Dr. Michael said he couldn’t risk his new neighbors giving in to pressure from progressives who insisted that the mixing of races was inevitable.

In Pine Bluff, blacks knew their place. They lived in five separate communities surrounding the city; Colored Towns, they were called. Some called them worse, though, back in the day, nobody batted an eye.

Most restaurants were completely segregated.

Blacks could watch a moving picture show with whites on one condition. There were two entrances to the Saenger Theater at Second and Pine. The colored door led to the rear half of the balcony, which was the only location management would allow them to sit. Admission set you back 35 cents. A cold drink was a dime, as was the popcorn. A candy bar cost a nickel. Those prices were colorblind.

Jim Crow laws mandated that all public drinking fountains and public bathrooms be separate but equal. Jim Crow laws failed.

Inside many establishments, there wasn’t even a sign telling the coloreds where they could legally do their business. Negroes were obligated to ask, at which point an employee would motion to a room with a toilet and a sink. Sometimes it was a proper bathroom. Sometimes it was a closet also used for storing mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies. Rarely were those items used to sanitize the room in which they were held.

Throughout the host’s speech, when he could bear to look, John Stanfield III, aka Trip, stared at the stage with intensity. He behaved like a parent in the bleachers watching his star athlete son play baseball. Though Trip couldn’t do any better, was petrified of public speaking, it frustrated him not being in control of something as vital as getting the Project off on the right foot.

Mr. Trip Stanfield was responsible for rounding up the swarm of Pine Bluffians in attendance for Dr. Michael’s initial lecture, an audience that included ten of the finest doctors and fifteen of the sharpest lawyers the city had to offer.

Trip owned and operated the Stanfield Hardware Company at the corner of Fourth and State Street in downtown Pine Bluff, directly across from the train station. The store was founded by the original John Stanfield around the turn of the century, 1905 to be exact.

In 1957, a lot of folks purchased practically everything for their homes and farms at the Stanfield Hardware Company: horse collars, trace chains, plow points, cheap wood heaters, stove pipe, kerosene lamps, churns, slop jars, canning supplies, wash boards, lye soap, and roofing tar. It was also where local sportsmen got hunting, fishing, and dog licenses to run deer. In addition, they sold goods that ordinary men and women use and want today: dishes, hammers, batteries, ballcocks, and wagons. A Store with Over 10,000 Items, announced the Stanfield Hardware Company’s 7x5 black and white ad in the Pine Bluff Commercial.

Quiet and well respected, Trip Stanfield was a slight man with only a few strands of hair atop his head that he combed perfectly in the morning and every subsequent two hours. He looked much older than pushing forty, but was a fit man. Outside his store, he was sad. Everybody understood. He’d been through more than most.

Trip was raised for the first eight years by his beloved Aunt Becky. That wonderful woman was always telling Trip’s father, John Stanfield Junior, that his only child was smart as a whip. He’s absolutely brilliant, John. You wait; Trip will run this town someday. No one will tie their shoelaces without his approval.

In horror, young Trip watched Charlie, the family’s seemingly trustworthy Negro employee, hang by his neck for the murder of Aunt Becky, thirty minutes from crime to punishment. Trip tugged on countless shirts that night. That’s right, boy; we’re fixing to get him. Don’t worry none, he’ll be dead and gone real soon, adults in the pack responded before Trip could get a word out.

The savage assault leaving Aunt Becky unrecognizable, the mob came to the conclusion that the city wouldn’t be safe with Charlie breathing till morning.

Once Charlie’s feet left the grass, John Junior wouldn’t let his son Trip turn away.

The public execution was carried out right there on the Stanfield front lawn, in a tree Charlie brought back to life his first day on the job. Jekyll and Hyde, John Junior would say when asked how a Negro with a history of kindness could commit such a vicious act against sweet Aunt Becky.

A reward for not cowering, John Junior patted his lad on the back. You done good, boy. Always remember what they’re capable of. I blame myself. Forgot it’s their nature. Like dogs, they act as if they’ll move the sun and moon to protect you. Act grateful ‘cause you’re taking care of them. Then comes the day they’re all of a sudden pounding the life out of you. They’re not going away either. You’ve got to prepare yourself. This is a start.

With a face fresh from the meat grinder, Dr. Michael must’ve had a gruesome story to trump Trip Stanfield’s, though Dr. Michael wasn’t willing to describe the assault or identify his attacker just yet. He did show everyone the knife, blade covered in his blood. Said it served as a constant reminder, the greatest motivator he owned.

It’s not going to happen in Pine Bluff, AR if those of us in this room work together, Dr. Michael’s speech continued. Every branch of the military combined wouldn’t dare drag a Negro inside Pine Bluff High School. And no politician in his right mind will put his career on the line by forcing a colored boy or girl to break down longstanding barriers. If we’re united, a never-ending supply of soldiers would fail to give one black youth the courage necessary to travel within fifty yards of a white high school with their books in tow. Fantasies they have of entering a hero will be suppressed by fear of exiting an orphan.

He calmly refilled his tumbler, scanned a few faces, then carried on as if he wished circumstances weren’t compelling him to say what came next because the words were so unsettling. "For some of you, grandchildren are too far off to ponder. Soon, however, your baby girl, and possibly your wife,