Vanishing Horizons Read online

Vanishing Horizons

  By J.P. Voss

  Copyright J.P. Voss 2011

  License Notes

  Royce Culhane stared through the reinforced wire mesh window, past the bars, and beyond his vanishing horizons. It was August of ’61, his nineteenth birthday, and Royce was in transit from the county lock up in Jackson Mississippi to the Federal Penitentiary at Leavenworth Kansas. He’d been sentenced to eight years for Interstate Transportation of a Stolen Vehicle, and Transporting a Minor Across the State Line for the Purpose of Immoral Acts. His crime—his only real crime—was that he loved Milford W. McKenna’s seventeen-year-old daughter Velma.

  *********

  Things had been good for Royce during the first few months of 1961. Life had been especially fine that first week of May.

  Royce soaked in the easy Mississippi morning as he headed over to Velma’s in his chopped ’33 Ford. The sun was still low in the southern sky and the shade from the lush landscape, flushed with hundred-foot Magnolia Trees, kept things cool to the touch. The Magnolia branches were thick with green glossy leaves, and what must have been a million Mockingbirds. The Mocks were really tuning it up that morning, and Royce could hear their rapture over the rumble of his Flathead Ford.

  At the McKenna’s, Royce came to a screeching stop, hopped out, and ran for the front door. He started up the porch steps, and the front door fell open.

  Velma sashayed out on the veranda with two tall glasses of icy lemonade. She delivered the refreshments with exaggerated southern elegance, a curtsy, and a delicate twirl. Suddenly, she reared back and studied the young man with cautious eyes. “Royce Culhane…my daddy says you’re dangerous.”

  “Your daddy is right.” Royce moved in close, ran his index finger gently along the seam of her cotton Capri pants then placed his hand firmly against the small of her back. Velma twisted her supple frame, slipped from his grasp, and feigned retreat. When he advanced, she dipped behind a column, and disappeared from sight.

  Royce stretched out on the porch swing, sipped his lemonade, and soaked in the grandeur of the McKenna family home. The mammoth entry, wrap-around balconies, and colossal Greek pillars, reflected the power and wealth of Jackson’s most prominent citizen, Milford W. McKenna. He watched Roosevelt, the McKenna’s colored groundskeeper, while Roosevelt tended the prize-winning roses. When Roosevelt moved toward the garage, Royce caught sight of Mr. McKenna’s new car, a fat black ’61 Fleetwood hardtop.

  Velma stomped out from behind the column and stood in a state of righteous indignation. “Well Royce Culhane, I do declare. If you’re going to give up that easily, maybe my daddy’s right. I think I’ll take his advice and start dating one of the boys from the country club. I really don’t know what I see in you. Goodness gracious—you’re not even a Southern Baptist.”

  “Stop playing Scarlet O’Hara.” He turned to the window, checked his reflection, and combed back his deep black Brilliantine hair. He pulled up the sleeve of his tight white t-shirt, flexed his strapping bicep, and admired his new tattoo, Woody Woodpecker smoking a cigar.

  “Stop admiring yourself in the window,” Velma said. She slipped next to Royce on the swing, took his hand, and fixed eyes. “Lord help me—I love those eyes. They’re like a nice warm cup of Chicory Coffee, creamy brown, with just the right amount of sugar.”

  “Your daddy better not hear you talking like that,” he said with a roguish smirk. Royce pulled a pack of smokes from the shaft of his scuffed Redwing boots, flipped open his Zippo, torched a Camel, and gazed into Velma’s eyes. They were pure blue, faultless, like a set of perfect blue diamonds. And her hair, in the morning light, was the colors of caramel, apricot, and wheat. His eyes drifted along her supple neckline and paused on her full femininity. “Let’s head over to Vicksburg before your daddy comes home. If he catches me here he’ll shoot me.”

  “Don’t you worry your pointed little head about my father. Momma and him took the train to Memphis. They won’t be home until late tomorrow night. Beside—what’s your hurry—all you want to do is go out to that old battlefield and neck—and I’m not that kind of girl.”

  Royce squeezed Velma’s knee, cupped his hand behind her neck, and pulled her to within a breath away. Those creamy brown eyes of his turned black like a baby rattler.

  Velma jumped up, stepped into the yard and called out, “Roosevelt, what on earth are you doing working out here on such a beautiful Saturday morning? I can finish trimming those roses tomorrow morning after church. You go on now and take care of your family. Lord knows you spend enough time taking care of us.” Velma gave Royce a snotty look then turned to Roosevelt and said, “You don’t have to worry about me Roosevelt. If this hoodlum over here gives me any trouble—I’ll just call the police.”

  “Don’t believe a word of it,” Royce said. He stepped off the porch and snatched up some garden tools. He looked back at Velma. “Why don’t you go get ready? I’ll help Roosevelt clean up, and then we’ll all get out of here.”

  Roosevelt, a handsome man close to sixty, whose full smile glowed in the sun, heaved a fifty-pound sack of potting soil over his shoulder with ease and moved effortlessly toward the storage building behind the house. Royce followed. They talked about Delta Blues as they walked. After they put away the tools, Roosevelt’s voice took on a more serious tone.

  “You’re a good man Royce Culhane. I believe Mr. McKenna is going to see that. You just have to give him a little time.” Roosevelt started walking away, stopped, and turned back. “Be cool young buck…just be cool.”

  When Velma returned, she pointed to Royce’s hotrod. “I’m not going all the way to Vicksburg in that old jalopy.” She pulled the keys to her fathers new Cadillac out of her purse and tossed them to Royce.

  Royce fondled the keys to the new Fleetwood, gave it a second thought, then looked at the Caddy and said, “Let’s go.”

  Royce revved the big Detroit power plant while he adjusted the radio to a colored station. The sound of the Delta poured from the speaker and Muddy Waters wailed: Baby, please don’t go.

  Velma slid next to Royce and snuggled “Let’s elope. We can head down to New Orleans and get married by the justice of the peace. Mother and father would just die.” Velma commandeered the rearview mirror and pulled back her hair in a ponytail. “Take me away from Jackson. You’re going places; I just know it. You have the voice of an angel—and the way you play guitar. You’re going to be a big star like Johnny Cash or Elvis. My father may not see it, but that’s just because he’s an old fuddy-duddy.” Velma laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. When she looked up, they were crossing the Mississippi River into Louisiana. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m kidnapping you. We’re headed to New Orleans to get married. Won’t your daddy be surprised when we get back?”

  Velma slugged him in the arm as hard as she could and Royce let out a laugh that could be heard forty miles away in Jackson.

  He said, “I’m just taking a little detour over to Tallulah to see a friend of mine. I can’t wait to see his face when I pull up in this new Cadillac.” Royce pulled off the highway onto to a broken street lined with shotgun shacks.

  She cried out, “Where are you taking me!”

  “Right here,” Royce said, pulling to a stop in front of a broken down house. The old place tilted slightly to the left, and with it’s narrow front, it looked like an old packing crate. There was a colored woman shucking peas on the front steps, and a couple of children were playing with an old truck tire in the front yard.

  A dapper young man, wearing an all black cowboy outfit, including boots, Stetson, and bolo tie, strolled through the screen door and called out, “Well if it isn’t Royce Culhane.”

  Royce dragged Velma out of the
Cadillac and introduced the man. “This is Sonny Jack Johnson. He’s the grandson of the great blues musician Son House, and he’s the best damned harp player in Louisiana.”

  Sonny Jack tipped his Stetson and smiled. When Royce opened the driver’s door and ushered him in, Sonny slid behind the wheel, honked the horn a few times, and called for his wife. The racket got some of the neighbors coming out of their houses, and it wasn’t long before a crowed started to gather around the car.

  A couple of Madison Parrish Police cruised by in their squad car. When they stopped, things just plain went bad. The cops told Royce he looked like a ‘Juvenile delinquent’. When his license and the car registration didn’t match, they accused him of ‘Stealing the car and trying to sell it to a nigger’. The local cops really didn’t like that a white girl, with no identification, who looked underage, was hanging around a colored neighborhood. When Royce got belligerent and told them ‘It wasn’t any of their damn business’, the cops got tough and hauled everybody in. It was Velma’s father, Milford. W. McKenna, who arranged for the federal prosecutor to step in. When the feds took over, the local cops, who didn’t like Royce to start with, just went along. Royce never got out of jail. He was held until trial, given a first year court appointed lawyer, and blind-sided by the full force of the prosecution.