They were called “workers” because slavery had been abolished almost eighty years earlier, although there was no telling that to the people of the Deep South, particularly those in Mississippi. They were a bit behind on those pesky things called civil rights. Mississippi would not vote to ratify the Thirteenth Amendment, abolishing slavery in the United States, until 1995, but missed the big step of actually filing it. A Freudian slip, one might say. The Thirteenth Amendment was adopted in 1865. One hundred forty-eight years later, on February 7, 2013, Mississippi finally, officially abolished slavery. It is fair to say Mississippi procrastinated a bit.
The “workers,” as they were legally called, were still treated very much like slaves in 1943. They were treated dreadfully inhumanely, less so than one would treat a mule. The owner of one fine plantation in particular would be the one in that rocking chair looking down off his porch at you while sipping his mint julep. You could almost feel his delusional beliefs of superiority and judgment burning your skin while you strolled past. He was casting those proverbial stones with his judgmental god right by his side, or so he believed with his false grandeur. Religion is a funny thing in the South—always has been. There were people such as this plantation owner, Richard Kingsley, who bent religion to fit their personal agenda. Never mind what Jesus really thought or taught.
Yes; this hot, humid summer of 1943 was the summer of Joseph’s birth in the Delta on a sweltering Mississippi day. This was not a good place to be born a little mulatto boy, as they called them, but only when being polite. This region was known as “the most southern place on earth.” The self-proclaimed “grand” white aristocrats called people of mixed race mulattos or, more commonly, Negros. That is, only if they had to be what we now refer to as “politically correct,” which, most of the time, they did not. Being known as “the most southern place on earth” still has its bad and good associations, but in the time of Joseph’s birth, it was mostly bad for a little boy like him.
3
Joseph Kingsley
Joseph Kingsley was the full name of this beautiful baby boy. He was breathtaking. He had soft, mocha skin with a full head of curly hair, dark as the night was long. The touch of his skin was like caressing the finest of silks. His eyes were glossy and held a hint of blue. His mother was sure they would turn a beautiful chocolate brown just like her own. If you stared into his eyes, it was like you could see straight into his soul and directly into heaven. He surely would grow into a man who would drive the women wild. At birth, his last name was that of his birth mother, Dove. However, he was the Kingsleys’ baby now.
You have heard the name of Richard Kingsley before: the aristocrat sitting on his porch with judgment in his eyes. The Kingsleys were a very well-known and influential family in the Delta and much of the South. They owned a highly successful cotton and soybean plantation in Clarksville.
Margret Kingsley was the woman of the house. She was a tall, skinny white woman. Her face was pallid, and her cheeks were sunken, with bright pink blush and pale, chapped lips. She resembled a made-up corpse right before the burial. She, along with the other ladies of the local church, was fixated with being skinny and being the “best” of the local societal women. She was successful in her labors to do so. She looked like a skeleton—one with bright, rosy cheeks and blonde, frizzy hair. She reeked with an overwhelming scent of patchouli, a pungent, earthy, and slightly sweet smell that, when overused, overpowers all your senses. Mrs. Kingsley used more than one person should ever use. If the wind caught her right, you could smell her a half mile down the road.
Mrs. Kingsley had insisted they change Joseph’s last name if she was going to be forced to raise that “mixed beast,” as she referred to him. She would not have a child in her home bearing the last name of Dove—the horror and the shame. The associations were just dreadful to Mrs. Kingsley. Her husband, Richard Kingsley, had humiliated her once again in the community, bringing shame upon the family. Surely all the townspeople were gossiping about this one. Mrs. Kingsley would have to skip a few more meals to make up for this humiliation.
Mr. Kingsley was a great, hard-nosed businessman. He was feared around the South for his harsh business tactics and his refusal to be told no. This was why they had such a successful cotton and soybean plantation. Some businessmen could get a sale solely on their charm or looks. Richard Kingsley had neither. He was fifty-two years old and didn’t look a day over sixty-five. He had salt-and-pepper hair that he parted to the left side with a thick but not very effective hair product of some sort. His hair always looked like it needed a trim. He, too, had rosy cheeks. His, however, were not from too much blush. The pinkness was from too much bourbon whiskey. He had a fine love for his bourbon.
Mr. Kingsley also had a potbelly that protruded from his pants because he wore his pants too low and his belt too tight. He usually smelled like an unpleasant collaboration of strong cologne, bourbon, and cigars, but at least it was the finest of cigars. With that kind of money and power, he would not be caught dead smoking anything but the best money could buy. One can only assume he wore so much cologne to camouflage the whiskey smell, but unfortunately for everyone, it just made a rude, obnoxious, and festering stench of its own. Because of his lack of looks, style, or grace, not to mention his horrid smell, he needed his hard-nosed tactics to be successful in business. He could, at times, be a slight bit compassionate, which was shocking to most, but you sure wouldn’t hear of that compassion from a little thirteen-year-old girl named Claudia Dove.
Claudia was an innocent and shy young girl. She had been born at a neighboring plantation and sent to work at the Kingsleys’ when she was ten. She spent several years there before giving birth to her son. She helped out in the gardens and the fields. Claudia had a very tender manner to her, and she was a hard worker, one of the plantation’s best. She was one of those children you might look at and long to hug tightly because of the sweet sadness you could see in her eyes. You could tell she’d had a rough life, but she only spoke of positive things . . . when she spoke at all.
Claudia’s face was soft like a rose petal, with dark, chocolate skin to be envied. Her hair was usually brushed down flat, though stray hairs would pop out all over. If you ever had the chance to see her clean and all dressed up when she was a young adult, you would swear she was one of those fancy models out of France that the magazines sprawled all over their pages. Unfortunately, no, Claudia did not know of the minute compassionate side that was said to exist within Richard Kingsley. She learned the wrath and evil that was within him by simply uttering the word “no” in his presence one afternoon when she was only thirteen years old.
Nine months after that day, and a lot of healing later, Claudia gave birth to her baby boy. Even though Mr. Kingsley was not pleased to have a new baby, he told Mrs. Kingsley, “I cannot bear for it to be raised by that lying nigger.”
Claudia had told a few others about her brutal rape. Of course, Mr. Kingsley denied it.
“Why would I need to rape a little nigger girl when I am Richard Kingsley,” he said in an indignant tone.
Richard Kingsley had decided to force his wife to raise little Joseph as their houseboy.
“He can help you in the house, and you can train him just as you please. Once he is around eight, you will have your perfectly trained house nigger,” Mr. Kingsley explained. “What woman would not want that?”
The dreams that Claudia had for her and her boy were stolen when he was stripped from her arms by Mr. Kingsley. Now her hopes for his future had seemingly vanished, because he would now be raised as a house slave for the Kingsley family. The dreams of her and her son together were gone, and her dreams for him alone were gone, but unfortunately, she would always have the nightmares of Richard Kingsley forcing his whiskey-soaked body on her while stealing her innocence with every thrust of his pungent, sweaty body pushing against hers.
4
Colds, Cries, and Sweet Lullabies
When Joseph was just a baby, he was no more than a nuisance to Mrs. Kingsley, even though the only way she knew he existed was when she heard him cry a few rooms over. Mrs. Kingsley and the women