Robert Butler, courtesy University of the South
Memphis Martyrs
William Jr. and Papa worked the river docks loading and unloading the cargo ships from St. Louis and New Orleans. It was August of ’73. Papa took sick first, but it was William Jr. who succumbed to its ravages. Although Papa was still as weak as a kitten on the night William Jr. died, he mustered the strength to help Mama wash and dress him in his suit. Our beloved son and brother lay for three days till Papa felt strong enough to construct the coffin and lift it into the wagon. We counted seven other funerals that day at Elmwood. All of them had died in the same quick and cruel manner.
The fever’s effects left Papa unfit for working, so we didn’t have the money to leave. We just waited, prayed, and clung to hope, never leaving the house for more than what was necessary. The rest of us were spared that year, but not in ’78. We couldn’t get out in time. Mama’s people in Arkansas sent us what little money they could afford, but it was too late. Both Mama and Alma got sick. Once again we were powerless. Through the headaches and fever and the violent vomiting, Papa and I could only offer them minimal comfort. Their pain was unbearable, and I will never forget the sounds of their screams and then the heavy silence of their death.
By mandate, the dead were buried quickly and together. Papa thanked God Mama and Alma would at least be near to William Jr. We sat in silent dread as we waited for the call of the dead collector, “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!”
I kissed Alma’s little hands and Mama’s cheek. Papa carried Alma out first. We both gasped when we saw the bodies piled on top of one another. The man tried to help Papa with Alma, but Papa wouldn’t let him touch her. As gently as possible he laid her on top of that putrid pile of men, women, and children. Papa said a silent prayer over Mama before he gently lifted and carried her to the wagon. The collector held his hand out in expectation of payment. Papa gave him the coins he had in his pocket and said, “Only God knows what could drive you to do such wretched work.”
The fever had killed so many that it soon became the only means to life for the rest of us. To survive, you cared for the sick or removed the dead.
That summer was a living nightmare. Anyone who had the means and was able-bodied left Memphis. All my friends were either dead or dying or had gone to safer cities, probably never to come back. Memphis itself seemed to die. The city completely shut down. There were no police, no government. There was no work. Papa had eventually returned to the docks, but as soon as the fever hit, they stopped the boats from coming up. The little food and lamp oil we had dwindled down to nothing. Despite the risk, I took to caring for the sick at St. Mary’s with Sister Constance. It didn’t pay anything, but they fed me what dinner and supper they could, which lightened Papa’s burden a little. The fever had killed so many that it soon became the only means to life for the rest of us. To survive, you cared for the sick or removed the dead.
As the summer dragged on and the fever claimed more lives, our resolve and hope for better days dimmed. I could think only of Mama and Alma and saw their suffering in every face on which I laid a wet cloth or gave a sip of water.
I took sick in late September. The night my fever spiked was the one and only time I ever saw Papa cry. Doctor Parson’s diagnosis of exhaustion and malnutrition brought us the only joy and relief we had known in weeks. Papa dropped to his knees in prayer and vowed to provide for me no matter the cost to him.
When I awoke the next day, Papa was already gone. By dusk I was growing fearful Papa might not come back. We had heard stories of children left to fend for themselves. But as my fears of abandonment were lifted, my heart drowned in regret and pity for Papa, because I knew then the price he would pay to provide for me. I knew he was coming home when I heard his voice, stronger than it had been in years, calling, “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!”
Melinda Keathley is a native Arkansan. “Twenty years ago, I was drawn to the bright lights on the bluff. I graduated from the University of Memphis, married a native Memphian, and proceeded to make two additional native Memphians. I now live in Collierville with my three native Memphians and work for a little transportation company. I’ve written songs, poetry, and stories my entire life, but only recently have summoned the courage to share them with strangers. I love to read, do yoga, and hike, and I constantly take one step forward and two steps back in my quest to be a better person.”
SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories are published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. The Very Short Story Contest recognizes ten winning entries annually, every month except February and August. The contest is presented by Novel, Memphis’ newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate. To submit: fiction@memphismagazine.com
