That was news to me. "It's just part of my job," I said.

"Do you expect the intimidation to continue?"

"Probably so. They are accustomed to getting whatever they want. They are violent, ruthless people, but a free press must endure." Who was I kidding? One more bomb or assault and I'd be back in Memphis before sunrise.

She stopped eating and her eyes turned toward the street, where she looked at nothing in particular. She was deep in thought. I, of course, kept stuffing my face.

Finally, she said, "Those poor little children. Seeing their mother like that."

That image finally caused my fork to stop. I wiped my mouth, took a long breath, and let the food settle for a moment. The horror of the crime was left to everyone's imagination, and for days Clanton had whispered about little else. As always happens, the whispers and rumors got amplified, different versions were spun off and repeated, and enlarged yet again. I was curious as to how the stories were playing in Lowtown.

"You told me on the phone you've been reading the Times for fifty years," I said, almost belching.

"Indeed I have."

"Can you remember a more brutal crime?"

She paused for a second as she reviewed five decades, then slowly shook her head. "No, I cannot."

"Have you ever met a Padgitt?"

"No. They stay on the island, and always have. Even their Negroes stay out there, making whiskey, doing their voodoo, all sorts of foolishness."

"Voodoo?"

"Yes, it's common knowledge on this side of the tracks. Nobody here messes with the Padgitt Negroes, never have."

"Do people on this side of the tracks believe Danny Padgitt raped and killed her?"

"The ones who read your newspaper certainly do."

That stung more than she would ever know. "We just report the facts," I said smugly. "The boy was arrested. He's been charged. He's in jail awaiting trial."

"Isn't there a presumption of innocence?"

Another squirm on my side of the table. "Of course."

"Do you think it was fair to use a photograph of him handcuffed, with blood on his shirt?" I was struck by her sense of fairness. Why would she, or any other black in Ford County, care if Danny Padgitt was treated fairly? Few people had ever worried about black defendants getting decent treatment by the police or the press.

"He had blood on his shirt when he arrived at the jail. We didn't put it there." Neither one of us was enjoying this little debate. I took a sip of tea and found it difficult to swallow. I was stuffed all the way down.

She looked at me with one of those smiles and had the nerve to say, "What about some dessert? I baked a banana pudding."

I could not say no. Nor could I hold another bite. A compromise was called for. "Let's wait a while, give things a chance to settle."

"Then have some more tea," she said, already refilling my glass. Breathing was difficult, so I reclined as much as possible in my chair and decided to act like a journalist. Miss Callie, who'd eaten far less than I, was finishing a serving of okra.

According to Baggy, Sam Ruffin had been the first black student to enroll in the white schools in Clanton. It happened in 1964 when Sam was a seventh grader, age twelve, and the experience had been difficult for everyone. Especially Sam. Baggy warned me that Miss Callie might not talk about her youngest child. There was a warrant for his arrest and he had fled the area.

She was reluctant at first. In 1963, the courts ruled that a white school district could not deny admission to a black student. Forced integration was still years in the future. Sam was her youngest, and when she and Esau made the decision to take him to the white school they hoped they would be joined by other black families. They were not, and for two years Sam was the only black student at Clanton Junior High School. He was tormented and beaten, but he quickly learned to handle his fists and with time was left alone. He begged his parents to take him back to the Negro school, but they held their ground, even after he moved to the senior high. Relief was coming, they kept telling themselves. The desegregation fight was raging across the South and blacks were continually promised that the mandate of Brown versus Board of Education would be carried out.

"It is hard to believe that it is now 1970, and the schools here are still segregated," she said. Federal lawsuits and appellate decisions were pummeling white resistance throughout the South, but, typically, Mississippi was fighting to the bitter end. Most white folks I knew in Clanton were convinced that their schools would never be integrated. I, a Northerner from Memphis, could see the obvious.

"Do you regret sending Sam to the white school?"

"Yes and no. Someone had to be courageous. It was painful knowing he was very unhappy, but we had taken a stand. We were not going to retreat."

"How is he today?"

"Sam is another story, Mr. Traynor, one I might talk about later, or not. Would you like to see my garden?"

It was more of a command than an invitation. I followed her through the house, down a narrow hallway lined with dozens of framed photographs of children and grandchildren. The inside was as meticulous as the outside. The kitchen opened to the back porch and from there the Garden of Eden stretched to the rear fence. Not a single square foot was wasted.

It was a postcard of beautiful colors, neat rows of plants and vines, narrow dirt footpaths so that Callie and Esau could tend to their spectacular bounty.

"What do you do with all this food?" I asked in amazement.

"We eat some, sell a little, give most away. No one goes hungry around here." At that moment my stomach was aching like never before. Hunger was a notion I couldn't comprehend. I followed her into the garden, moving slowly along the footpaths as she pointed out the herb patch and melons and all the other delicious fruits and vegetables she and Esau tended to with great care. She commented on every plant, including an occasional weed, which she snatched almost with anger and flung back into some vines. It was impossible for her to walk through the garden and ignore the details. She looked for insects, killed a nasty green worm on a tomato vine, searched for weeds, made mental notes about future chores for Esau. The leisurely stroll was doing wonders for my digestive system.

So this is where food comes from, I thought to my ignorant self. What did I expect? I was a city kid. I'd never been in a vegetable garden before. I had many questions, all banal, so I held my tongue.

She examined a stalk of corn and was not pleased with whatever she saw. She tore off a snap bean, broke it in two, analyzed it like a scientist, and offered the guarded opinion that they needed much more sun. She saw a patch of weeds and informed me Esau would be sent to pull them as soon as he got home. I did not envy Esau.

After three hours, I left the Ruffin home stuffed yet again with banana pudding. I also left with a sack of "spring greens," which I had no idea what to do with, and precious few notes on which to write a story. I also had an invitation to return the following Thursday for another lunch. Lastly, I had Miss Callie's handwritten list of all the errors she'd found in that week's edition of the Times. Almost all were typographical errors and misspelled words—twelve in all. Under Spot, the average had been about twenty. Now it was down to around ten. It was a lifelong habit of hers. "Some folks like crossword puzzles," she said. "I like to look for mistakes."

It was hard not to take this personally. She certainly didn't intend to criticize anyone. I vowed to proofread the copy with much more enthusiasm.

I also left with the feeling that I had entered a new and rewarding friendship.