Haute Couture

How well can we stand out, unexpectedly. How important is it to do so? How welcoming? How distressing?

The air was still that quiet Sunday July morning. It seemed to be everything anyone could imagine for a nice church gathering, but what occurred would be the last thing anyone of that old racially segregated south ever expected. 

Reverend Milton had entered the church from the back and upon making his way through the empty building to reach the front, as soon as he stepped out onto the wooden front porch, he was shocked at what he saw, and with his congregation no doubt on their way there within minutes. 

"Wake up!" he yelled at the still slumbering figures on the chairs out front of the establishment. 

"Hey! Joseph! Get up! Now," he all but growled at the others. 

The figures slowly woke and stretched out their arms after their slumber and were gradually amazed at what they found about them. 

The eldest, Joseph Brown, stood up and ran his hands down the front of the fanciest suit he had ever beheld. On his hands were clean white gloves, the shoes polished to glowing perfection and being the first time he ever saw them on his feet. 

"Reverend Milton, what's going on?" Joseph asked as the other four persons likewise appeared astonished. 

"What are you doing napping outside of this church?" Reverend Milton said angrily more than asked.

The other trespassers, two male and two female, were similarly adorned for their person. The women were in fine, silken gowns with long gloves nearly reaching their shoulders. Brilliantly shining high heels were on their feet. The men were in bright suits as well, one of them in a white tuxedo. Upon their heads were silken top hats. Canes were on the arms of the men, while the women had matching shawls wrapped around them. 

"What's going on?" one of the young men asked. 

"Don't you know, Ned?" Reverend Milton all but snarled. 

"No, sir, Reverend Milton," one of the women answered. "Last I saw before I fell asleep, I was at home in my own bed." 

"So was I, Tina," the other woman said. 

"You people can't be seen here, Joseph," Reverend Milton stated. He looked over his shoulders to the sound of an approaching automobile. 

"Hurry," he ordered, "get into the church. Hide in my office until the congregation have all assembled, then you can sneak out during prayer. Where on earth did you get those clothes?" 

"We don't know, Reverend Milton," Tina answered, "last I saw, again, I was in my best cotton drawers." 

Reverend Milton hurried the figures into the church and toward his office at the back. 

"Once you hear service start, make your way out the back door," he told them. "Where did you get those clothes?" he asked again.

The congregants gathered, Reverend Milton hurried to start service so the five figures could escape, but such was not to be. 

Suddenly his office door burst open during the start of the sermon and the five people were rushed into the astonished church gathering, followed by a grizzled old white man. 

"Well, looky, here," the old man wheezed, "look what I found sneaking out back the church where I'd gone to get a quick morning chaw." 

Many of the white people stood at the sight of the five black people in their church but were more amazed at how they were adorned.

"Reverend Milton, what are these coloreds doing in your office like this?" one patron asked. 

"Where'd they get those nice clothes?" a woman inquired. She stepped away from the pew and walked up to one of the young girls. 

"Essie, where'd you get that dress?"

"I dunno, Miz Watkins," Essie replied. "We woke up dressed like this."

"They must have stolen them," the old grizzled fella said with a weak-chinned smirk. 

"Quiet, Donny," Reverend Milton ordered. 

"They was in your office," Donny continued. 

"That is enough, Donny Tripp," Reverend Milton snapped. 

Reverend Milton turned to look at the congregants in the church. 

"Folks, This'll have to be sorted out later. I found these five outside the front of the church, lounging blissfully in the seats. They say they don't know how they got there, but it's Sunday morning and we don't need any trouble."

Reverend Milton motioned to a young man at the back. 

"Freddy," he said, "go get Miss Elma and tell her to bring some of her best blankets and whatever dresses she can spare. We got to first get these folk out of these clothes and we're going to get them home, then find out what happened." 

"Why I gotta go get Miss Elma?" Freddy asked. 

"Boy, do as you're told," an old woman instructed him. 

Freddy made his way begrudgingly out of the church and they heard the truck crank up and drive away. 

The old woman approached the five figures as well. 

"My, my," she said, "these are some beautiful clothes. Y'all steal 'em?" 

"And you say you don't know how you came to be in them, Essie?"

"No, ma'm, Miz Watkins," Ned replied. "We just woke up outside to Reverend Milton scolding us for being there outside his church." 

The second woman felt the fabric of the blue dress. 

"That is some beautiful material, isn't it, Grace?" 

"It certainly is." 

"I just want it off my body before it gets me in trouble," Tina said. 

"Shouldn't be in such nice clothes for colored folk," Donny Tripp said to Joseph. Joseph just looked at him somewhat surprised and intimidated. 

"Joseph, get everyone back in my office," Reverend Milton instructed. "When Miss Elma gets here, we'll send her round to you to get this all sorted out and get you all on your way. Tripp, sit down, now!"

Donny Tripp did as instructed, but he still eyed everything with suspicion. 

Joseph and the four youths walked back into the reverend's office. After a while, the truck was heard to pull up again. 

A church patron stood and walked out front. He saw Freddy driving the truck while two elderly black women sat in the back holding blankets. He approached the truck. 

"Why'd you make Miss Elma sit in the back of the truck, boy?"

"I don't want to be seen driving around with no old colored woman, Uncle Hollis." 

"Boy, you ain't got a lick of sense. Get out of the truck and get inside." 

Freddy did as instructed and Hollis made his way behind the steering wheel to drive around the church. As he entered the truck, Hollis said to the two black women, "Miss Elma, I'm going to drive the two of you on around back of the church."

The women nodded in agreement. No point in having Elma or the other woman out of the back of the truck into the front now with such a short distance to cover. 

Once around back, Hollis helped them out of the truck and they entered the back door to the building. After a while, first out came Joseph in some loaned overalls and a shirt, then the two young men, followed by Tina and Essie in sun dresses with blankets over their shoulders. 

"These are real nice clothes," Miss Elma said, holding a pair of silk pants and a matching jacket. "What should we do with them?"

"Just leave them there on Reverend Milton's desk. He'll find out whose they are. Let's get you all in the truck and get you home where you belong." 

The two women sat in the front with Hollis, while the rest climbed in the back. He drove away with them in the truck, taking them home. The church service concluded with all the typical uneasiness. 

"Where'd they get them clothes, Reverend Milton?" Miz Watkins asked. 

"I don't rightly know, ma'm," Reverend Milton answered, "but I guess that will be for the sheriff to sort out."

"My goodness," Grace, proclaimed looking at one of the men's shirts, "what beautiful feeling fabric." 

"And they gonna take it upon themselves to sleep outside the church," Tripp leered. 

"Get home, Tripp," Reverend Milton told him, "and mind yourself about all of this. Don't cause any trouble." 

Sure enough, law enforcement did approach Joe and the four young people about what all happened. Even if they admitted to stealing the clothes, which no one reported any of the attire missing anywhere and abouts, to simply be caught sleeping outside a white church made no sense. 

Best as anyone could make, the clothes were from Europe; France, to be precise, but how on Earth did they get to Lee County, Mississippi? Nobody had an answer. 

"Well, maybe we need to get an answer out of them," Tripp said to some of his friends. They went to Ned's place and stood outside his porch that night. 

"Where'd you steal those fancy clothes, Ned Jones?" Tripp yelled at the door. 

"Didn't steal nothing," the claim came back out the window. 

"Better come out here and answer us," Tripp ordered. 

The door slowly opened and the fretful Ned nervously stepped forward. 

"I didn't steal nothing, Mr. Donald," Ned said, afraid. "Don't want no trouble." 

"Then you better tell us why you stole those clothes," Tripp said back. "Were you trying to make us look stupid?"       

"No, sir." 

"Wanting to make Reverend Milton look bad?" 

"No, sir." 

"And after all he does for you." 

"Yessir, no sir." 

It didn't take much. A rock was thrown, striking Ned on the cheek, just missing his eye, but scarring his face below the eye socket, then probably Tripp himself reached up and grabbed Ned and pulled him off the porch to the ground. A scream came from inside the small house. 

Ned protested a bit, but there was at least four or five white men stomping and kicking at him. They didn't stay there long. Officially, nothing was stolen and none of the black people financially profitted from the situation.

After an assortment of hits, there was actually laughter from the white men and they slowly turned and left. Ned stayed down until it was quiet and he knew they were gone, then he sat up and stood, slowly making his way to the door where his wife could tend to his injuries. The hit to the lower eye socket hurt the most. It would leave it's lasting impression. Other than that, the wounds seemed slight, more like a warning than anything else. 

Three nights later, the warning went unheeded. Outside the post office and market, a total of eight black people awoke, four outside each building, dressed like the talk of the town. 

"Shame it's Thursday morning," one fellow said, seeing his reflection in the store window. "I should look like this on Saturday night."

Three women were dressed in immaculate gowns, bright and clean, matching hats and veils, stunning colors of blue and pink. The men were in the finest dress pants, button vests, silk jackets. 

The commotion began as expected, but much the same as with the church, any potential outrage was diminished by where the clothes came from and how absolutely exquisite they were. 

The sheriff got here faster this time, being located in town. He instructed the four people to get into the post office. Word had definitely traveled fast.

"Mr. Miles, go get those folk outside the market and bring them here, too," the sheriff said to one local man who did as instructed and drove away. 

"Now, Russ, do you want to try to tell us what happened?" the sheriff asked. "I mean, look at the lot of you." 

"I don't know, Sheriff Kinkade," the young black man in the near sparkling attire answered. "I was asleep at home."

"Yea, that's what was said before at the Baptist church."

The truck pulled up and the four people got out and came inside. 

"Barney, go get somebody to get these folk some clothes to change into before they get hurt walking around like this," Kinkade said to an old black man. 

"Yessir, Mr. Kinkade," and Barney raced off as fast he could. 

"Aren't you Donna Mae West?" Kinkade said to one of the women in the fancy garb. 

"Yessir," she answered. 

"Well, what on earth are you doing this far from home?"

"I dunno, sir," she said, actually beginning to cry. "I was asleep in my aunt's home, .. . "

"Yea, yea, I know," the sheriff interrupted her. "That's what they all say."

Barney drove up in his pickup with a female occupant to oversee the disrobing. 

"Allright, Miss Ginny, start getting them changed. The women first," the sheriff instructed.  

This time, however, since the predicament was closer to town, the newspaper heard of it and sent over a photographer. 

"Sheriff Kinkade, can we get some pictures of those outfits?" 

"I don't see why not," the sheriff answered, adding, "we'll use it as evidence." 

One at a time, the individuals stepped forward and the camera flashed with each pose. 

"Okay, hold it," the cameraman instructed. A couple of them, he took a second picture. 

All the while, the person having his or her photograph taken smiled broadly, a big smile with bright eyes gazing about from the stunning wardrobe. Even Donna Mae smiled. 

"Let us see them," an elderly woman called from the door. Others outside agreed and chimed in, so after each photo shoot, the figures stepped out of the post office and turned around slowly on the porch, the costumery simply dazzling in the morning Mississippi sun. 

"Oh, my," the elderly woman proclaimed, "that suit would look splendid on my grandson come his graduation." 

Russ stepped out next in his elegance. 

"Oh, where would George wear such an outfit? But it would be perfect for him," another woman spoke up about her kin. 

"They could wear it to church," a man exclaimed from the back.  

Once some kinfolk of the eight people learned their family member had turned up in this predicament, they too made their way to the post office, carrying a change of clothes as well.  

After a few more pictures were taken, the model strolled to the back of the post office for the changing area and slipped out of the expensive clothes. The items were then brought forth where, as before, the white women marveled over how captivating the garments were. The models hurriedly made their way out a back door.  

"Look at this shirt," one woman proclaimed. "How fabulous it would look on Elmer." 

"How did they get the clothes here?" a young woman asked. 

"They said they don't know. The church bunch said."

"These will probably say the same thing." 

"But look at that dress. How beautiful."

Family members got their relations away as quickly as possible. 

"Daddy, I don't know what I was doing there. I just woke up there. No, I didn't have anything to drink last night."

The pictures made the paper. They looked like Parisian fashion models, all standing erect in clothes it appeared they had always worn. 

"What did you do to Ned Jones?" the sheriff asked Donny Tripp. 

"Just wanted him to say where he got those clothes," Tripp answered gruffly. "They're making us look poorly dressing like that." 

"Donny Tripp, you already poorly. Now, you let me figure out what is going on, you hear me, Tripp? I don't need you interferring in whatever is going on. I heard you beat up Ned Jones and now this happens nearly fifty-five miles away, where Ned, all beat up by you, couldn't have had a thing to do with it." 

"He might know something." 

"Well, you stay out of it," Kinkade told Tripp. "Anything happen to Ned or any of these other folk and I'm holding you responsible." 

Tripp didn't like that. 

Everyone marveled at the pictures, both black and white. The newspapers all but sold out as all the models and their families wanted copies of them to frame and keep. What was threatened to be evidence instead became proof of status. 

Then one of the pictures of Russ was found on a tree beside the road heading out of town with a rusty blade like an old knife stuck in it. Russ learned of this and went and retrieved the picture with the intention of taping it back together to keep. 

A rock was thrown through the window of the aunt and uncle of Donna Mae West, who lived further out of town than Donna Mae did. 

Two nights later, a dozen black folk were found propped up and placed on patios and outside the front of some of the areas most notable citizens; a judge, the editor of another newspaper publication and a banker. 

When the banker's maid stepped outside to pick some fresh roses for the family's morning breakfast table, she was astounded to find two black couples sitting on the front porch as if they were waiting to meet with him. She quickly informed the banker of what happened. 

"Bring them in, Nettie," he told her quietly, "at once before someone sees them." 

"Do I take them around back?" she asked. 

"Hurry them through, but get them to the kitchen." 

Nettie did as instructed. 

"Mr. Tolliver, we don't know how we got here, sir," one of the young men pleaded to the banker when Tolliver entered with an assortment of old pants. He was followed by his wife and Nettie, also carrying some dresses. 

"Yes, I know, Andy," Mr. Tolliver said. "Here's some clothes you can change into. I thought you said there were two black boys, Nettie." 

"The other one left, sir," Andy replied. "He decided he wanted no part of this." 

"I see, well, here," Tolliver instructed, "change out of those clothes as quickly as you can and see if you can be on your way." 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver." 

"Oh, one moment," Mrs. Tolliver said, producing a camera, "do let me get pictures of you in those simply stunning outfits." 

The young people could only oblige. After a couple of flashes, Mr. Tolliver didn't like the way his wife had taken the pictures, so he took over. 

The back door of the kitchen leading out to the garden opened and an elderly black man entered, carrying some wonderfully exquisite clothes. 

"I found these, Mr. Tolliver," he said, "they was all tossed along the hedge going toward the road." 

"Well, I guess he at least left his clothes behind."

Tolliver looked at the other young black people. 

"Did you recognize who he was? The fourth person." 

They replied they did not know him. 

Over at the mayor's homestead, his wife had an entirely different reaction. She was so amused by the ornately dressed black couples on her back patio, she had them served breakfast immediately and, like Mrs. Tolliver, she too retrieved her camera. 

Of course, with the third residence being the newspaper editor, the photographers were sent for immediately, as well as they were sent to the mayor's residence and the banker's home, once word got around. 

Again, the reactions were all the same. Such stunning finery and eye-catching pictures that ran in the newspapers. Mostly everyone wondered more why the clothes were turning up here in Lee County and the surrounding areas. 

The mayor tried to point out from what he could understand, when someone reacts in an angry manner toward black folk in the elegant garb, it seems to cause more black people to appear dressed in a like manner in a day or so. 

There was still those like Donny Tripp, angry at the presentation, but Miz Watkins said if they wanted to continue looking at these dazzling clothes in the newspaper, there needed to be some black residents intimidated to cease and desist, since some form of reverse psychology seemed to be afoot.

No sooner had Miz Watkins words appeared in print, the next morning, nearly forty black children were missing from their homes. The hysterical parents cried in the streets to each other, until someone told them the children were emerging from the white school. 

The children were dressed in the nicest garments; dresses with ribbons, lace socks, enchanting bonnets. The boys in miniature suits, brilliantly buttoned up, bright neck ties. They woke in a classroom, seated at desks as if the teacher had bored them with her lesson, and as if to provide them with some authority, the black schoolteacher also found herself at the school, wearing a lovely flowery dress and matching hat.     

The parents hurried to the school, some with the needed change of clothes, but the photographers from the newspapers were already there, taking the much desired pictures. 

The parents observed somewhat afraid as a white crowd of on-lookers had also gathered. Some to admire, but others seeming to want to resent. 

The children were all but having to take it in turns getting their picture made. 

Ethel Cane stepped up in the bright lavender dress for her moment. Her mother observed fretfully as a group of white men stood on the opposite side of the fence, watching ever so menacingly. A photographer asked Ethel to remove her glasses. She did so and smiled revealing her missing front tooth and likewise other crooked teeth. 

Her smile diminished when she heard the photographer say, "what a shame it has to be a colored girl wearing such a beautiful dress." 

Her expression was visible in the newspaper when the picture was printed. 

"You don't have any idea why these things are happening?" Donny Tripp questioned the sheriff. 

"I already told you, Tripp. There are no reports of thievery." 

"Where are those clothes coming from?" 

"They seem to be made in Europe, but nobody knows how they are coming here or why, but you aren't helping anything, Tripp. Now you need to leave this all up to me. Do you understand?" 

"That all you got to say?" 

Kinkade sighed and approached Tripp. 

"Everytime somebody reacts toward colored folk in these brilliant clothes, the response is more black people in more fine garments, further away from the previous incident or the attack on black folk, as if to confirm the appearances had nothing to do with the black people being hurt. When you beat up Ned Jones, it just resulted in the black folk outside the mayor's home and the banker's estate, on the other side of town. If you want them to stop, then you stop looking for someone to beat up." 

Fashion houses in Paris were contacted, about the labels, to see if anything matched their inventory. While many of the designers could identify the garments, they had none missing. Unfortunately, this started the rumor of a ship sinking and crates of French clothes washing overboard. Stories could run a long way when people needed an explanation. Some white people took contentment in black people wearing clothes that must have been washed up in a packing crate off the coast, but others still enjoyed the fashion images, whether the models were socially appropriate in their eyes or not. 

The clothes themselves were determined to be missing from nowhere. Fashion executives traveled to Lee County to examine the items. A few were claimed, but most of them were deemed unsuitable after having been worn. Many of the white locals in turn wrestled with how much they wanted the beautiful attire even after a black person had worn it. 

Mr. Tolliver sat back and lit up a cigar. 

"You have no idea who is behind all this, Mayor Hawkins?" 

"There are rumors," Mayor Hawkins answered, "but that's about it. A ship did sink with crates of French fashions coming to America, but why bring them down here to Mississippi?"

"Makes no sense." 

"And why dress our coloreds in them, placing them outside white homes and businesses?" 

"We can't place guards to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity?" 

"Around what?" Mayor Hawkins asked. "Every home, every school, every market, every church? All guarded twenty-four hours a day? As soon as we watch this area, black folk would turn up on the other side of town, just across into the next county by the supermarket. No matter where we wait, they don't go there." 

"When Nettie said they were outside the house, seemed better to just get them inside and move them on out. They ever find out who the other fellow was outside my house?" Tolliver asked. 

"I think Kinkade did learn his identity," Mayor Hawkins said. 

"Proved nothing?"

Hawkins shook his head. 

"Not a thing," he replied. "Another colored person who didn't seem to know anything and couldn't tell anything, obviously as he was so scared, he'd prefer running through a white neighborhood in barely his drawers." 

Nearly a week had gone by and all it took for another fashion show was somebody recognizing Ethel Cane from her picture in the paper. A name followed by laughter. 

All it took. 

The following weekend, six young ladies in very proper attire and beautifully laden hats with flowers and ribbon upon them where discovered outside the local library in the front seating area. They wore beautiful lace nylons, stunning shoes that appeared brand new, lovely white gloves on their hands. Sheriff Kinkade barely hurried, if for nothing else, to hopefully prevent any harm to anyone. The photographers from the newspapers showed up as well. 

Myron Johnson awoke to find his wife, Mary, missing and deduced she'd show up in a fashion display and sure enough, she did. He asked his parents to watch the kids and grabbed up Mary's best dress and hurried into town to retrieve her. Turned out two other girls from the Johnson's neighborhood likewise were missing and presumed to be outside the library, which they were. 

This time, however, there would emerge a problem. 

Benita Holmes. 

No matter how much the other five girls tried to calm Benita down, she was upset to be handled in this manner. 

Taken from her home and put somewhere else in clothes not of her choosing. 

"Benita, we don't know who is doing it, but don't we look nice?" Mary asked her. 

Benita would have known of it. She pulled the hat off her head which had been pinned on, one of the girls had to help her before she yanked her scalp clean, and she was taking off all she could and not be arrested. She was distraught. She pulled the gloves off her hands and tossed them away, then started on the shoes, pulling off the stockings as well. She was flustered and fuming. Photographers and other people turning up didn't help the matter any. She untied the ribbon in the back of her dress, crying as she did so. 

"Ain't no clothes gonna tell me I'm pretty," she said frustrated. "I'm gonna go home to my momma where I belong." 

"Benita, calm down," Katie Lawrence told her as she approached, trying to settle her. The surprise fashion shows people had been enjoying had hit a snag. 

"I wanna go home to my momma, Miz Katie," Benita said, sniffing.

"Allright, Benita, I'll take you home," the elderly white woman said. 

Benita had been a big girl all her childhood and ridiculed by all boys for being so heavy. 

"Please, no pictures," Katie instructed as she led the girl to her car. As Katie pulled away, Myron just showed up with Mary's best dress. 

"They gonna take your picture?" he asked Mary. 

"They already have." 

"Was that Big Benita?" 

"Yes." 

"Why they want to dress her up?"

"She didn't want to be." 

"She actually looked half decent in that dress," Myron said. "All she needed was a good hat to go with it." 

What had been a distraction from life's social issues for the briefest of moments chose poorly. White people actually felt sorry for Benita and people of both races were dismayed to see the morning fashion show surprises essentially diminish.

At best, all that followed was a black person, on their deathbed, no matter where they were placed, were found the next morning in a truly nice outfit for burying. The choices were random, so nobody could watch to see who came in and dressed the dearly departed. No one knew who would be the recipient of such a presentation. In no particular order, approximately seven individual black people, ready for a funeral, were presented in a spectacular set of clothes, then after about the seventh person, the fashion dressings came to an end. There were no more. No one knew why they started, no one knew why they were in the deepest region of the southern states where they occurred. 

All of a sudden, they just stopped. 

Decades past by. Many of the subjects of the clothes modeling had passed on, such as Benita, Donna Mae West, even ol' crazy Russ. 

Every one of them claimed they knew nothing about what happened. They didn't know what disrupted their sleep the night before. With the years adding up, they remembered less and less. 

They just knew they did enjoy that one moment of feeling so snazzy and standing in the white man's domain. With that realization, many would think of Benita, if they knew her or not, they heard about her. 

The first five models outside Reverend Milton's church had nearly all left this mortal world as well. Joseph Brown, Essie, Tina. 

Finally, all that was left was old Ned Jones, the young man Donny Tripp had beat up. Ned sat in the wheelchair, staring out over the porch balcony at the hospital. His granddaughter and great-grandson were with him. Beneath his eye was the visibility of the scar from that thrown rock, nearly lost in the wrinkled skin. 

"Lot has changed since then," he said quietly. 

"Yes it has, paw-paw," she replied. 

"Remember hearing about us, . . . some of us, . . . turning up in those French clothes, Vera?"

"Uh huh," Vera said. "I remember you and momma talking about it."

Ned sat quietly, then said, "I might have told somebody before, but after that old Donny Tripp attacked me at the house, I knew I was never saying anything."

Vera looked at her grandfather quietly. 

"About what?" she finally asked. 

"Never saying anything to anybody after that," Ned said quietly. 

"You didn't get a picture in the clothes, did you?" Vera asked. 

"No, I didn't," Ned said. "We was the first people in the French clothes here, but no photographer took our pictures."

Ned reached up into his robe and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Vera. She opened the manila envelope and there was an old photograph of a young Ned Jones in a fantastic suit and top hat from long ago. 

His smooth clear bright cheekbones were void of any scar. 

"How did you get a picture, paw-paw?" 

Ned closed his eyes and clasped his hands.

"They wanted to cheer Benita up when they chose her, . . . used her," Ned spoke softly. 

"Just wanted her to be happy for once. She never was."

The old man opened his eyes and looked in the distance. 

"It was nice standing in that forbidden domain." 

    

 

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[Elsa 123]

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