A Conflict of Causes
by Gary Clfton
Eddie Fred Turner spat, “George, you know them darkies ain’t allowed in here.” George stood on Turner’s Drugstore stoop in Skidsburg, Mississippi, the only place around with penny candy.
James and Early Dee stood at curb’s edge; years of calloused bare feet immune to the sweltering August bricks. Faded britches, nearly white from clothesline sun-bleaching, gapped six inches above their ankles.
“Made a nickel apiece rakin’ Miz Evan’s leaves, Misa’ Turner. Jes’ wanted to buy some candy.”
In 1952, a ten-year-old youngster had dangerously good reason to be afraid of a big man in the Mississippi Klan like Eddie Fred Turner. He was a ruthless man heavily committed to “The Cause” of white superiority. He was also a suspect in last year’s lynching of Old Man Washington and burning the Jackson family’s house. Any kid, “darkie” or not, knew not to cross him.
Fiftyish, roundish, with yellow teeth, and a smattering of gray hair, he gave no quarter. A second of weakness born of any semblance of charity to “these” people and they’d take a mile. “Git yer white trash ass in here and find whut you got money to pay fer. Then git gone, boy.”
While George picked out a meager selection, James and Early Dee, compelled by hard social reality, obligingly stepped out in the street. Eddie Fred took the fifteen cents easily enough.
“George, the Lord ain’t meanin’ for them races to mix. Keep runnin’ with them coloreds out there,” he gestured, “and you and yer mama might get kicked outta y’all’s shack down on them CB&Q tracks. Or it could burn to the ground.” His yellowish eyes radiated hatred.
“And boy, speakin’ a’ yo’ mama, ask why she ain’t come by lately. She a right likely lookin’ young thing. Be a-tellin’ her I could fix her up with another pretty from the store, she stop in. Or tell her I could drop by y’all’s shack again.”
George’s mama was only 26 and a looker. George knew she’d visited Eddie Fred but wouldn’t let himself think further. He stared at Eddie Fred a second too long.
George stumbled but caught himself as the Klan King kicked him toward the door. “And don’t be sittin’ out there on my curb.” He stepped out and was still cussing as the boys scurried out of sight.
That night, Turner’s Drugstore burned smooth to the ground. The “cause” was definitely arson by gasoline. Most folks didn’t like Eddie, and word soon flashed through the town that ol’ Turner was up to insurance fraud. Hysteria can often swallow truth.
Sheriff Willard Hansdale, a Klansman to the core, opined that a matter of the law was entitled to some never no mind. The law here was crossways with Klan causes. “A shame,” he thought.
Sheriff Hansdale found “cause” for arrest and slapped Eddie Fred Turner in jail. They had to release Eddie Fred for lack of evidence, but town folk disagreed. “It would have been Eddie Fred’s ass,” the sheriff said, “if only I could find that gas can.”
The insurance company wouldn’t pay, blaming Eddie Fred for an arson fire. Everyone in Riggins County was convinced badass Eddie Fred was guilty. Alas, he had not a dime. No lawyer would take his case against the insurance carrier, mostly for the lack of money. Lawyers didn’t give a country damn if Eddie Fred was guilty or not, but in a conflict of causes, barristers had to maintain proper illusions.
Eddie Fred was a free man, so to speak. He slept under the rear stoop of Big Fred’s saloon and begged for coins on the courthouse square. He soon went to living hell in a wronged man’s buggy. He commenced sitting daily on the curb in front of a pile of burn debris whining of life’s injustice until the bank repossessed the property. Seems the banker, a vocal Klan brother, wasn’t quite so imbued with Klan “causes” when dollars were in play.
Eddie Fred eased down to Frog City in Prosperous County and robbed Sol’s Liquor or tried to. Sol, a fat badass in his own right sat behind bullet-resistant glass. He’d been robbed before. He gave Eddie Fred both barrels in the guts with a .12-gauge.
Newspapers ran front-page photos of Eddie Fred sprawled on the floor, intestines askew, deader than good manners. Not a word was included about his Klan connection. Newsies called him a former druggist from up in Skidsburg.
Prosperous County buried him in an unmarked grave with only the coroner and a Baptist preacher from way over in Tuscaloosa attending. Nobody asked why the Klan didn’t show. Not enough “cause,” one might suppose.
An old drunk, Willard somebody, slept in a box down by the CB&Q tracks, not a hundred yards from George and his mama’s shack. Folks said he had drunkenly slurred that he’d seen somebody who strongly resembled George, James, and Early Dee toss an empty gas can into a passing boxcar the night the drugstore burned.
Nobody paid never no mind. Everyone who knew squat knew three kids from Skidsburg, Mississippi, didn’t have enough sense to burn down no drugstore anyway.
Willard had guzzled so much shine he died shortly after of dry rot, then got mostly eaten by gnawing rats.
George’s mama found a job caring for a rich old lady and held on to their shanty. Not enough “cause” for eviction, might have been a factor.
Twenty years later, George was the mayor of Skidsburg, Early Dee was the high sheriff, and James was doing life without parole up at Parchman for stab-murdering a garter salesman from Little Rock over a fat woman in the Red Eye Saloon in Jackson. Most folks had forgotten Eddie Fred and the burned-down drugstore. If anyone did recall, they never spoke of it.
Copyright © 2025 by Gary Clfton
