Graven Image

2008 Short Story Competition. Prompt: A candidate for public office bears a striking resemblance to a wanted fugitive.


Featured in The Drama Newsletter September 08.

Graven Image

I arrived in Forgiveness, Oklahoma on Saturday June 11, 1977; the day James Earl Ray made the FBI's most wanted list. The man's face that killed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. monopolized every TV screen in America. He and six other convicts had just escaped from Bushy Mountain Penitentiary in Petros, Tennessee. Two weeks earlier, Jude Mobley announced his candidacy for mayor of Forgiveness. Not to be overly dramatic, but I must be transparent on this point: the first time I saw Jude Mobley it shocked my system. He was the spitting image of James Earl Ray--slanted face, large ears, pointed nose, and thin lips. Uncanny! Mobley could have been Ray's identical twin.

I was passing through on my way to California, but my gut told me to book the room for three days. I have a nose for sniffing out a good story. For starters, the town was seventy percent black. Next, Jude Mobley was a white Methodist minister that felt called to public service, and, by all accounts, was as honest as a bathroom scale. He was extremely intelligent and one of the town's most respected citizens. Something told me this might be an opportunity to witness a unique exercise in human relations. As a freelance writer, I was always looking for that breakout story.

_____

"Now look here, " the barber said, "you all know Jude Mobley. He's lived here his whole life. There's not a prejudiced bone in his body."

Clayton Brown fiddled with a magazine. "That may be true, but it just seems . . . well, it seems unseemly. You wanna put that face in charge of the town's affairs?"

The barber shook his head, finishing up an elderly man with a dab of tonic. "Clayton, before this character's picture was plastered all over the boob tube, you wouldn't have known James Earl Ray from Adam. That'll be four dollars Mr. Washington." The elderly gentleman paid the barber and took a seat, apparently interested with the goings on. "And another thing," the barber continued, "didn't Jude Mobley check on your wife the whole time she was sick last spring?"

"Yes he did, " Clayton Brown said reluctantly. "But I didn't ask him to. Our pastor had everything under control. Listen, I ain't saying there's anything wrong with Jude, something just don't set right about it, that's all. That's all I'm saying."

It was my turn in barber's chair and I took the opportunity to engage the situation. Everyone in the room was black, except me.

"How many people are in the running, besides this Jude Mobley? I asked, removing my wire-rim glasses.

"Well, the incumbent, Terrance Green, has been forced out of office," said the barber. He pulled a comb through my hair and evaluated the curls he had to deal with. "Since he got elected, things have been going steadily downhill. After he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, it was all over. We're having a special election to hold us over until November. How ya want this cut?"

"Just a trim will do. Well, do you have any candidates?"

Clayton Brown jumped in. "For my money, Pete Hoffman would make a good mayor."

"The undertaker? Lands sake alive," said the barber, laughing. "He's the last man I want to see. Listen, the undertaker has only lived here three years. We need someone that was born and raised in this community. We're going down hill fast."

A younger man, who was impatiently waiting, spoke up. "He may be new to town, but at least he's one of us. No offense to our curly-haired visitor, but you all haven't elected a black president yet."

"No offense taken," I said. "I do believe that day will come, though. Is that your choice, then, the new undertaker or a white minister?"

"Someone said that new insurance agent was talking about running," Clayton Brown said.

"He's only lived here two years," the barber said, accentuating with a heavy breath.

"They say he has a college degree from back east," the younger man returned. "And he's the right color."

The old man stood up and donned his fedora. "According to you, the mayor we have now is the right color. Do ya think his color made him a crook?"

"That's not what I'm saying," the younger man said defiantly. "Do you think the whites don't want to keep their own in power? Don't you think we should do the same?"

"What's your name, son?"

"John Smith," the younger man said. "I see you got a slave-owner name yourself, Mr. Washington."

The elderly man's face turned grave. "What's done is done. The name and skin color aren't important. Martin Luther King worked for a day when people would be judged by the content of their character, not by the color of their skin. It's a mean old world, son. I'll give ya that. But you got a lot to learn."

The remarks hushed the younger man, and Mr. Washington made his exit. This provided me with a glimpse of things to come. My problem was logistics. The special election wasn't for two weeks; I was due in Oakland in five days. I figured a trip to the local tavern would broaden my perspective, at least give me a preview of the coming attractions.


The patrons of the Sundowner Saloon mirrored that of the town--seventy percent black, thirty percent white--and resembled the majority of small bars west of the Mississippi River. Tidy but lived in, with western wall hangings. I sat down at the end of the bar and ordered a Coors. The barkeep was a fine figure of a man--well over six feet with broad shoulders. Moreover, much to my delight, he possessed an agreeable countenance and the gift of gab.

"Haven't seen you before, just passing through?"

"You got me," I said. "Not much of a crowd for Saturday night."

"It's early. Later on, this place will turn into a rodeo. Where ya headed?"

"Oakland, California. I'm going to a writer's conference, and hopefully a job interview."

The barkeep set a beer in front of me. "Ya ever heard of airplanes?"

"I like to drive. Road trips give me an opportunity to talk to people that I wouldn't ordinarily. What do you think about Jude Mobley running for mayor?"

The barkeep raised his eyebrow. "It's a free country, and he's a nice fellow, but he won't get elected. This is a black town; I'm third generation. My ancestors were forced here during the Trail of Tears, as slaves of Indians. During the great land grabs of the late eighteen hundreds, blacks came here in droves to cowboy and farm. By statehood, in 1907, we outnumbered both the Indians and the first and second generations Europeans. Whites just started moving to Forgiveness in the last fifty years."

"It's not because he looks like James Earl Ray, then. It's because he's white."

"That's a fact," the barkeep said flatly. "It sure doesn't help for him to look like the man who killed Dr. King. There are some crazies making a big deal about Jude's appearance. Poor Jude is unlucky. It wouldn't surprise me if he eventually leaves town."

"So, you're telling me that you wouldn't vote for a white man. "

The barkeep straightened his shoulders. "I'll tell you why my uncle named this The Sundowner Saloon. There used to be places in America where it wasn't safe for black people to be out after sundown. Can you imagine living like that? They were called sundown towns. How old are you?"

"I'm forty five."

"We're about the same age. Do you consider your parents prejudice?"

"No," I said quickly. "I don't."

"Would your parents have approved of you marrying a black girl?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "But I did anyway." (I showed him a picture of my wife.)

"Well I swear," the barkeep said. "Look, I'm not prejudice. This was just how I was raised, like how your parents were raised. Your money is no good tonight."

"Thanks. I know what you're trying to say, my friend. Let me ask ya something. Where could I meet this Jude Mobley?"

"Old Jude will be preaching tomorrow, on Seventh Street. It's a big red brick, with a steeple. Ya can't miss it. Hey, before ya leave, give me your address and I'll let ya know how it all turns out."

The barkeep's name was Thomas Jefferson.

The next morning I put on my best duds and hoped the roof wouldn't fall in. It didn't cave, but there were more black people in the congregation than I expected. I learned later that everyone who wasn't Catholic or Baptist ended up at The Canaan Land Methodist Church. I settled in a back pew (right beside the old man from the barber shop) just as the Reverend Jude Mobley began to pray.

"Dear Lord, forgive us of our weaknesses. Forgive us for that time our neighbor needed help, and we looked the other way. Forgive us of the times we didn't have the courage to stand up for what is right. Help us Lord to finish the task set before us. Help us to understand that you have made us in your image, to serve you. Amen."

I couldn't take my eyes off the minister. His body type, everything, was identical to James Earl Ray. The choir sang, announcements, and more prayers. I watched Jude Mobley silently reading until it was time for him to reclaim the pulpit. I had no idea what I was looking for. He stood and spoke with a clear voice.

"Remember when the Pharisees laid a trap for Jesus, by asking him if they should pay taxes to Rome. Jesus told them, 'Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's.' I have heard the voices urging me not to run for mayor. They say it would be too painful a reminder. If I cared for the community, I wouldn't do it. I can assure you that I feel called to help our little town, and this will be the last you hear of it in God's House. Let God's Will be done."

He preached that morning about Moses going up into the mountain to receive God's commandments, and how the people grew restless and made a golden calf to worship. On his return, Moses smashed the tablets in anger and went back up the mountain to intercede for the people. God writes the commandments on two more tablets. Moses descends from the mountain, and his face is transformed, so that from that time onward, he has to hide his face with a veil. And the children of Israel did everything that God commanded Moses

____

After electing the undertaker, the village of Forgiveness was on the verge of collapse. The school laid off teachers, discontinued bus service, and stopped all extracurricular activities. The firehouse kept only a skeleton crew. People were fortunate to have garbage pickup once a month. The sheriff had to let the last deputy go. Initially, people were in denial. When city council discovered all the money in the general fund was missing and the new mayor skipped town, the good citizens of Forgiveness regretted how they treated Jude Mobley and realized what a terrible mistake had been made.

The letter I received from Thomas Jefferson stated the unusual facts. Forgiveness overwhelmingly elected Jude Mobley in November. Many people say they can barely see his face, as if it was covered with a veil.

The End

Post Script: This story became a novel and recently landed on the New York Times bestseller list. The movie is due out next year.