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Part One

Chapter 1

After decades of patient lect, The Ford County Times went bankrupt in 1970 The owner and publisher, Miss Emma Caudle, was ninety-three years old and strapped to a bed in a nursing home in Tupelo The editor, her son Wilson Caudle, was in his seventies and had a plate in his head frorafted skin covered the plate at the top of his long, sloping forehead, and throughout his adult life he had endured the nickname of Spot Spot did this Spot did that Here, Spot There, Spot

In his younger years, he covered town ames, elections, trials, church socials, all sorts of activities in Ford County He was a good reporter, thorough and intuitive Evidently, the head wound did not affect his ability to write But sometime after the Second War the plate apparently shifted, and Mr Caudle stopped writing everything but the obituaries He loved obituaries He spent hours on the the lives of even the humblest of Ford Countians And the death of a wealthy or pro the moment He neverbad about anyone All received glory in the end Ford County was a wonderful place to die And Spot was a very popular h he was crazy

The only real crisis of his journalistic career happened in 1967, about the tihts movement finally htest hint of racial tolerance No black faces appeared in its pages, except those belonging to known or suspected cri announcements No black honor students or baseball tea discovery He awoke onein Ford County, and their deaths were not being properly reported There was a whole, new, fertile world of obituaries waiting out there, and Mr Caudle set sail in dangerous and uncharted waters On Wednesday, March 8, 1967, the Times became the first white-oeekly in Mississippi to run the obituary of a Negro For the most part, it went unnoticed

The folloeek, he ran three black obituaries, and people were beginning to talk By the fourth week, a regular boycott was under ith subscriptions being canceled and advertisers holding their , but he was too irationist to worry about such trivial matters as sales and profits Six weeks after the historic obituary, he announced, on the front page and in bold print, his new policy He explained to the public that he would publish whatever he damned well pleased, and if the white folks didn't like it, then he would simply cut back on their obituaries

Now, dying properly is an i in Mississippi, for whites and blacks, and the thought of being laid to rest without the benefit of one of Spot's glorious send-offs was more than h to carry out his threat

The next edition was filled with all sorts of obituaries, blacks and whites, all neatly alphabetized and desegregated It sold out, and a brief period of prosperity followed

The bankruptcy was called involuntary, as if others had eager volunteers The pack was led by a print supplier from Memphis that ed 60,000 Several creditors had not been paid in sixin a loan

I was new, but I'd heard the ru on a desk in the front rooet in a pair of pointed toes strutted in the front door and asked for Wilson Caudle

"He's at the funeral home," I said

He was a cocky un on his hip under a wrinkled navy blazer, a gun worn in such a manner so that folks would see it He probably had a permit, but in Ford County one was not really needed, not in 1970 In fact, permits were frowned upon "I need to serve these papers on hi an envelope

I was not about to be helpful, but it's difficult being rude to a un "He's at the funeral home," I repeated

"Then I'll just leave them with you," he declared

Although I'd been around for less than two e up North, I had learned a few things I knew that good papers were not served on people They were mailed or shipped or hand-delivered, but never served The papers were trouble, and I wanted no part of them

"I' down

The laws of nature require ets to be docile, noncoun was a ruse He glanced around the front office with a smirk, but he knew the situation was hopeless With a flair for the dramatic, he stuffed the envelope back into his pocket and demanded, "Where's the funeral home?"

I pointed this way and that, and he left An hour later, Spot stu hysterically "It's over! It's over!" he kept wailing as I held the Petition for Involuntary Bankruptcy Margaret Wright, the secretary, and Hardy, the pressman, came from the back and tried to console hi pitifully I read the petition aloud for the benefit of the others

It said Mr Caudle had to appear in court in a week over in Oxford to e, and that a decision would be made as to whether the paper would continue to operate while a trustee sorted things out I could tell Margaret and Hardy were more concerned about their jobs than about Mr Caudle and his breakdown, but they gamely stood next to him and patted his shoulders

When the crying stopped, he suddenly stood, bit his lip, and announced, "I've got to tell Mother"

The three of us looked at each other Miss Emma Caudle had departed this life years earlier, but her feeble heart continued to work just barely enough to postpone a funeral She neither knew nor cared what color Jell-O they were feeding her, and she certainly cared nothing about Ford County and its newspaper She was blind and deaf and weighed less than eighty pounds, and now Spot was about to discuss involuntary bankruptcy with her At that point, I realized that he, too, was no longer with us

He started crying again and left Six months later I would write his obituary

Because I had attended college, and because I was holding the papers, Hardy and Margaret looked hopefully at me for advice I was a journalist, not a lawyer, but I said that I would take the papers to the Caudle family lawyer We would follow his advice They smiled weakly and returned to work

At noon, I bought a six-pack at Quincy's One Stop in Lon, the black section of Clanton, and went for a long drive in my Spitfire It was late in February, unseasonably war, not for the first ti in Ford County, Mississippi

I grew up in Memphis and studied journalisot tired of paying for as becorades were unreree Maybe a year and a half She, BeeBee, had plenty of ured my opportunity had been sufficiently funded When she cut me off I was very disappointed, but I did not corandchild and her estate would be a delight

I studied journalisover In the early days at Syracuse, I aspired to be an investigative reporter with the New York Titon Post I wanted to save the world by uncovering corruption and environovernment waste and the injustice suffered by the weak and oppressed Pulitzers aiting for me After a year or so of such lofty drean correspondent who dashed around the world looking for wars, seducing beautiful wo stories He spoke eight languages, wore a beard, combat boots, starched khakis that never wrinkled So I decided I would becoht some boots and khakis, tried to learn Ger an their steady decline to the botto for a small-tospaper I cannot explain this attraction, except that it was at about this time that I met and befriended Nick Diener He was from rural Indiana, and for decades his family had owned a rather prosperous county newspaper He drove a fancy little Alfa Romeo and always had plenty of cash We became close friends

Nick was a bright student who could have handled oal, however, was to return to Indiana and run the faht and he told me how much his father cleared each year off their soldannouncee, pictures of basketball tea Maybe a little politics, but stay away from controversy And count your money His father was a millionaire It was laid-back, low-pressure journalis to Nick

This appealed to me After my fourth year, which should've beenat a small weekly in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas The pay was peanuts but BeeBee was impressed because I was employed Each week I mailed her the paper, at least half of which ritten by entlehted to have a reporter anted to write He was quite wealthy

After five years at Syracuse rades were irreparable, and the well ran dry I returned to Memphis, visited BeeBee, thanked her for her efforts, and told her I loved her She told me to find a job

At the tih the course of things this lady met BeeBee at one of those hot tea drinkers' parties After a few phone calls back and forth, I was packed and headed to Clanton, Mississippi, where Spot was eagerly waiting After an hour of orientation, he turned me loose on Ford County

In the next edition he ran a sweet little story with a photo ofe Neas slow in those days

The announcement contained two horrendous errors that would haunt me for years The first and less serious was the fact that Syracuse had now joined the Ivy League, at least according to Spot He inforue education at Syracuse It was ato believe that no one read the paper, or, worse, those who did were complete idiots

The second ed my life I was born Joyner William Traynor Until I elve I hammered ent people would stick Joyner on a newborn The story finally leaked that one of my parents, both of whom denied responsibility, had insisted on Joyner as an olive branch to soedly had money I never met the man, my namesake He died broke as far as I was concerned, but I nonetheless had Joyner for a lifetime When I enrolled at Syracuse I was J Williahteen-year-old But Vietnam and the riots and all the rebellion and social upheaval convinced me that J William sounded too corporate, too establishment I became Will

Spot at various times called me Will, William, Bill, or even Billy, and since I would answer to all of them I never kneas next In the announce face, was my new name Willie Traynor I was horrified I had never drea me Willie I went to a prep school in Mee in New York, and I had never ood ole boy I drove a Triu hair

What would I tell my fraternity brothers at Syracuse? What would I tell BeeBee?

After hiding in e to confront Spot and de I wasn't sure what, but he'd made the mistake and he could damned well fix it I mouth Bass, the sports editor of the paper "Hey, cool na advice

"My name's not Willie," I said

"It is now"

"My name's Will"