“Yeah. Worst thing ’bout him goin’, though, is Sissy. That girl, she ’bout fit to be tied. Ain’t no livin’ with her now.”
“Suppose not.” We walked on. As we neared the ridge leading down to the banks of the Rosa Lee, Harris stopped. “What is it?” I said.
He was silent a moment, then looked to the north. “Somebody else huntin’ in these woods, Cassie. Listen.”
I did and heard someone too. “Maybe that’s Stacey and them.”
Harris shook his head. “Naw, sound comin’ up from the wrong direction.”
“Well, anyway, whoever it is, they don’t have anything to do with us,” I decided and moved on down the ridge.
“Wait, Cassie.”
I was getting irritated. “Boy, what for?”
“Wanna see which way they headed. May be best not to run into ’em.”
“Harris, come on! Thought you wanted to see if that ole hound of yours got himself a coon.”
Harris seemed uncertain but came on anyway. We reached the banks of the Rosa Lee, and Harris pointed out some fresh coon tracks. “Look at how big they is, Cassie. Gonna have us some fine coon tonight!” I nodded in anticipation for I loved coon meat as much as anybody. Smothered in onions and garlic alongside great, golden-colored yams, baked coon was a grand feast.
Harris, his eyes to the ground, followed the tracks, and I followed him. We were so intent on the tracks that we forgot that someone besides us was in the forest. Then someone yelled: “’Ey, Harris! Cassie! This here ole coon dog b’long to y’all?” We looked around. From down the bank came Statler, Leon, and Troy Aames, and Jeremy Simms. All four carried rifles, and Leon and Troy each were holding on to two hunting dogs. Statler had hold of T-Bone. “Where y’all headed off to in these woods?”
Harris glanced at me and stuttered an answer. “We . . . we doin’ us a bit of huntin’, Mr. Statler.”
“Just you and this gal here? That seems mighty cozy like to me. Thought you said it was you and Clarence s’pose to be goin’ huntin’.” He grinned in that offensive way he had at me. “What? You like fat boys, Cassie?”
Leon and Troy laughed. Jeremy just stood there. I didn’t say anything to them. I just told Harris to come on and turned away.
“Now, wait a minute, wait a minute,” ordered Statler. “Y’all say y’all goin’ huntin’? How’s ’bout we all go huntin’ together? ’Specially since we got your dog here. Always did like me a coon hunt. Harris, tell you what. You be the coon.”
Harris’s eyes grew wide. “S-suh?”
“What? Ain’t you heard me?”
Harris looked at me, then back at Statler. “I . . . I don’t know what ya mean.”
“Sure ya do! We gonna have us a coon hunt, and you gonna be the coon. You make a nice fine fat one too!” He turned. “Leon! Troy! Y’all let them dogs get a smell at Harris! We gonna hunt us some coon t’night!”
The dogs came in close. Harris backed away. Leon and Troy laughed. I looked at Jeremy, wanting him to say something to stop this, but he looked at Statler and didn’t speak. “Harris,” I said, figuring to shoot up that ridge and get back to Stacey and the others, “come on, let’s go.” But Harris didn’t move.
Leon nudged Statler. “Seem like to me, Stat, maybe it be more enjoyable it was Cassie there the coon. Sure would be delightful we was to get her cornered.”
My heart was already beating fast. Now it began to race. Again I looked to Jeremy. This time he spoke up. “Ah, Stat, leave ’em be—”
“We just funnin’ ’em, Jeremy! They know that.”
I stepped away, and Harris turned to follow. Statler released T-Bone and cocked his rifle. “You hard of hearin’, boy?” he asked as T-Bone ran off into the night. “You actin’ like you don’t wanna hunt with us. I take offense to that. Here I am bein’ all friendly. Second time I done invited you to join our company, and you just walking off—”
“No, suh, I—”
“Offendin’ me and mine.”
“No, suh, I ain’t meant no offense! I—”
“Then you gonna ’cept our invite and go huntin’ with us?” Statler fondled the rifle as if about to use it.
Harris gasped for air. “Yes . . . yes, suh . . . th-that what ya want—”
“Then, run, boy! Go ’head! Run!”
Harris looked at me. “Harris, don’t—”
But Harris, with the dogs leaping dangerously near, backed fearfully away.
“I said run!”
Harris did run. He turned away from the dogs and, his whole body shaking, ran as fast as he could down the banks of the Rosa Lee. But he was too heavy to run far, and he soon began to falter. Leon and Troy and Statler laughed. Harris looked a comical figure, but there was nothing funny about his fear. He fell, and Statler called, “Get on up, boy, and go on! Don’t let the dogs get ya now!”
“Y’all leave him be!” I cried as Harris looked back wildly, struggled up, and ran on, leaving his flashlight behind still shining on the ground.
Statler looked at me. “You know, I’m thinkin’ maybe Leon’s right. We oughta be chasin’ you. You got more fight . . . .”
“’Ey, Stat!” called Troy, drawing his attention. “He gettin’ away!”
I took my chance, turned, and dashed up the ridge.
Statler laughed.
“We goin’ after him?” asked Troy.
“Gotta go after somebody,” said Leon as the dogs strained at their ropes. “Can’t hold these ole hounds here much longer.”
I reached the top of the darkened ridge, hid behind a tree, and looked back.
“What ya say, Stat?”
Statler was looking up the ridge, but I didn’t figure he could see me now. Still, I backed away, farther into the shadows. “Yeah, sure. Y’all go on after him.” Leon and Troy and the dogs took off. “But y’all get him cornered, y’all leave him be till I get there! Y’all hear me?”
“Yeah! Yeah!” Leon and Troy hollered back and ran on.
Statler looked over at Jeremy. “You comin’?”
Jeremy hesitated. “Look, Stat, you done had your fun with him—”
Statler’s voice hardened. “I said, you comin’?”
Jeremy didn’t say anything.
Statler turned in disgust. “Sometimes I don’t know ’bout you, Jeremy. Uncle Charlie, he always did say you got a streak of nigger lovin’ in you—”
“You got no call t’ say that!” Jeremy shot back.
“That right? Sometimes I get t’ wonderin’ how you could be Uncle Charlie’s boy. I got me no notion.”
“Statler, you got no call—”
“You gonna prove me different?”
Jeremy just looked at him, and Statler walked off. Jeremy watched him, then gazed up the ridge, as if he could see me watching, then, rifle in hand, he turned and followed Statler. As they headed down the bank I ran back toward the camp, hollering as loud as I could for the boys, and they came running. “Cassie! Cassie, what is it?” they cried.
“It’s Harris! They got the dogs after him!”
“Who?” said Stacey.
“Statler Aames and his brothers!” My words were a winded rush. “They were making fun of Harris, and Harris took off running, and now they’re chasing him with their dogs along the Rosa Lee!”
“Ah, Lordy!” Clarence exclaimed.
Stacey grabbed hold of both my shoulders. “They do anything to you?”
“I’m fine, but poor Harris, they’ve got him scared to death!”
Stacey looked off to the woods, and Christopher-John, frowning, said, “Maybe we oughta go back and get Papa.”
“You, Man, and Cassie, you go on back. Clarence, Willie, and me, we’ll go on after Harris.”
“I’m not going back to the house!” I said. “I’m going with you!”
“Me too!” declared Little Man, and the thing was settled. There was no time for arguing.
We headed down the ridge. As I trailed Stacey I told him about Jeremy. “He’s with them,” I
said.
Stacey stopped and turned, his eyes not wanting to believe. “What you say?”
I didn’t want to repeat it, but I did. “Jeremy . . . he’s chasing Harris too.”
Stacey looked at the others, and we all paused in that moment, then nothing more was said. Stacey turned back to the trail, and we all hurried on.
As we neared the water we heard the baying of the dogs. “Them dogs yappin’ so, sound like they got ole Harris cornered,” said Willie.
We ran along the bank, and the barking grew louder. We made our way up a heavily foliaged knoll and saw the Aames brothers and Jeremy, their flashlights shining, watching their dogs yelping and leaping at poor Harris standing in an upper fork of a tree. How Harris had managed to get his massive frame up in that tree I had no idea. Maybe his fear and the nearness of the dogs had hefted him up. The dogs had been given free rein. Leon and Troy no longer held them. We came down the knoll, and Statler turned. “Well, now,” he said, smiling amiably, “y’all out huntin’ t’night too?”
Stacey glanced at Statler, then turned to Harris and shouted: “Harris! Harris, get down from there!”
“Can’t,” said Statler. “He’s our coon and we got him cornered. He get down and them dogs’ll tear him up.”
Stacey looked back to him. “Then call the dogs off.”
The mocking look of good nature left Statler’s face. “Nigger, you issuin’ orders to me? Maybe you oughta be up that tree yourself—”
Suddenly there was an awful crack, then an ear-splitting yell as Harris toppled from the tree and crashed to the ground. The dogs immediately made for him. Stacey moved the quickest, dashing right into the midst of the hounds and slashing at them with the butt of the rifle. Clarence, Willie, and the rest of us grabbed up sticks and shot down behind him. Leon ran after us. “Y’all niggers, y’all harm one hair on them dogs and I’ll see all y’all dead! I swear!”
“Leon!” hollered Statler. “Call them dogs back! Get them dogs off that boy! Get ’em off, I say!”
Leon and Troy called the dogs back and took hold of them again. We went to Harris. He was all in a mangle and out cold.
Statler came over. “How he be?” he asked. We didn’t answer. Harris was bleeding badly and a sharply broken bone stood straight up through the flesh of his left leg, cutting through the threadbare overalls and jutting upward into the night. His face was badly scratched and it was obvious that he had been bitten by the dogs. “Y’all know we ain’t meant Harris there no harm. We was funnin’ with him, that’s all . . . I said, how he be?”
Stacey looked at Statler, and his eyes said it all. “We take care of him,” he voiced and turned again to Harris.
Statler backed away. “Yeah . . . all right, y’all do that . . . . Like I said, ain’t meant the boy no harm. Just funnin’ with him . . . . He ought’ve not gone up that tree, not with all that weight on him.” He gestured to Leon and Troy. “Come on. Leave Harris to them. Jeremy, you comin’?”
Jeremy, eyes on Harris, mutely shook his head. Statler looked at him but didn’t say anything else, and he and his brothers left with the dogs. For several minutes Jeremy stood aside as we worked over Harris, then, his face pale in the shadowy light, he took a hesitant step toward us. “Anything . . . anything I can do?” he offered in a low voice that was hoarse and shaken.
Stacey’s back had been to him. Now Stacey turned and looked at Jeremy. “You were hunting Harris down. I don’t expect so.”
Jeremy said nothing else and backed away.
Christopher-John grimaced at the ugly wound. “How we going to get him home, Stacey? You figure we can carry him?”
“Best not move that leg before it’s set. Cassie, you and Man go on home, get Papa and the wagon. Bring Big Ma up here, too, so she can set this leg. She’ll know better how to handle him. Go on, hurry now!”
Little Man and I took off. We ran all the way back to the house. Mama, Papa, and Big Ma were sitting on the porch; they saw us coming. As we ran up the lawn Big Ma hollered: “Girl, what you doin’ in them pants?”
“Harris fell!” I cried, giving no thought to the trouble I would be in later about the pants.
“He’s hurt bad too!” added Little Man.
Papa got up. “What happened?”
We told him.
“Clayton, help me with the wagon,” Papa said; then he and Little Man went out to the barn. Mama, Big Ma, and I followed, and as soon as the mules were hitched we all got on the wagon and headed for the woods.
When we reached Harris, Big Ma looked him over and shook her head. “Lord have mercy!” she exclaimed softly. “Look like this here leg got more’n one break. Got some broke ribs too. No tellin’ what else. Have mercy.” Then, under the glow of the flashlight, she set Harris’s leg with branches that the boys and I gathered from the forest ground, and tied it with strips ripped from Harris’s already torn overalls. Then gently, very gently, we lifted Harris onto the wagon and took him back to the house.
As soon as we had settled Harris on the bed in the boys’ room, Stacey took out his newly polished Ford and drove over to get Ma Batie, Mrs. Sarah Noble, and Sissy. There was no sense in taking Harris, Big Ma said; it would be too rough a ride, and Harris shouldn’t be moved. Stacey was gone about half an hour, and when he came back with Harris’s family, Harris was still unconscious. Big Ma said that wasn’t good.
Through the night we all waited for Harris to come to himself. No one went to bed. Sissy stayed inside, sitting by Harris’s bed with the older folks, while the boys and I sat on the front porch. Since the bedroom opened onto the front porch, we were able to observe Harris and all that went on through the window. We could see Harris lying unmoving on the bed and we could hear Ma Batie and Mrs. Noble and Big Ma praying. We were silently praying too, or at least I knew I was. As the night drew toward dawn and our eyelids grew heavy, Harris finally awakened. It was a blessed relief.
We hurried in to see him, but Harris wasn’t saying anything. He was awake and in pain. He started to cry. Clarence, Willie, Christopher-John, and Little Man went back out. Stacey and I remained inside, wanting to say something, to do something to make things better for Harris. There was nothing we could do, but we stayed anyway. Then Clarence stuck his head into the room and called Stacey to the door. “Jeremy’s out here,” he said. “He say he wanna see ya. He was askin’ ’bout Harris, and I told him how he was, but he say he wanna talk to you.”
“Jeremy?” Sissy was bent over Harris. She raised her head and looked out past Clarence into the night. “Jeremy Simms?” Then, suddenly, she jumped up like a body possessed and ran outside.
“Girl, get back here!” yelled Ma Batie, but Sissy didn’t stop. She was headed straight for Jeremy.
Clarence caught her, but that didn’t keep her from screaming at Jeremy. “You ole two-faced cracker! Messin’ with Harris like that! Was it funny t’ ya? Was it funny? Was it funny seein’ the fat boy run? Was it funny seein’ the fat boy fall? Was it—”
“Hush up that girl!” Big Ma ordered from deep inside the room.
“Clarence,” Papa said, “bring her in here.”
Clarence nodded and, picking Sissy straight up, took her kicking and still screaming back inside the house and off to the kitchen.
Papa glanced out at Jeremy staring up from the lawn and said to Stacey, “You best go talk to him.”
For a moment Stacey didn’t move. Papa didn’t rush him. But then Mama did; I knew she didn’t like Jeremy’s being out there any more than the rest of us. “Stacey,” she said. Stacey looked at her, at Papa, and stone faced, went out to the porch and down the steps. I followed him out and leaned against a porch post. Christopher-John and Willie, seated on the swing, and Little Man, seated by the door, remained silent, their eyes on Jeremy.
Jeremy looked at us, then at the open door and Harris lying on the bed. “How—how is he?” he stammered. His words were not much more than a whisper.
There was no warmth in Stacey as he answered. “Got a b
roken leg busted up more’n one place.”
“But . . . but he gonna pull through?”
“He just come to. Big Ma says time’ll tell how he heals.”
Jeremy nodded. “I’m prayin’ he’ll be all right. I been out here all the night prayin’ for that.”
Stacey said nothing.
“Stacey, I . . . I’m really sorry ’bout Harris. Sorry as I can be. Things just done sort’ve got outa hand. I ain’t never meant Harris no harm. I know Statler always be funnin’ Harris, but that’s just his way. Him and Leon and Troy, they ain’t meant no harm neither.”
“And that’s supposed to make things all right?”
“Well, naw . . . I ’spect not. But you know I wouldn’t never do Harris no harm—”
“From what I could tell, you didn’t try to stop it.” Jeremy didn’t reply to that, and Stacey took his silence as an answer. “If you didn’t, then don’t come up here telling us you’re sorry.”
“You . . . you don’t understand—”
“Yeah, I understand. You didn’t mean Harris any harm. Y’all was just funning.”
Jeremy stepped back. “I want y’all to understand. Asking you to understand . . . .”
“Told you I understood.” Stacey’s words were cold and unforgiving.
Their eyes fixed on each other and didn’t waver.
“Asking you to see how it is for me, Stacey. Things ain’t so easy for me, neither, always tryin’ to help y’all out—”
“Always tryin’ to help us?” Stacey repeated, his words like an ice-cold torrent. “Always trying to help us? When we ever ask your help ’cept for that one time, and that was to help a white man? You recall, that was when Mr. Farnsworth, the county agent, got beaten up so bad some years back, and, you recall, he was beaten up by white men. You recall, we were fearful colored would be blamed. You recall, we could’ve left him there on that road to die, but we didn’t. ’Stead, we asked your help to get him to some white folks so’s he could get some doctoring. Now, you blaming us for that? We suppose to thank you for that?”
The Road to Memphis Page 7