The Road to Memphis

by Mildred D. Taylor

  The rush of hostile words shoved Jeremy backward. He retreated a few steps as far as the magnolia tree midway down the lawn; but he didn’t leave. He looked off into the night, turned his back to Stacey with words spoken so softly I could hardly recognize them. “I . . . I ain’t never know’d a time I done lied to y’all, on a purpose done none of y’all no harm. Need y’all t’ believe me on this here now.”

  “You asking something too hard of me to believe, Jeremy. You hunted Harris down. That’s all I know . . . or need to know.” Those were Stacey’s final words.

  Jeremy looked again at him and accepted them as final. He turned and walked down the lawn. Once he reached the road, he looked back. “I swear to the Lord God Almighty, Stacey, I ain’t never meant that boy no harm. I swear to God.” Then, hands buried in his pockets, his head bowed, he crossed into the woods and was gone.

  Stacey came back to the porch. I didn’t say anything to him. Little Willie, Christopher-John, and Little Man didn’t either. I looked out to the woods and figured maybe it was just as well that this had happened. After all, Jeremy was a man now, and childhood was over. Appropriately, I supposed, so was our friendship.

  Down Home Farewell

  By Sunday night Harris seemed some better. On Monday morning, long before dawn, Stacey, Moe, Little Willie, and I got into the Ford and headed for Jackson. Clarence went with us. When we reached Jackson, Clarence did as he said he would. He went to the Army recruiting office and joined up. A few days later he went to Camp Shelby for training. Stacey, Moe, and Little Willie went back to working their six-day shifts at the box factory, and I settled in, started school, and tried to adjust again to living in Jackson.

  I wasn’t all that crazy about Jackson. It was the capital, and it was big, too big for me. There were sixty some thousand people in the city and more folks coming all the time, what with all the military bases opening up in the state and jobs too. That was fine, I supposed, for folks who liked city life. As for me, I preferred the country, where things were open and clean and there weren’t people the next house over practically sitting on your doorstep. But the schools were better in Jackson, and Mama and Papa wanted me to have the best education they could afford to give me. They had wanted that for all of us. Stacey, too, had attended a Jackson school until he had quit at the end of his tenth grade year and Christopher-John and Little Man, though still attending school at Great Faith, would most likely be attending a Jackson school next year. I realized that living in the city was necessary to getting a good education, so I didn’t complain. Not too much, anyway.

  One good thing about living in Jackson, in addition to the schooling and the jobs, was that Little Willie and Moe were close by. We all lived on Rose, a quiet little street, unpaved, with no sidewalks, but with decent houses, some plumbing, and sensible folks. Stacey and I lived with Cousin Hugh Reams, Big Ma’s sister’s son, and his wife, Sylvie, and their family, and that included Oliver, who at twenty-one was only a year older than Stacey. Little Willie and Moe lived two houses down with Mrs. Mabel Stalnaker, a neighbor lady. Another good thing about Jackson was that most places I needed to go were close by. Campbell College, which I attended and which boasted both a Negro college and a high school, was only a few blocks away, and Lynch Street, where Cousin Sylvie and Cousin Hugh owned a little cafe and also ran a barber and beauty shop, was within walking distance.

  My last two school years in Jackson I had worked at the cafe after school and most weekends too. I soon found, however, that I wasn’t going to be able to keep that same schedule this year. Our first weekend back Stacey decided to return home again, and I was glad of that. I missed everybody. Just about every weekend after that as well, the two of us, along with Willie and Moe and sometimes Oliver, made the trip home as soon as the boys finished up their Saturday shift at the box factory. Now that we had our own transportation, Stacey figured there was no reason for us not to go back. Besides, he loved driving that Ford of his, and the rest of us certainly weren’t complaining about it. Going back so often kept us all from being so homesick. But then, as luck would have it, just after Thanksgiving, Stacey, Moe, and Willie got put on the night shift, and we figured that was the end to our weekend trips home, for a while anyway, since the boys would now have to work Saturday nights. Yet, one week later we were headed home once again, for the Thursday following Thanksgiving, Papa called us from Strawberry with the news that Reverend Charles Gabson, pastor of Great Faith Church, was dead and was to be buried on Saturday.

  There was never any question that Stacey, Willie, Moe, and I would go to the funeral. All of us had grown up under the pastorage of Reverend Gabson; he was the only pastor of Great Faith we had ever known. So on Saturday morning, as soon as the boys got off work, we dressed in our Sunday best, got into the Ford, and headed for home. The boys all wore their best dark suits, and I wore a navy blue two-piece outfit that looked more like a dress than a suit. The jacket was fitted, the skirt was flared, and both the collar and the buttons were black. I also wore my last year’s Christmas coat, the one Uncle Hammer had brought me from Chicago. It was a luscious, deep dark brown and had fur sleeves and fur covered buttons. It fit me almost like a dress, snuggly around the bodice and waist and flared nicely around my hips and legs. My pumps, hat, gloves, and purse were all black. I was quite pleased with how I looked, even if I was going to a funeral.

  Clarence, now in uniform and on an overnight pass from his base at Camp Shelby, went with us as well even though it was highly unusual for a soldier not yet finished with his weeks of basic training to get a pass. Clarence, however, had told the Army that his grandfather had died and that was true in as much as Reverend Gabson had been married to his grandmother these last five years. The fact that Clarence didn’t see Reverend Gabson as his grandfather, but as his pastor, made no difference to Clarence. He just wanted to go home. Oliver went with us too.

  By the time we arrived at Great Faith it was midmorning and the field of grass that served as the school playground was already dense with people. There were even folks standing down by the woods that loomed immediately beyond the three wooden-gray school buildings. As we drove onto the grounds we greeted people who had come from as far north as Pinewood Ridge, from as far west as the Little Rosa Lee, from as far south as Smellings Creek, and as far east as the town of Strawberry. Folks had sure turned out for this funeral. But that was to be expected. Reverend Gabson had been a well-known man.

  Before Stacey could park the car, Little Man emerged from the crowd and came over. He didn’t bother to say hello. He just grinned and announced: “Y’all in trouble.”

  “We just this minute came in from Jackson,” I retorted. “So how could we be in trouble?”

  Little Man let me off the hook. “Not you, Cassie,” he said, then slipped his hands into his pants pockets and leaned down so that he could peer into the car. “Rest of y’all are, though.”

  Clarence, sitting soldier-handsome beside me, asked the question first. “Well, what’s the matter? What we done?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I want to know,” said Little Willie from the back seat, where he was squeezed in between Moe and Oliver. “Don’t keep us hanging, son!”

  Little Man grinned. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Attired in a navy blue suit, which Stacey had bought him, he nonetheless was not looking very mournful.

  “Clayton,” said Stacey, with that one word ordering him to get on with what he had to say.

  One word was enough. Little Man turned and nodded toward the other side of the field, where the class buildings were set in a semicircle against the forest edge. “Sissy,” he said.

  “Sissy?” echoed Clarence. “My Sissy?”

  “What other Sissy is there?” I asked as we all looked for her. At first I didn’t see Sissy, for there were a lot of people milling about the grounds, all dressed up in their darkest Sunday best on this Saturday morning. Too many folks to see Sissy. But then, as Clarence pulled his long body from the car, I spied her sitting on t
he steps of the middle grades class building with a couple of other girls. She was barefooted, and her shoes were dangling from one hand as she talked. Though barefoot days were supposed to be past, that was making no difference to Sissy. I wasn’t surprised. Sissy was the kind of girl who, when her shoes hurt, simply took them off. Sissy never did stand on protocol.

  Clarence leaned against the top of the car. “What ’bout Sissy?”

  Little Man on the other side of the car didn’t have the opportunity to answer, for at that moment Sissy, her shoes still dangling from her hand, got up from the steps and started toward the church. Then we all saw very clearly what the matter was. Even from this distance it was plain to see.

  Sissy was pregnant.

  “Oh, goodness,” I said, but for a moment nobody else said a word. None of us had seen Sissy since late October. We hadn’t seen her at all through November, not even at Thanksgiving. Supposedly she had moved over to Smellings Creek to stay with another great-aunt.

  Little Willie followed Clarence out of the car. “You best own on up to it, son!” he admonished.

  We all looked at Clarence.

  “Yep!” Little Willie repeated with a good-natured slap to Clarence’s back as Oliver, too, got out. “Best own on up to it!”

  Clarence, though, looked as if he wasn’t about ready to own up to anything. He crossed his arms against the car and leaned his chin against them. Still staring across the field, he muttered, “I ain’t ready to be no daddy.”

  “Evidently,” I said, “time to be thinking about that is past.”

  Clarence didn’t say anything.

  Little Man grinned again. “Ma Batie’s talking about taking a shotgun to somebody.”

  I laughed. “That’ll be Clarence, then.” I was sure of that.

  “Not ’cording to Sissy,” said Little Man.

  Clarence pulled away from the car, and Little Willie exclaimed, “Clayton Chester, what you mean, boy? Everybody knows Clarence been the only one courtin’ Sissy all this time!”

  “Can’t help that. Sissy said maybe Clarence the father, then again, maybe not.”

  The man who wasn’t ready to be a daddy stood with his mouth agape and eyes wide, obviously as shocked by this bit of news as the rest of us.

  Little Willie glanced at Clarence. “Ah, now, come on,” he protested. “Who she blamin’, then? Know it can’t be me!”

  Little Man shrugged. “She’s not saying. Said it could be Clarence . . . or maybe one of y’all right here.”

  Little Willie yelped out a cry of disbelief.

  “Well, anyway, that lets me out,” said Oliver, lighting a cigarette. “I ain’t even seen the girl since August. ’Sides, I ain’t never been ’round that girl hardly long enough to even shake her hand.”

  “Well, obviously somebody has,” I observed, amused by the state the boys were in.

  While Oliver and Little Willie debated who had been around Sissy, Christopher-John came over. Unlike Little Man, he said his hellos and asked how we were. Then he looked around at everybody, and knowing something was wrong, turned to Little Man. “What’s the matter? Clayton, you tell them ’bout Sissy?”

  Little Man grinned. “Just now.”

  “Oh . . . told them ’bout Ma Batie and Miz Noble coming to talk to Mama and Papa ’bout Sissy?”

  “What?” said Stacey.

  “Yeah, they sure did,” Christopher-John went on. “They been talking to everybody’s folks. Oliver, they even talked to Cousin Sylvie and Cousin Hugh this morning.”

  Now it was Willie’s turn to laugh as Oliver groaned. Cousin Hugh and Cousin Sylvie had driven down from Jackson on Friday. Having grown up here in the community, they both had known Reverend Gabson well. “Shoot! Gonna be all hell to pay now,” said Oliver.

  “Not if you haven’t been into something,” I smart-mouthed.

  Oliver did not find that funny.

  But that wasn’t the last of Christopher-John and Little Man’s bad news. “Ma Batie and Miz Noble, they even talking ’bout meeting with y’all after the funeral to get this thing straightened out,” continued Christopher-John, and this time it wasn’t only Oliver who groaned.

  I looked around at Moe. “You’ve been mighty quiet sitting back there. You got any secrets you want to tell?” I was having a high time teasing them all.

  Moe smiled. “It was mine, Cassie, I wouldn’t be sitting here quiet.” I returned the smile, and the dimples deepened. But there was no smile deepening in Moe’s eyes, and that bothered me. Moe had been quiet all the way down from Jackson. That could have been because he was tired and sleepy from working all night at the box factory, but I didn’t think so. He had been quiet for some days now. Quiet was like Moe; this prolonged silence wasn’t.

  Stacey put the car in gear. “I’m going to go park.”

  Little Man and Christopher-John jumped in for the short ride. Stacey parked the Ford some distance from the many wagons and pickup trucks that dotted the grounds. He was taking no chances that somebody might accidentally hit the car. He stepped from the Ford, looked back at it, and frowned. Dust and insects marred the double coat of paint. Little Man frowned too. He didn’t like to see the car dirty any more than Stacey did. “We can clean it up after the funeral,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” Stacey replied. “It’ll just get messed up again on the drive back.”

  “What time you leaving?”

  “Midafternoon, I reckon. Want to give ourselves plenty of time to get back, seeing we got to work tonight. ’Sides that, I want to stop in Strawberry and see Mr. Jamison. Want to pay off my note today.”

  “Well, why don’t you just pay him in Jackson?” suggested Christopher-John, and that made sense since Mr. Jamison now had an office in Jackson. “That way you won’t have to stop in Strawberry and you can stay here a bit longer.”

  Stacey shook his head. “Don’t like going to his sister’s house in Jackson, and that’s where his office is. Don’t like going to that white neighborhood. Rather stop at his office in Strawberry.”

  Christopher-John looked at me. “What about you, Cassie? You going to stay over and go back with Cousin Hugh and Cousin Sylvie tomorrow?”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a debate to prepare on President Roosevelt’s New Deal. It’s a big part of my history grade. Not only that, but I’m supposed to be meeting some students from my class this evening at the cafe to study for it.”

  “Too bad,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Look, we best go on and see the folks,” said Stacey. “Services’ll be starting pretty soon now.”

  “You all go on,” I said. “I want to talk to Moe a minute.”

  Stacey looked from me to Moe, nodded, and went on with Christopher-John and Little Man. As they left, Moe leaned against the car and smiled. “What is it, Cassie?”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “Wrong? What you mean?”

  “What I said. You’ve been mighty quiet—”

  “You don’t think me and Sissy—”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Well, I ain’t had nothing to do with her. She’s Clarence’s girl.”

  “Didn’t think you did.”

  “Then what you asking, Cassie?”

  “Like I said, something’s wrong, and I know it. You been too quiet, not hardly even talking.”

  “That ain’t so.”

  “This morning when you came off work, I was figuring something was wrong. Now I want to know what.”

  “Cassie—”

  “Don’t you tell me it’s nothing. I want to know.”

  Moe sighed and looked away across the field.

  I touched his arm. “Moe?”

  “There’s Papa. Him and the younguns, they’re most likely looking for me.” He watched them but didn’t move to leave. He heaved a despondent sigh, pushed back his hat so that the brim just barely shadowed his forehead, and looked at me. “I got fired last night, Cassie. I got fired.”

&nbs
p; “Fired? What for?”

  He turned as if to tell me, but then Mr. Turner saw us and started our way with three of Moe’s brothers. “Look, don’t say anything ’bout this, all right? Ain’t the right time. Want to get another job first . . . a better job ’fore I tell my papa. Don’t want him worrying.”

  “All right.”

  The dimples returned. “Thanks,” he said as his father stretched out his arms to him.

  I greeted Mr. Turner and the Turner boys then, as the church bell began to ring summoning folks in for the funeral, made my way through the crowd to find Mama, Papa, and Big Ma. I found them standing by the truck with the boys, Cousin Hugh and Cousin Sylvie, and after taking the time to hug and kiss them in greeting, we all headed for the church to say our last good-byes to the Reverend Charles Gabson.

  Reverend Gabson had always been a preacher of tumultuous hellfire and brimstone sermons that went on and on. Today all the ministers who had gathered were obviously attempting to pay adequate tribute to the reverend by preaching in the same long-winded fashion. The services seemed to go on forever. Finally we were dismissed from the church, and we followed the pallbearers up the trail that led to the graveyard. There, more words were spoken, and Reverend Charles Gabson was at last laid to rest.

  Throughout the services there hadn’t been many tears. Reverend Gabson had been dearly loved, but nobody much was crying about his passing on. He had lived a good many years, and the Lord had called him home; that was the way of life. Folks had mourned him for two days, including an all-night wake. Respects had been paid, and now life got on.

  The day took on a festive air. Having come the distance, everybody now took the opportunity to visit. What with the miles between Pinewood Ridge and the Little Rosa Lee, Smellings Creek and the town of Strawberry, a lot of folks hadn’t seen each other since the Revival in August, and most likely would not be gathering again in such numbers until the next Big Meeting. So folks told good-natured stories about Reverend Gabson, laid out bowls of food on the backs of wagons and truck aprons, laughed and joked and talked, and had themselves a good time.