Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “Stacey! Stacey! Y-your papa bbbb-back there?”

  Stacey waved at Dubé standing in the middle of the backyard. “Yeah, he here!” But Dubé, instead of coming to join us, disappeared, going back toward the drive.

  “What he want?” I wondered.

  “Beats me,” Stacey admitted, then stiffened as Dubé reappeared with two men. One of the men was white. “Papa, there’s a white man coming.”

  Both Papa and Mr. Morrison turned at the warning and waited, their eyes on the men coming through the garden.

  “M-M-Mr. Logan,” said Dubé as they came into the pasture, “th-th-these here gentlemen say they wanna s-s-see ya. I s-s-seen ’em outside and thought I’d b-b-bring ’em on b-back.”

  “Name’s Morris Wheeler,” the white man said, extending his hand to Papa. “This fella with me is John Moses.”

  John Moses also shook Papa’s hand, then Mr. Morrison’s.

  “L.T. Morrison’s the name,” said Mr. Morrison.

  Mr. Wheeler smiled. “Figured you had to be. Heard ’bout you already.” He too shook Mr. Morrison’s hand, then looked again at Papa. “Ya don’t mind, I’ll get right to why we come. Y’all heard of the Farm Workers’ Union?”

  Papa studied Morris Wheeler before he answered. “Heard some talk.”

  “Well, I’m one of the organizers of it. Come down from Arkansas way. Was a county extension agent when this Agricultural Adjustment Administration—AAA—came into being and I tell you, I just didn’t take to what was happening. Tenants and sharecroppers getting thrown off their land. Money supposed to be coming to them getting put in the pockets of the plantation owners. John Moses here, he was a sharecropper. Lost what little he had ’cause he didn’t get that government money like he was s’pose to. His landlord didn’t think he owed it to him. Ain’t had no place to go. Wife got the pneumonia ’long with his two younguns living out in the open. All of ’em died. That’s what come of this Agricultural Adjustment business.”

  John Moses, his eyes blank, nodded in affirmation.

  “Where I was, folks was having a sorrowful time and blaming me for it too,” continued Mr. Wheeler. “Got roughed up a couple times, but I couldn’t blame nobody. It’s hard on folks seeing their cotton plowed up when it’s just ready for picking, then not even getting a red cent for it.”

  Mr. Wheeler waited a moment before going on. “Now don’t get me wrong. Something had to be done to try and get prices back up. I just don’t figure the government’s going about it the best way. One day I just got tired of seeing people going sick and hungry. Got tired of seeing a few poor souls who got up the courage to ask their landlords ’bout their money getting put off their farms ’cause of it.

  “That’s when me and a couple of other folks decided to do something and form the Farm Workers’ Union. Got it together last summer and we planning to take it all across the South. There’s other unions like ours and most figure to get tenants and sharecroppers to join together and demand some changes about these government payments. Make other conditions better too.” He glanced around at Dubé standing next to John Moses. “Didn’t you say you was a day laborer, boy?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  “How much you get a day?”

  “F-four bits.”

  “Fifty cents. Sunup to sundown,” remarked Mr. Wheeler with a disgusted shake of his head. “What’s top wage ’round here?”

  “Ssss-seventy-five cents.”

  Mr. Wheeler turned back to Papa. “Now you and me both know that’s a crying shame. The union wants to get them wages raised.” He met Papa’s eyes. “And we gonna need your help.”

  Papa studied him, a question in his eyes. “From what you been saying, this union’s for tenants and sharecroppers.”

  Mr. Wheeler nodded. “Day laborers too.”

  “Well, I’m just wondering why you come to see me then. Figure if you know who I am, you know, too, my family owns this land.”

  Mr. Wheeler looked over at John Moses and the two exchanged a knowing smile. “That’s a fact. But to tell the truth, we come ’cause since we’ve been down in here, your name’s come up several times. . . . We heard ’bout the boycott.”

  I caught the swift glance of Stacey’s eyes, and looked again at Mr. Wheeler.

  “Heard you and your wife got it organized against the Wallace store ’cause the Wallaces was supposed to have set a couple of colored fellas on fire down ’round Smellings Creek. Heard too more’n two dozen families joined in with you, and you and Morrison here hauled goods from Vicksburg to keep ’em going. Seems you managed to keep it going a good three months ’fore the landlords broke it.”

  Papa’s eyes were steady on Mr. Wheeler; he said nothing.

  Again Mr. Wheeler smiled. “Now I know you’re wondering why I brought that up. Well, simply put, because I was very impressed by what I heard. You got folks who was scared to death of what could happen to them to try and change things around here. You got ’em to join together and stand up for something. I figure you did it once, most likely you could do it again.”

  “Folks join anything,” Papa said, “it’s ’cause they make up their own minds to do it.”

  “That’s a fact. But when they see somebody they respect supporting a thing, then it’s easier for them to join themselves. It’s a risk they’d be taking—like the boycott—but you support this union and I suspect there’ll be a lot of folks thinking more ’bout joining.”

  “This union you got,” said Mr. Morrison, “it jus’ for the colored?”

  Mr. Wheeler hesitated. “No . . . colored and white.”

  Papa and Mr. Morrison looked at each other. From their faces it was obvious that any support Mr. Wheeler might have been gaining lessened with this information. Mr. Wheeler realized what the look meant and spoke hurriedly. “It’s colored and white ’cause that’s the only way this thing can work. If we go one without the other, we just ain’t gonna be strong enough. Now I ain’t saying I’m for social changes across the board—I’m just being honest with y’all now, telling y’all the same thing I’d tell a white farmer—but we gonna win this thing, we gonna have to join together. There just ain’t no way around it, and folks are just gonna have to make up their minds to what’s more important: their racial feelings or keeping a roof over their heads. That’s just what it comes down to. One can’t do it without the other.”

  Dynamite snorted loudly and Papa took the time to look out at him. When he turned again to Mr. Wheeler, he said, “What you say makes sense. But I always like to think a thing through ’fore I decide.”

  Mr. Wheeler seemed pleased. “Heard you was that kind of man and I’m glad to see you are. I ain’t rushing no decision from you. Jus’ keep in mind too that as a mixed union we’ve been able to bring a lot of what’s been going on locally to the attention of folks in Washington, like the things some of these local and county AAA committees been pulling. Ya know they the ones make a lot of the decisions concerning the way the program’s carried out—how many acres can be planted and so on. And you know who’s sitting on your committees here? Granger, Montier, Walker—the big landholders. Not a colored farmer, not a sharecropper or a small landholder among ’em. And believe me, they’re making this thing work for ’em too.”

  Mr. Wheeler waited a moment as if expecting Papa to say something. Papa didn’t.

  “People out of Washington been investigating complaints about these landlords and how they been misusing the AAA. As a union, we can put the pressure on and keep it on.”

  John Moses finally opened his mouth and spoke. “I done been in colored unions befo’. Always got broke up. White folks be’s in this one, it ain’t gonna be so easy to go breakin’ us up, ’cause some of them same ones be in our mixed union be’s the ones bustin’ up the colored union.”

  Mr. Wheeler nodded, confirming his statement.

  “We gonna be meeting with folks the next few weeks through here. Planning on meeting in groups of ten at different places till we cover everybody. D
on’t want where we meeting and what we doing to reach the wrong set of ears. . . . One other thing.” He paused, hesitant. “We’d be interested in using your barn for one of the meetings.”

  Papa only stared at him, and he hurriedly amended, “I know, I know. I’m a white man and you don’t know nothing ’bout me, and I understand that. But I’m an honest man. What I believe in I fight for tooth and nail, and a man go ’long with me in something, I wouldn’t never turn my back on him. Now that’s the truth of it.”

  “Well, like the other thing,” said Papa, “I’ll have to think on it and discuss it with my family.”

  “Fair enough. By the way, these first meetings won’t be mixed. We figure it’s better to keep them separate till folks decide just what they wanna do.” He put out his hand to Papa and Mr. Morrison once more. “Well, I won’t keep y’all from your work no longer. Just hope y’all’ll think ’bout joining us.” He turned then and headed back toward the house with John Moses following. “Don’t bother to walk back front with us. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  “No bother. We was headed back that way,” Papa said. He motioned toward Lady and Jack grazing near the forest on the southern side of the pasture. “Stacey, y’all go bring them in. I wanna take a look at their shoeing.”

  “Hey, Dubé, you wanna go with us?” Stacey said as the men walked away.

  Dubé shook his head. “N-n-no . . .” His eyes were on the union men. “Th-th-think I’m g-g-gonna catch up with them union men. G-g-got me ssss-some questions.” Then, waving good-bye, he ran after them.

  The boys and I watched him a moment, then crossed the pasture. “Bet I can get there ’fore y’all,” challenged Little Man and took off. Christopher-John and I followed, racing across the pasture, but Stacey, too old for such things on this particular day, chose to walk.

  “I’m gonna ride Lady!” Little Man proclaimed when we reached the animals.

  “Not me! I’m gonna ride Jack,” declared Christopher-John, who for some strange reason always preferred the sturdy plod of the ornery mule to the sleek swiftness of Lady.

  “Wait a minute, Christopher-John,” Stacey said, knowing that Jack had a mind of his own and that after only a short while of munching the drying grass, would not feel too pleased about having an eight-year-old boy riding his back. Stacey helped Christopher-John on, then turned to help me. But I didn’t need his help. In the past few months I had mastered the art of leaping onto Lady without a saddle, a stunt none of the grown-ups had seen me perform and one which Stacey had warned me about. Now I executed it with such ease that he only frowned as Little Man looked on with admiration.

  “Soon’s I get me another inch, I’m gonna be able to do that too,” he said.

  “An inch!” I declared, insulted. “Boy, you gonna need a whole lotta inches ’fore you can do anything like that. Come on.”

  Since Little Man objected to being lifted onto the horse, Stacey cupped his hand for Little Man’s foot and Little Man climbed on behind me. Stacey climbed onto Jack in front of Christopher-John, and the four of us raced the wind across the wide pasture laughing and yelling. As always, Jack, once he recognized that Stacey was master, joined in the spirit of the race and tried to outdistance us. But he was no match for Lady. Lady was the granddaughter of a Thoroughbred. Lady was magic.

  At the edge of the pasture we slowed Lady and Jack to a walk. Stacey, Little Man, and I jumped down to lead the animals along the path, but Christopher-John raised up on Jack and squinted across the unplanted cotton field toward the road. “Look there,” he said. Coming toward the house was a yellow car trimmed in black. “Ain’t never seen no yellow car before.” We watched the car until we lost sight of it as it disappeared on the other side of the house.

  “Come on,” said Stacey. Christopher-John jumped down from Jack’s back and we all continued along the path to the backyard. Crossing the yard to the barn, we looked again toward the road. The yellow car had slowed, as if the driver was looking at the house. For a moment we all stared at the car, then Christopher-John dropped Jack’s reins and ran down the drive.

  “Uncle Hammer!” he cried. “Uncle Hammer, that’s you, ain’t it?”

  The car picked up speed and turned into the driveway. When it stopped, a tall, well-dressed man wearing a three-piece suit and felt hat, and looking very much like Papa, got out.

  Christopher-John had been right: It was Uncle Hammer. Christopher-John was first in his arms. The rest of us hurried to meet him, leaving both Jack and Lady to munch the side-yard grass. Uncle Hammer laughed as he hugged us, then stood back.

  “Lord, it ain’t been but three months since I seen y’all, and look here, each of y’all must’ve grown a good several inches.” He shook his head in amazement. “How’s everybody?”

  “Jus’ fine,” we replied in unison. Then Little Man noted: “Uncle Hammer, you went and got a new car.”

  “Well, it ain’t hardly new, but it’ll do.”

  Little Man frowned. “How come it yellow?”

  “Why not?” questioned Uncle Hammer, a smile spreading across his face at Little Man’s conservatism. “Truth is, I got it for a little of nothing from a man who liked bright, briiight colors. Said bright colors made him feel good. ’Specially liked yellow. Said yellow made him feel like the sun was shining all the time. Now ain’t nothing wrong with that, is it?”

  “Hammer! Good Lord, son, somethin’ wrong?” We turned. Big Ma was standing on the back porch, her face etched in surprise. “We wasn’t ’spectin’ you.”

  “You want, Mama, I’ll turn ’round and go on back to Chicago,” he teased.

  “You hush up, boy,” Big Ma reprimanded him and stepped down from the porch. “Come on over here and hug these old bones.”

  Uncle Hammer laughed and went to her. “Just got me a few days and thought I’d come home and help with the planting. Figured that was the least I could do, seeing I couldn’t stay no time when I come home Christmas.” He hugged Big Ma to him warmly and, letting her go, turned to find Mama, Papa, and Mr. Morrison coming down the porch, and the hugging started all over again.

  “Sure is good to see y’all. Sister, how you doing?”

  “I’m fine, but you taking care of yourself? You look thin—”

  “Just working hard, that’s all. . . . David, that leg’s looking good now—”

  “Feeling good too. See you got yourself a car.”

  “Man, had to. Mr. Morrison, how you making it? Still taking care of things?”

  “Trying to, Hammer. Trying to.”

  Uncle Hammer put an arm around Big Ma. “Mama, now I know y’all done had breakfast a long time ago and dinner’s still a good couple of hours away, but I tell you what my mouth’s really watered up for, and that’s some of them fine biscuits of yours, some oil sausages, and some clabber milk and some good ole cane syrup. Think I could bother you for some?”

  “Boy, what you saying? I know you ain’t half eatin’ up North and you probably ain’t ate much of nothin’ on your way down here. Come on in this kitchen.” In less than an hour Big Ma had not only rolled out a batch of biscuits for Uncle Hammer, but cooked a pot of grits, oil sausages, gravy, and eggs as well. She also brewed a pot of the coffee he had brought with him and when everything was ready, we all sat with him at the table, the adults sharing the coffee with him, the boys and I the food.

  As we ate, the boys and I sat engrossed as Uncle Hammer talked of the North and of his trip South. Three years older than Papa, Uncle Hammer was unmarried and came whenever he could. He was the only uncle we knew, and we loved him dearly. Yet we were often spellbound when he was near, for we were in awe of him and had never quite been able to talk to him as easily as we could to Papa or Mr. Morrison. He was, as Big Ma described him, just a little wild, and was known throughout the community for his temper, something a black man in Mississippi couldn’t afford to have.

  “Sure am glad you brought this coffee,” Papa said as he put down his cup. “We ain’t had coffee since summer some
time.”

  “I’d’ve brought some Christmas if I’d’ve known y’all didn’t have none.”

  Papa smiled at him. “Way you was traveling, you couldn’t’ve carried much more than you was.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. But I tell you one thing. I’d rather ride the rail anytime than take them no-count buses. When you ride the rail, leastways you ain’t gotta pay to sit in the back.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Morrison, “you ain’t gotta sit in the back no more, now you got yourself another car. When’d you get it?”

  “End of January. It ain’t much, but it gets me where I’m going. After I got rid of that Packard, I figured I oughta be able to walk awhile—I done it enough before I got it—but then when I come home last coupla times and took that bus I said I wasn’t gonna take no more buses or trains down here, leastways none I had to pay for, and seeing I be coming home whenever I can, I figured I needed that old heap out there.”

  “I like it, Uncle Hammer,” commented Christopher-John, then immediately grew quiet again.

  “Glad you do, son. We’ll go riding in it ’fore long— Man, pass me some more of them hot biscuits sitting right there in front of you, will you son?” Little Man, grinned, pleased to be the one called upon, and with both hands carefully passed him the plate. Uncle Hammer thanked him, took two of the fat biscuits, and smeared them with fresh butter. “By the way,” he said, “coming up the road there I passed a truck with a white fella driving and two colored fellas sitting up front with him. Looked like one of ’em was Miz Rosa Cross’s boy.”

  “Was,” said Papa. “I was jus’ telling Mary and Mama ’fore you come that two union men come by. They was gonna drop Dubé off near home.”

  “Union? Y’all mentioned something ’bout that when I was home Christmas. I didn’t think it was down this way yet.”

  “Well, it is now.”

  Big Ma shook her head in puzzled disbelief. “Jus’ can’t believe this union talk. Maybe the union make out ’long Arkansas way, but these here white folks in Mississippi ain’t never gonna stand for no union. ’Specially no mixed union.”