Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “All right, you think it’ll be all right. . . .” He laughed softly, but the sound was sad. “I guess I’ll never quite get over it, how people take the news I’m married to a white woman. Lord, I get to feeling so guilty ’bout it, like I stuck a knife in somebody or something. Lydia, she feels the same. That’s why she’s gone, just couldn’t take it any longer. But who’d we ever hurt ’sides maybe ourselves and our little girl?”

  He was silent a moment; Mama didn’t speak.

  “You know, Mary, it ain’t all that awful being married to somebody white. I mean it’s awful ’cause of what folks say and think and what some folks’ll do, but when it comes right down to it, they’re just folks like us.”

  “No, Bud, not like us.”

  “Mary, you’ve always been reasonable. Most times Lydia’s just a woman to me. She ain’t got no color at all. And she’s a lovely woman, a good woman. It’s just that this thing’s been as hard on her as it’s been on me.”

  “Don’t expect me to understand about you and this woman,” Mama said testily. “Just don’t expect me to understand.”

  “Well, what’d I do that was so wrong? Marry a woman I loved, that’s all!”

  It was an angry, frustrated outburst. Mama did not respond to it.

  “And I did love her, Mary. Still do.”

  “What will you do when you find her, Bud? You don’t really expect to just walk up to her on the street or march up to the front door of her family’s house and tell her to come back. They’ll lynch you before you’ve even got the words out.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll think of a way. I just need to talk to her, that’s all. I can talk to her, she’ll come back.”

  “You said you have a daughter. What about her? Is she with Lydia?”

  “No. Left her with some friends of mine.” I heard him sigh. “That’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about, Mary. About my girl, Suzella. She’s one of the main reasons I come through this way. It ain’t easy on her, being what she is. She could almost pass for white . . . naw, that ain’t so. She can pass, and I know she does it too. She can’t when she’s with me, but her mama encourages her. Says it’ll make life easier for her.”

  Cousin Bud cleared his throat and waited a moment before going on.

  “What’s worse is that Suzella’s ashamed of me, Mary. Oh, she loves me all right—it’s just that I can feel the shame. Still, I can’t fault her for it. The child just don’t know where she belong, and most times I think she believes she don’t belong no place. She stays to herself and ain’t got no friends much, ’cepting maybe at that school she go to—her mother’s got her in a Catholic school outside the neighborhood. I get the feeling sometime that Suzella, she don’t much want anything to do with the colored younguns . . . the colored anything.”

  He paused, as if waiting for Mama to say something. After a moment, she obliged him. “Well, I guess that’s to be expected.”

  “Mary, I want her to accept being who she is. She’s colored and she’s gotta accept that. I may be married to a white woman, but that don’t mean I’m trying to be white. Suzella’s a colored girl because her daddy’s a colored man, and no matter how much she might wish she ain’t and I ain’t, we both stuck with what we are and I don’t want her wishing otherwise. I don’t want her passing!” He took a moment, then said, “Mary, I gotta ask you something.”

  “What, Bud?”

  “Well, I know it might be hard on you, but I was thinking I’d like to send Suzella down here awhile to stay with you.”

  Little Man and I shot surprised glances at each other.

  “You’d be good for her, Mary. You and David, your whole family. You’re close and she needs that. It’d give her a chance for a real family, more’n me and Lydia been able to give her.”

  “What about Lydia?”

  Cousin Bud sighed heavily. “She loves Suzella. I don’t think she’ll be able to stay away from her, if I can just talk some sense into—”

  “What if she doesn’t want Suzella staying with us?”

  “Don’t matter. This is one thing I’m bound and determined to do. I mean for Suzella to have this if you’re willing.”

  I took my hands from the dishwater and went through the curtain. Mama, looking thoughtful, was swallowing the last of her coffee. She put the cup down, her fingers lingering on the handle as if to give her more time before replying to Cousin Bud’s request.

  “Mama, you finished?” I asked.

  She looked around. “Yes, baby, you can take it. Bud, you want some more coffee? There might be one more cup left.”

  Cousin Bud shook his head and drained his cup. “No, this is fine,” he said, handing the cup to me.

  I took both cups and saucers and returned to the kitchen. As I placed the dishes in the dishpan, Mama gave Cousin Bud her answer. “I’ll have to speak to David, but if it’s all right with him about Suzella, it’s all right with me.”

  On the way to school, Little Man and I told Stacey and Christopher-John about Cousin Bud’s conversation with Mama and that his daughter might be coming. Christopher-John speculated as to what this half-white cousin would be like while Stacey commented sullenly once again that Cousin Bud should never have come. Still discussing the matter, we turned off the first crossroads and followed the curve of the road past the Simmses’ place. As the road straightened, we saw two cars parked up ahead. Doors to both cars stood open, but we saw no one. We kept on walking. Then Stacey halted us with an outstretched arm, waited a moment, and motioned us into the forest.

  Hidden from the road, we waited anxiously as the sickening sounds of flesh pounding flesh broke the morning silence. Finally the thudding stopped and four men appeared, got into one of the cars, and left. We waited several more’ minutes before cautiously slipping back to the road and walking toward the remaining car. Drops of blood splattered in the dust beside the car led us farther down the road and to the defile on the left-hand side. There a man was lying, facedown. Apprehensively, we looked at each other; then Stacey turned him over. It was Mr. Farnsworth, the county agent.

  “He—he dead?” asked Christopher-John, his eyes wide as he gazed at the bloody figure.

  Stacey hesitated, then knelt down and placed his ear against Mr. Farnsworth’s chest. “His heart’s still beating.”

  “Well, he sure look dead,” observed Little Man.

  Stacey stood again and stared down at Mr. Farnsworth. We waited for him to decide what we were going to do. “Well, one thing, we can’t be taking him no place,” he said after a look up and down the road. “White folks see us and they be thinking colored folks beat him up like this. Be thinking maybe even Papa or Mr. Morrison did it, and he die, he can’t tell no different. And we go home, it take too long . . .”

  I looked from Stacey to Mr. Farnsworth. “What we gonna do then? Just leave him?”

  “No!” objected Christopher-John. “He die sure then, Cassie!”

  Stacey studied Mr. Farnsworth, then checked the road again. No one was coming. “Got an idea. Let’s get Jeremy.”

  “What he gonna do?” I questioned, seeing very little sense in bringing him into it.

  “Him being white, he can take him somewhere.”

  “Well, what ’bout Mr. Farnsworth? Shouldn’t some of us stay with him?”

  “Nothing we know to do for him, Cassie, and somebody white come along we better not be here. Ya’ll come on with me to get Jeremy.”

  Running, we left Mr. Farnsworth in the defile and headed back down the road and up the steep trail that led to the Simmses’ farm. At the top of the trail the land leveled out and newly plowed fields came into view. Fortunately Jeremy was working at the edge of the field near the trail busting clumps of dirt with his hoe and only his younger brothers Leroy and Ernest were with him to witness our arrival.

  “What y’all niggers doin’ up here?” cried Leroy, who was no bigger than a minute and younger than me.

  Jeremy turned on him with a piercing reprimand, and Leroy grew silen
t. His hoe still in hand, Jeremy came across the field apologizing for Leroy. “Oughta be in school, both him and Ernest. But Pa made ’em stay to help with the fields.”

  Stacey looked around. “Where is your pa?”

  “He ain’t here. Said he had some stuff to do.”

  I looked back toward the trail. “I jus’ bet he did.”

  Stacey let me have one of those disapproving looks of his, then said to Jeremy: “Look, here, we was thinking maybe you can help us with something.” He waited a moment before going on. “Mr. Farnsworth, he laying out there in the road by his car all beat up and needing somebody to get him to where he can get some help.”

  Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Mr. Farnsworth?”

  “That’s right. And we figure it’d be better you take him somewhere than us. . . .”

  Jeremy thought a moment and frowned. “Ya know my pa don’t much like him none.”

  “He don’t like us neither,” I reminded him, “but you don’t let that seem to bother you none.”

  “Where you wanna take him?”

  “I figure you could drive him to Mr. Granger’s.”

  “You—you mean you want me to drive his car?”

  “You can drive, can’t ya?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Didn’t get a chance to learn ’fore R. W. and Melvin took the truck up to Jackson.”

  Stacey looked back toward the trail trying to decide what we should do now. “Well, I know how,” he said finally. “Uncle Hammer, he taught me.” He turned again to Jeremy. “If I drive him up to Mr. Granger’s, will you go get the help?”

  Jeremy nodded. “Sure thing. But let’s not take him to Mr. Granger’s. He be asking too many questions.”

  “What that matter?” I said. “You don’t know the answers.”

  Jeremy still didn’t like the idea. “Let’s take him over to Mr. Tate Sutton’s. He ain’t much caring for Mr. Farnsworth none either, but he’ll help and won’t be asking a whole lotta questions.”

  With the decision made, Jeremy ran back to speak to Leroy and Ernest, and leaving his hoe with a fussing Leroy ran down the trail with us.

  “You tell ’em ’bout Mr. Farnsworth?” I asked.

  “No . . . just that they better not tell nobody I was gone or I’d take care of ’em when I get back.”

  When we reached the defile, Mr. Farnsworth was still lying motionless. With all of us helping, we picked him up as carefully as we could and set him in the passenger’s side of the front seat. Then with Stacey in the driver’s seat and the rest of us in back, Stacey started the car, turned it around and headed north. At the second crossroads, he turned west, away from Great Faith, and a few minutes down the road stopped in front of the Suttons’. Stacey glanced up the drive to the house, set some distance from the road, then at Jeremy. “You ready?”

  “I guess . . . but ya know, Stacey, I been thinkin’. What if we jus’ slide Mr. Farnsworth over so’s it look like he come up this far by his own self?”

  Stacey considered. “That oughta work just as well,” he said, obviously feeling that Jeremy had as much right to look out for his own well-being as we did ours.

  Gently we moved Mr. Farnsworth to the driver’s side; then Stacey, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I hurried into the forest on the other side. Once we were securely hidden, Jeremy laid on the horn, blasting the morning silence. Within seconds, Mr. and Mrs. Sutton came hurrying down the trail to investigate.

  Lying expertly, Jeremy said he had just come along and found Mr. Farnsworth beaten up in his car and, as Jeremy had assumed, the Suttons asked no questions. Mrs. Sutton checked Mr. Farnsworth’s eyes and told her husband they had to get him to Doctor Crandon’s in Strawberry. Mr. Sutton called for one of his grown sons to help him, and placing Mr. Farnsworth once more on the passenger’s side of the car, he sat at the wheel while his son followed in their pickup. Mrs. Sutton and Jeremy stared after them for a moment before Mrs. Sutton turned and went back toward her house and Jeremy started down the road.

  Stacey, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I walked along the forest edge until we figured we couldn’t be seen from the Sutton place, then joined Jeremy and walked as far as the crossroads with him. There Jeremy turned to go back home and we went on to Great Faith. School had already begun by the time we got there.

  * * *

  That evening when we told of what had happened, everyone worried about any possible repercussions if Mr. Farnsworth should die, and about our part in getting him the help he needed. Long after the boys and I had been sent to study, we could hear the grown-ups talking in the kitchen, their words muffled behind the closed door. Eventually we heard the kitchen door to the porch open and then the sounds of Papa, Uncle Hammer, and Mr. Morrison talking as they headed for the barn. We expected Big Ma, Mama, and Cousin Bud to join us now, but when none of them did, we did the best we could to concentrate on our last week of lessons.

  Outside it was not yet dark as the winter days gave way to the longer days of spring, and it was raining, the sound of it pelting like a melody upon the tin roof. Though the day had been warm, a chill hovered over the evening and Stacey made a fire. Little Man, not yet allowed to build a fire himself, helped him. For a while Little Man stood with one small hand placed on Stacey’s shoulder as Stacey knelt before the hearth waiting for the fire to catch hold, then the two came back to the study table.

  “Looks like we got some mighty studious folks here,” Uncle Hammer said, coming in the side door. He smiled as he passed the study table, then stooped and picked up something from the floor. He was about to put it on the table when he noticed that it was the picture of Jeremy. He stared at it, read the words on the back and set his eyes on me. “This here got your name on it,” he said.

  I felt a sudden nausea.

  His eyes narrowed. “Now just what you doing with a picture of a white boy?”

  “I—I . . .” There was a terrible pounding in my chest. “He gave it to me.”

  “He gave it to you? What for?” Uncle Hammer’s voice was calm, quiet, but it terrified me. I had seen him like this before and knew that a terrible anger lurked behind the calm. I had always been fearful of that anger ever being directed at me, and now I could only stare up at him, unable to speak.

  “He—he just gave it to her, Uncle Hammer.” I looked over at Stacey, silently thanking him for coming to my rescue. “He gave me one too . . . jus’ his way of being friendly. He didn’t mean nothin’ by it. . . .”

  “Didn’t mean nothing by it?” Uncle Hammer repeated, his voice soft. He turned Jeremy’s picture over in his hand and stared at it in silence. Christopher-John and Little Man looked at me, then back at him, waiting for the explosion to come. “You let a white boy give your sister his picture and then you sit there and tell me he didn’t mean nothing by it?”

  Stacey glanced nervously at me, then met Uncle Hammer’s eyes with a steady gaze. “Well, Uncle Hammer, Jeremy, he just come home from Jackson and was glad to see us and he had some pictures of himself, that’s all. He—he ain’t like most of the white boys round here, and he—”

  Uncle Hammer held up his right hand and Stacey stopped. I realized that in that one movement Uncle Hammer was attempting to keep his anger under control. I knew also that in defending me—and Jeremy—Stacey had now brought the brunt of Uncle Hammer’s displeasure down upon himself.

  For a time Uncle Hammer said nothing. We waited. When he spoke again, there was an unleashed anger in his words, anger that stemmed not from us, but from what he now told us. “Stacey, you soon gonna be fourteen. Now that ain’t so very old, but it’s old enough to know how things stand, and if you don’t know it already, you better start learning right fast how white men think ’bout black women. You seen it just Saturday with them two white boys hanging ’round that Peters girl. If that girl had’ve been mine, I would’ve whipped her till she would’ve been thinking twice ’fore she went sashaying ’round white boys again, and if her folks don’t get her straight soon, it’s gonna be
one sorry mess, ’cause that sorta thing don’t ever come to no good.

  “A white man think he can just have his way with colored women, can have them for the taking. I’ve known ’em to go to a black man’s house while that man was in the field working trying to take care of his family, and that colored woman didn’t have no more respect for herself than to take up with him. I’ve known too of colored women telling their husbands or their daddies or their brothers ’bout white men trying to mess with them, and I’ve seen their menfolks killed for trying to protect their women. And it’s the same up North. They come riding through our neighborhoods in broad daylight trying to pick up our womenfolk and don’t care nothin’ ’bout how they use them. White men like that ain’t nothing but dogs far as I’m concerned, and I’d rather see Cassie dead than take up with one of ’em.”

  The blood rushed to my head, and the silence which filled the room pounded against my eardrums. I felt sick and wanted to run from the room. But Uncle Hammer wasn’t finished.

  “You just look ’round you and see how they treat our women, then you take a look at how they treat their own women. They think every man in the world wants one of their women, and if a colored man even look sideways at one of ’em, they start talking ’bout lynching. A colored man caught carrying ’round a picture of a white girl like Cassie got of this white boy wouldn’t be long for this world. Fact to business, when I was ’bout fourteen, there was a boy your papa and me knew who lived over by Smellings Creek that was messin’ with a white girl, and a bunch of men come out to his place one night and cut off his privates—that’s just how bad it is.”

  He looked at each of us. “Now I know it’s hard, but there ain’t no easy or pretty way to say it, and the sooner you learn how these things are down here, the easier it’s gonna be on you. Cassie, you gotta always respect yourself and your family and your menfolks, and you boys, you gotta always respect your own women and take care of your sister. Y’all understand what I’m saying to ya?”

  We were too stunned to answer.

  “What’d you say?”