Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  Mama decided that it was too late for them to think about going anywhere farther tonight, and she and Stacey set about making pallets for them on the floor in the boys’ room. Meanwhile Big Ma fussed over Russell, whose arm had been badly scratched during his flight. Russell assured her that he could hardly feel it, but Big Ma insisted that she put some antiseptic on it. “Now you just take that ripped shirt on off. I’ll sew it up first thing in the morning.”

  “Ah, Miz Caroline, you ain’t gotta—”

  “I know I ain’t! But I wants to, so you jus’ go on and get outa it and give it to Suzella there and let me get to that arm.”

  Russell looked back over his shoulder. “Suzella . . . I didn’t see you there. Sorry to be waking you up.” When she didn’t speak, he grinned good-naturedly and took off his shirt, exposing his bare chest, and handed it to her. Wordlessly she looked at him, then took the shirt and returned to the bedroom.

  After I had said good night to both Dubé and Russell, I followed her in and as soon as the door was closed, let her have it. “You could’ve at least said good night to Russell. It wouldn’t’ve hurt you none.”

  She jumped, startled by my entrance. She had been staring at the shirt, holding it close to her. Now she laid it carefully over a chair and slipped into bed while I got down on my pallet, where I had been sleeping since she had come. Along with everything else, I greatly resented the fact that she had taken over my side of the bed, and when I had fussed about it, Big Ma had said that I could still sleep in the bed if I wanted to—in the middle. But seeing no reason why I should be sleeping in the middle when it was Suzella who was the intruder, I had chosen the pallet. “Russell’s my friend,” I continued to grump. “Everybody like him.”

  “Cassie . . .”

  “What?”

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  I started to say, “Yeah, let’s talk about it,” but realized before I said it that I didn’t really want to talk about it either. I supposed I simply wanted to talk, to keep men who carried fire and wandered the roads in cars with headlights that shone like cat eyes in the night from crawling into my sleep. They had done it before; no doubt they would do it again. I sighed helplessly and turned my back to Suzella. There was no keeping them out.

  * * *

  Talk of the burning spread as quickly through the community as if it had been the fire itself, and people got the message. Without Morris Wheeler and John Moses and the other union members, courage fizzled, and the integrated meeting which was to have taken place did not. It was uncertain what had become of the union men, but everyone knew that they had been run out, though no one seemed to know where they were now.

  Then John Moses’s body was found in a creek bed near Smellings Creek.

  “Th-they th-think they’s g-g-gonna b-bus’ up the union by k-killin’ Mr. Moses,” said Dubé, who took the death hard, “b-but they a-ain’t. C-can’t nothin b-bus’ up the union now. Th-they’ll ssss-see. . . .”

  Life settled down again. The days passed, dry and hot, good growing weather for the cotton after the heavy spring rains. Papa wrote often. His letters sounded cheery, but we could read the loneliness in them. He said he was looking forward to coming home for revival Sunday in August. He said, too, that work on the railroad had not been going well. He was no longer working a full six-day week, but only two or three days or whenever there was work. Still, three days’ pay was better than no pay at all and he stayed on.

  Each time Papa wrote he asked about the cotton. Mama wrote back that the cotton looked good. And it did. Yet despite how good it was looking, Mama, Big Ma, and Mr. Morrison seemed worried. Stacey was worried too. One burning hot afternoon, when every person with good sense should have been sitting under a shade tree somewhere, I saw him walking the rows, his head bent to the cotton. I followed behind him. “What you studyin’ on so hard?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer right away. I waited. He peered at one of the plants, then sitting on his haunches broke off a boll and opened it up. The cotton had begun to form. He held it over for me to see. “See that, Cassie?”

  “What?”

  “Them fibers. They’re gonna be long-staple, white.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s mighty good. Might be one of the best crops we done had.”

  “Then how come you look so worried?”

  “’Cause as good as it is, we ain’t gonna get near ’bout what it’s worth. And what we do get, it ain’t gonna be enough.” Stacey looked across the fields to the acres planted in alfalfa that should have been planted in cotton. “We’d’ve been able to plant them other acres there, things wouldn’t’ve been so bad . . . or we’d’ve had a contract and they’d’ve paid us for them acres we ain’t usin’.”

  I followed his gaze. “We made out last year,” I reminded him, “and we lost part of them acres anyway ’cause of the fire and we ain’t had Papa’s railroad money or Mama’s scrip most of the year.”

  “But Uncle Hammer was able to help then. Now he gotta repay that money he borrowed to buy the land clear from the bank, so he ain’t got much to give this year. Not only that, but ’cause of the way things been, we had to buy on credit from that store in Vicksburg, and ya know that’s something Mama and Papa and Big Ma always tried to keep from doing. But we ain’t had no choice. A good part of the crop gonna hafta go to paying the store debt . . . and Cassie, there’s always them taxes on the land. . . .”

  That scared me. We grew quiet, and in our silence all the sounds of the day seemed louder. A bee zoomed past trumpeting its presence, and a dragonfly spun in rapid delight above our heads, then flew on in happy celebration. I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked out over the land. The forest, deep greens and shades of brown, the fields looking like a patchwork quilt of growing things, the house, the orchard, the meadowland, were as much a part of me as my arms, my legs, my head. There couldn’t be life without them. The look on Stacey’s face told me he felt the same.

  “Been thinking,” he said. “Been thinkin’ . . . maybe I can get me a job—”

  “Like the last time?” I said dryly. “Boy, you and Mama done been through that business before.”

  “Ain’t gonna ask Mama. She still think of me too much like a baby. Papa most likely be home come revival Sunday and that ain’t so far off now. I’m gonna talk to him ’bout it then. He’ll understand.”

  I thought on that and agreed. “He say you can get a job, where ’bouts you gonna find one?”

  “Somewhere ’round here. ’Member Mr. Harrison, he jus’ up and offered me one.”

  “Boy, that job been gone.”

  “Most likely. But I figure to find something. Gotta.”

  “Stacey! Cassie! Mama, she say y’all come here!” Little Man hollered from the back porch.

  Stacey stood and wiped his hands together to remove the dust. “Cassie, do me a favor, huh?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t say nothin’ to Mama or nobody ’bout me thinkin’ ’bout a job, huh? She jus’ be getting all upset, and I’d jus’ rather talk to Papa ’bout it first. All right?”

  I looked up at him, wondering if he realized how good I felt to have him confiding in me again. “All right,” I said.

  When we reached the front yard, we found Christopher-John sitting under the chinaberry tree, his knees pulled to his chest and his head buried against them. “What’s the matter with you?” I said. He looked up. He had been crying.

  “What’s the matter?” Stacey repeated.

  “Mr. Morrison brung a letter from Papa.”

  “Did?” cried Stacey. “Jus’ now?”

  Christopher-John nodded.

  “Then what you cryin’ ’bout?” I questioned.

  “Papa . . . Papa say he ain’t comin’ home for revival.”

  An awful feeling shot through me and my stomach sank. Without looking at me, Stacey started toward the house. I followed. Inside, Mama read Papa’s letter to us without emoti
on, then she put it away and did not speak of it again. All of us understood why Papa thought it better that he stay where he was to earn as much money as he could, whenever he could work. But understanding did not take away the loneliness; we missed him so. Stacey wandered off alone after he heard the letter. I watched him, wondering what he was going to do about that job of his now.

  * * *

  August came and all of us, including Suzella, went to the fields dragging the cotton bags at our sides. Through the long days from sunup to sundown we worked, bending and picking and stuffing the cotton into our bags. Soon the days of August passed into September and Mr. Morrison made an overnight trip up to Vicksburg to sell our first load of cotton; he took Stacey with him. When they got back late the next day, they reported that cotton prices were the same in Vicksburg as they were in Strawberry.

  Mama sat silently, thinking. “And they’re not any higher than they were in August?”

  Mr. Morrison shook his head. “They steady, but you know you can’t never tell. They could rise . . . or fall. . . .”

  Mama pursed her lips and looked at Big Ma. “I think we ought to wait until near the end of the month before selling any more of the cotton, and see how prices are then.” Both Big Ma and Mr. Morrison nodded, confirming their agreement. Mama looked at Stacey. “What do you think, Stacey?”

  If Stacey was surprised that Mama had asked his opinion, he didn’t show it. “I think that’s the best thing, too,” he said.

  Mama kept her eyes on him a moment, then nodded. “All right then. Come the end of the month, we’ll take the cotton into Strawberry.”

  On the last Friday in September when we came from the fields, Mr. Morrison and Stacey put the side boards on the wagon. The side boards were regular plank boards which fitted neatly on top of all four wagon sides, making the wagon’s interior deeper, and allowing it to hold some 1500 pounds of cotton. We loaded the cotton, packing it tightly until the wagon was filled, then covered the top with the tarpaulin and fastened it down.

  The next morning Mr. Morrison hitched up both Lady and Jack. Then he and Mama climbed onto the wagon seat and Stacey and I climbed on top of the cotton bed. Frankly, I was surprised that I was going. I had pointed out to Mama several times that Stacey had been allowed not only to observe business since he had been ten, but to take care of some of it as well. I supposed I had finally convinced her that my education in practical matters was just as important as his. After all, she had had to run the farm and sell the crops; perhaps I would too someday.

  It was still early when we reached the Granger-Walker mill to have the cotton ginned, not yet six o’clock. Already wagons had begun to gather and more than fifteen were ahead of us, their occupants taking the time before the mill opened at seven thirty to catch naps on top of the cotton or stretch their legs in the dawning light. Here there were no segregated lines. There was only one large, barn-door-like gate opening to the mill and one road leading into it; it was simply a matter of first come, first served.

  At seven-thirty exactly the huge doors swung open and Stuart Walker, his father Hamden, and Pierceson Wells stepped out. At the sight of Stuart, anger snapped alive in Stacey’s eyes. I saw it; so did Mama. “Not a word, do you hear?” she quietly told him. “Not one word.” Stacey sucked in his breath and looked away.

  The ginning of cotton was a slow process, and it was after twelve o’clock when we reached the entrance. “How do there, Mary?” Stuart said as we pulled up.

  I saw Mama bite her lower lip before she spoke. I bit my lip as well, remembering that Mama had told me to keep my mouth shut. But it was hard. Mama was a good fourteen years older than Stuart, and for her to have to show him respect when he did not do the same for her was galling.

  There was a strange smirk on Stuart’s face as Mama answered. I was afraid he was going to say something about Suzella, but he didn’t. He waved us into the mill. There pipes were placed inside the uncovered wagon and the cotton was sucked into a machine which cleaned the cotton, then removed the seeds from it. Afterward the cotton was cleaned once more and funneled into a ginning press, which compressed it into five-hundred-pound bales. Our cotton came to one bale, a neat rectangular package, covered on two sides with burlap and held together by iron bands. Mama paid the ginning charge; then the seeds from the cotton, and the bale of cotton were loaded onto the wagon and we headed to the warehouse, where the cotton buyers were located. As we pulled into place at the end of a long line, we spied Moe Turner standing some ways off staring at the buyers in the open field surrounding the warehouse.

  “Hey, Moe!” Stacey called. “Moe! What ya doing here?” Moe looked up, somewhat surprised. We all knew that he wasn’t in town to sell cotton. Sharecroppers like the Turners were not allowed to sell their own cotton. At the end of each day they took their cotton to the plantation center and turned it over to Mr. Montier, who saw to its ginning and sold it as well. Whatever money, if any, Mr. Montier felt was due the sharecroppers was then given to them after all the deducts had been figured.

  Moe came over to the wagon and greeted us. “Papa had some errands to run in town, so me and Elroy come ’long with him. Y’all gettin’ ready to sell y’all’s cotton, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Mama said.

  “Top price goin’ at eleven cents a pound.”

  Mama nodded. “That’s what we heard.”

  “Ain’t enough,” said Moe.

  “It’s more’n it was two years ago, son,” said Mr. Morrison.

  “Yes, sir. . . . Say, Stacey, could ya come here a minute? I got somethin’ to show ya.”

  Stacey jumped off the wagon. As I jumped off after him Mama warned us not to go far. At the end of the field which circled the warehouse, Moe stopped. “Look here, Stacey, I done made up my mind—” He looked at me, then pulled Stacey away. “Come with me a minute, will ya?”

  The way Moe had looked at me I knew I wasn’t wanted, so I let them go without protest and returned to the wagon. As I neared it, I saw that Mr. Granger had come up and taken it upon himself to pull a handful of cotton from our bales to inspect it. Mama stood beside him.

  “It looks good, Mary,” he said after a moment. “Long-staple. Clean. Strong. Mighty good.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Granger.”

  “Y’all’ll get top price for it.”

  “We’re hoping so.”

  “Course eleven cents a pound don’t hardly compare to the thirty-five cents a pound we got in 1919. Surely don’t. Still, it’s better’n we have had.”

  “That’s very true, Mr. Granger.”

  Mr. Granger let his cotton sample drop to the ground. I heaved an angry sigh, but of course I could say nothing; neither could Mama.

  “Now even though prices are some better, Mary, you and me both know they ain’t enough to keep y’all goin’. I know the kinda bills y’all got. My offer to buy y’all’s place still stands, same as last year.”

  “Well, we appreciate your concern, Mr. Granger, but we still aren’t thinking of selling.”

  Mr. Granger shrugged. “Well, it’s up to y’all,” he said, then glanced up at Mr. Morrison, whose eyes had never left him, and walked back toward the warehouse.

  “Get in the wagon, Cassie,” Mama said. A pent-up rage was in her voice.

  I knew now was not the time to express my comments on Mr. Granger. I climbed onto the wagon without another word and waited.

  When the cotton had been sold and we headed down the main street of Strawberry in the empty wagon, we met the Turners on their way out. Glad to have the company on the long journey home, we trailed the Turners as far as the Wallace store. There, as the Turners continued west toward Smellings Creek, Moe called to Stacey, “See ya tomorrow?”

  “You coming to church at Great Faith, Moe?” Mama asked.

  “I’ll be down that way, yes, ma’am,” Moe said after a moment’s hesitation. “Bright and early.”

  “See ya tomorrow then, Moe!” I cried as our wagon turned south and headed for home.


  * * *

  The sounds of late summer were in the air. We sat for a while on the front porch enjoying the last taste of the long day, and finally, as the moon rose full and yellow overhead, Mr. Morrison stood and said good night. Stacey jumped up and walked out into the yard with him and the rest of us went into the house. While Suzella dallied with Mama and Big Ma in the other room, I made up my pallet, then returned to Mama’s room, where Big Ma sat doing some late-evening darning and Mama and Suzella were writing letters. As I entered, Stacey came through the side door and for a moment he just stood there. Then he did a strange thing. He walked over to Mama sitting at the desk and kissed her, then did the same with Big Ma.

  “Good night,” he said.

  Mama looked up from her letter. “Good night, honey. See you in the morning.”

  Stacey crossed to his room, looked back once more, and softly closed the door.

  “Lord, I don’t ’member the last time that child kissed us good night,” said Big Ma, smiling, obviously pleased.

  “That was sweet, wasn’t it? And now, Miss Cassie, don’t you think it’s time you were saying good night too?”

  “What ’bout Suzella?”

  “Good night, Cassie,” Mama answered with a lilt to her voice.

  I said good night and went back to my room. I changed into my nightgown, then turned the lamp low and headed for the pallet. But just as I slipped under the covers Stacey called to me from the porch. Grumbling because he had waited until I was already lying down, I got up and crossed to the door and pulled the latch. Stacey stood there, his penknife in hand.