Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

Little Man didn’t answer right away, but finally when he chose to arise from the dead, he opened his eyes and hopped up. “Must be awful,” he concluded, “not being able to move. Get stiff.”

  “Boy,” I said, “when you’re dead, it don’t much matter You can’t feel anything no way.”

  Little Man was thoughtful. “I s’pose the worms get at you. . . .” He looked over at the rest of us, as if hoping we would deny this. When none of of us did, he said, “Don’t think I’d like that. Worms running all through my body.”

  “What you care?” questioned Christopher-John. “You be gone.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’d be in the box.”

  Christopher-John shook his head. “I asked Mama ’bout it and she said when you die, that part that’s you just ups and leaves the body part. She say it’s just like when a butterfly leaves its caterpillar skin. Jus’ ups and flies away. Says it be free then.” He thought on it and decided, “It ain’t so bad.”

  Little Man thought on it too, but did not change his mind. “Yes, it is too. I like my body jus’ the way it is and I don’t much care for worms to be running all through it, I’m in it or not.” Then his eyes took on a faraway look and his words were softer. “Guess they told you, Papa ain’t found Stacey.”

  “Yeah . . . they did.”

  Christopher-John took it upon himself to change the subject. “Ya know, Cassie, there ain’t been no school this past week and last.”

  “Ain’t?”

  “They say they was trying to keep the sickness from spreading.”

  “And I had to go be one of the sick,” I complained, upset at the thought of missing the unexpected vacation.

  “Say, Cassie, how you like them flowers?” I followed Christopher-John’s glance to the vase filled with late-blooming asters. “Cut ’em myself. Thought I’d bring a little of the outdoors inside for ya.”

  “You did?” I said, thinking how nice it was to have them around me again. “They’re real nice.”

  “Yeah, and when they don’t look good no more, I’ll bring you some more and—” He broke off abruptly and cocked his head, then, jumping off the bed, ran to the window. “There he is again!”

  “Who?”

  “Wordell. He been coming every day since ya been down sick. Jus’ come and sit by the road and play that harmonica of his.”

  “He has?” I said in total surprise. I pushed the covers back. “I wanna see.”

  “Girl, ya better stay where you are,” Little Man advised. “Big Ma, she say you can’t be getting up yet.”

  Suzella readjusted the covers around me. “That’s right, Cassie. You’ve got to get your strength back.”

  Still feeling weak, I complied. “He ever say anything?”

  “Jus’ play,” said Christopher-John.

  Little Man jumped from the bed. “I’m gonna go ask him to come in.”

  “He won’t,” I told him.

  “Well, we can ask him anyways,” Christopher-John insisted. “We do every day. Big Ma say that just manners.” With that bit of explanation, he and Little Man dashed out the front door.

  Suzella shook her head. “I don’t understand it . . . I mean why he just comes and plays.”

  I smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry ’bout it. Not understanding him, I mean. Ain’t too many people that do.” When Christopher-John and Little Man returned, I said, “Well?”

  “Wouldn’t come,” said Little Man.

  I nodded, disappointed, even though I had known he wouldn’t.

  Big Ma came in, waving her hands in the air. “All right now, I’m gonna have to shoo y’all younguns on outa here so’s Cassie can get some rest. She mos’ likely gettin’ tired out ’bout now.”

  “No, ma’am, Big Ma, I ain’t—”

  “Yes, you is. Now all y’all jus’ go on now. You can visit with her again this afternoon sometime.”

  After Suzella and the boys left, I fell off to sleep. When I awoke, Papa was sitting in the rocker next to the bed reading the Bible. As I turned, he looked up and smiled.

  “Well, you looking better each time I see you, sugar. How you feel?”

  I smiled back. “I feel fine, Papa. Fact to business, I don’t see how come I gotta stay in bed all the time.”

  “You just ain’t well enough to go getting up quite yet. You do like Big Ma says and you’ll be just fine in a little of no time.”

  “Yes, sir. . . . Papa?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Papa, what we gonna do? There’s all them bills to pay . . . and the taxes . . . and you having to leave the railroad to go look for Stacey, well . . . Papa, what we gonna do? You said one time we’d never lose the land.”

  “And we won’t.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, still worried.

  “What is it, sugar?”

  “Suzella said Mama sent a whole lotta telegrams to places so’s to be sure to reach you ’bout me . . . that cost quite a little bit of money, didn’t it?”

  “Right nice sum all right.”

  “I—I’m sorry ’bout that, Papa. That money, I know we need it for a whole lotta things more important than telegrams. . . .”

  Papa leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You know, Cassie, while you was sleeping so peaceful there, I was thinking ’bout when you was born.”

  “You was?”

  He nodded. “I was twenty-four years old then and was working down at that old sawmill near Smellings Creek. It was run by an ole cracker by the name of Joe Morgan, and most of the colored folks that worked for him had a really hard time with him, but for some reason or other he hadn’t never bothered me. I s’pose that’s ’cause I didn’t never have nothing to do with him or say to him outside of what had to do with the business of that sawmill, while some others would drink with him and so forth. And I ain’t never approved of that, getting too familiar with these crackers.

  “Anyways, on that particular day, the day you was born, ole Joe Morgan had drunk more’n he should’ve for lunch and he called me from my work and asked me ’bout drinking with him. I told him ‘no thank ya’ and went on back to work. Well, I s’pose that really made him angry, me not drinking with him after he’d invited me and all, and he stayed up there in that office of his a good part of the afternoon and from the look of him when he come out, he’d been stewing and drinking most of that time.

  “He come down to the mill where I was and began talking loud and saying things like I wasn’t half doing my work and that I was sneaking off ’fore quitting time and such. Well, I knew he was drunk and I didn’t say nothing to him, just kept on working. But that just made him madder, and he said I better answer him when he talked to me. I told him I didn’t know I was s’pose to answer him, and Lord, if he wasn’t mad already, he sure was mad then. He said I was just too uppity for my own good and he better just chop me down to size. Then he come grabbing an axe.”

  “And he was gonna use it on you?” I asked breathlessly.

  Papa smiled slyly. “I believe that was what he was planning on doing.”

  “Papa, what’d you do?”

  “Nothin’ . . . just stood there . . . and told him he planned on using that thing on me, he better plan on killing me.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “And what’d he do?”

  “He stood there a moment all red in the face, then turned and went back to his office.”

  ’And what’d you do?”

  “I got my stuff and came on home without my pay, not knowing what that old white man was gonna try and do to me once he got sober. But guess what?”

  “Sir?”

  “When I got home, I forgot all about Joe Morgan.”

  “You did?”

  Papa nodded.

  “How come?”

  “’Cause you was here. Born that same afternoon.”

  I smiled.

  “There you was, the prettiest, baldest baby I’d ever seen in my life.”

  I laughed.

 
“And I said to myself: ‘What I gotta worry ’bout these white folks for? Or a job? Or money I ain’t got? This little girl right here, she’s what’s important. Ain’t never gonna be nothing more important than this little girl.’”

  I felt a lump growing in my throat. “Papa,” I said, “I love you.”

  Papa smiled and took my hand, enveloping it in his own. “I love you too, Cassie girl. I love you too.”

  * * *

  Finally, on the day Papa was to return to his search, I was given permission not only to get out of bed for a few hours but to put on my pants and shirt. I felt a little wobbly at first, but as soon as I was dressed I hurried out the front door and down the softness of the lawn to the road, where Wordell had already taken up his morning vigil. When he saw me coming, he took the harmonica from his lips and smiled. I grinned back and sat beside him. The question was on his face, so I answered it.

  “I’m fine.”

  To my surprise, he said: “I’m glad.”

  “I—I really like your music. Thank ya for coming and playing it for me every day. It was so pretty.”

  Wordell looked down at his harmonica.

  “It sure helped a lot, that music. That business of staying in bed all day ain’t no fun at all when ya gotta do it day in and day out. And being hot all the time and coughing and feeling sore, that wasn’t no fun either. I ain’t never really been sick before, but I tell you one thing, I ain’t never wanting to be sick again. I guess I was sorta lucky though, ’cause my fever was so high and I don’t ’member most of it ’cept . . .”

  I stopped. The dreams had lingered with me, like a ghostly foreboding about which I had been unable to speak. I could feel Wordell’s eyes on me, but I didn’t turn to look at him. “’Cept the dreams. I ’member the dreams. . . . They was so real and . . . and Stacey, he was in ’em and he . . . sometimes he was . . . dead.”

  Frightened by my own words, I turned frantically to Wordell.

  “What that mean, Wordell? Me dreaming something like that? That ain’t no vision, is it? It can’t be no vision! I couldn’t stand it if Stacey was dead! Couldn’t stand it if any of ’em was dead.”

  “Cassie!” Big Ma summoned from the house.

  “Anything happen to ’em, I’d die my own self. I wouldn’t wanna live they wasn’t here!”

  “Cassie, where you at, girl?”

  Wordell stood up. Frightened, I searched his face looking for comfort. He looked down at me, the gentleness in his eyes reminding me of Papa, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Everybody gotta die, Cassie.”

  “But Stacey—”

  “And he die, you’d live . . . ’cause that’s how come the sun shines.”

  Gently, he pressed my shoulder, then, turning, put the harmonica to his lips and walked down the road, the music trailing him. He did not come to play for me again.

  12

  When Uncle Hammer arrived a few days before Christmas, he cupped my face in his hands and asked me how I was. Once assured that I was fine, he looked around the house and said: “Where Christmas done got to? Ain’t seen a sign of it nowheres. No pine and holly over the fireplace. No good cooking smelling through the house. Y’all hiding it from me?”

  Big Ma smiled weakly at his teasing. “Tell you the truth, son, we gettin’ us a slow start ’round here. Jus’ got them hogs slaughtered a few days ago and David not home, we ain’t fooled with that souse ’ceptin’ to cook the head. Ain’t even got the coon yet. Got my nuts cracked for my pecan pie and brought in my sweet potatoes, but ain’t none of us much in the Christmas spirit.”

  Uncle Hammer took this in silence, then looked at Mama. “When’s David coming back?”

  “He said by Christmas . . . it depends. . . .”

  Uncle Hammer nodded and rose from his chair. “Well, seem to me we got a lot to do ’round here, and the first thing we gonna do is take care of that souse. Can’t have New Year’s without no hoghead souse!”

  “But Papa, he always make the souse,” Little Man reminded him, for it was a job Papa took special pride in doing each Christmas season.

  Uncle Hammer looked his way. “Don’t you figure I can handle it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Little Man, not concealing the doubt in his voice.

  Uncle Hammer laughed. “Well, nephews and little niece, y’all come on and give me a hand and let’s see how we do.”

  We went with Uncle Hammer to the kitchen, where he took off his suit jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and after washing his hands tackled the hoghead. He delegated the job of picking the meat off the head to Christopher-John, Little Man, and me, while he chopped the sausage. Once the meats were ready, he ground them together, then added salt, red and black pepper, sage, and vinegar. He mixed everything well and tasted it. He frowned, added a bit more vinegar for a tangier flavor, and after a final taste exclaimed, “Now, that’s some good souse!” He passed around the bowl and the rest of us agreed. He winked at us. “Bet y’all thought your papa was the only one could make souse like that ’round here.”

  Uncle Hammer molded the souse, wrapped it in a cloth, and put it in a bucket with a brick on top to squeeze out any excess oil. Then Christopher-John, Little Man, and I went with him to the well, where he tied the bucket to a rope and lowered it to above the well’s water line to season until New Year’s Day. With that done, he clapped his hands together and said, “Now let’s go get us that Christmas tree!”

  The four of us walked deep into the forest, Uncle Hammer carrying an axe, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I bushel baskets for the holly branches and mistletoe. East of the pond we found a nice-sized cedar tree, and not far from it holly intertwined with forest vines. We set to work. Uncle Hammer chopped the tree while Christopher-John, Little Man, and I cut the holly. After a while Uncle Hammer glanced our way. “How y’all doing?” he asked. “How y’all making it without your brother?”

  We were silent in answer.

  He swung the axe again. “He’ll be back, ya know.”

  Christopher-John, with strings of ivy vines swinging from his neck like a long green scarf, went over to him. “Uncle Hammer, what’s the cane fields like?”

  “Ain’t y’all asked your papa?”

  “Asked Mr. Morrison. He said it’s terrible hard work.”

  “Backbreaking work is what it is.”

  “But he said cane-field work be ended come December sometime.”

  Uncle Hammer nodded.

  “Then maybe,” said Little Man hopefully, “maybe Stacey, he’ll be home for Christmas?”

  I turned quickly back to the holly bush, but not before Uncle Hammer had seen the doubt in my eyes. “I wouldn’t count on it, son. I wouldn’t count on it for Christmas. But one of these days I got a feeling the best present y’all ever had’ll come walking in the house there, and it won’t even be Christmas Day.”

  That evening, with the Christmas tree sitting near the window and holly interwoven with mistletoe and pine branches on the mantel, Uncle Hammer and Mr. Morrison talked of hunting a coon as if it were any other Christmas. They filled the evening with stories about coon hunting which made us laugh and, for a little while, took our thoughts off Stacey. Finally, when the evening came to an end and everyone stood to go to bed, Mama unexpectedly went over to Uncle Hammer and hugged him softly. “Thank you, Hammer,” she said.

  Christmas Eve Papa came home, once again alone. Even though both Papa and Uncle Hammer had warned us not to get our hopes up about Stacey’s return, none of us, including Mama and Big Ma, had totally dispelled the hope that if Stacey was ever coming home again, it would be for Christmas; and we listened for him in every footstep coming up the steps, every knock on the door. Now Papa’s return without him punctured our Christmas hope, and the emptiness without Stacey settled once more.

  “Papa,” Christopher-John said, “Stacey, he don’t come for Christmas, he gonna be awful lonesome by hisself.”

  Papa, looking tired from the long days of search, reminded him that most likely
he wasn’t alone. “Remember, he’s got Moe.”

  Christopher-John nodded and looked away.

  “But when he gonna come home?” said a mournful Little Man. “We been waitin’ so long.”

  A tear slid down his cheek and Papa brought him close. “One day, son,” he said. “I’m praying one day soon now.”

  * * *

  We arose in the early-morning darkness, greeting each other with merry Christmas wishes, but the words were hollow, without feeling, and before we tended to anything else, we gathered before the fire in a circle as we did each Christmas morning and sang “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” It was a song of family, of love, of loss; we all felt it deeply. Then we fell to our knees, hands still clasped, and prayed, each of us in our turn, for Stacey and Moe’s safe return. Big Ma broke down and cried afterward, but Mama, Papa, Uncle Hammer, and Mr. Morrison tried to be cheerful. “All right,” Papa said when the prayers were finished, “let’s see what Santa Claus done brought!”

  After breakfast we dressed and went to church. As we drove up, bells were pealing joyfully, ringing longer and louder than usual on this Christmas Day—Joe was having a marvelous time—and church members were clustered around the entrance giving each other season’s greetings, while boys and girls lucky enough to have gotten some new bit of clothing strutted proudly around the churchyard. Leaving the car, we were heading toward the entrance to join the other churchgoers when Uncle Hammer turned sharply and said, “It’s Russell Thomas, ain’t it?”

  Russell, his back to us, turned from a group of young men and grinned. “Why, Mr. Hammer! How you doing?” The two shook hands, then Russell greeted the rest of us, his eyes resting last on Suzella. He smiled warmly. “I’m glad to see you’re still here.”

  “Thank you” was all she said.

  “I heard you’d joined the Army,” said Uncle Hammer, “but each time you come home, I never quite made it home the same time, so I kept missing you. Glad it worked out this time. Get a chance to talk.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m looking forward to that. I’ve got me two weeks this time and—”

  “Hammer Logan, you ole good-lookin’ thing you!”

  “Miz Lee Annie!” Uncle Hammer exclaimed as Mrs. Lee Annie hurried over. “It sure is good to see ya.”