“Tendin’ to that ole mule of his, I reckon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Um. Cooper oughtta just shoot that mule and be done with it. But long’s your daddy can keep fixing him up, I s’pose he won’t.”
The sisters laughed. “S’pose not,” said the one.
“Well, y’all come on in when you ready,” said Luke Sawyer, and went back into his store.
The young woman then turned to the crying boy. “Now, hush up, Henry!” she ordered. “Don’t you be cryin’ ’bout them ignorant boys. Don’t you know their words can’t hurt you none, ’less you let them! They tryin’ to make you feel little, but they can’t make you feel little if you feel big inside. No matter what they do, they can’t do that. You hush up that cryin’ and go on home to folks who care ’bout you, and don’t you be hangin’ round this here store where these ignorant boys can make fun of you. You hear me?”
The boy nodded and wiped at his eyes with his arm. He turned slightly, but his arm hid his face. He started down the road.
“Wait up just a minute there, Henry!” the young woman called, stopping him. She dug into her basket and pulled out a good-size cookie. “This here’s for you, Henry, and can you carry yo’self a pie without droppin’ it?”
The boy spoke for the first time. “Pie?”
“That’s right. A pie.”
The other young woman now spoke up. “Caroline, you can’t go givin’ this boy one of these here pies!”
“Hush up, Callie!” snapped Caroline. Then in a softened voice she said to the boy, “Now, you take this here sweet-potato pie to yo’ mama and tell her that’s yo’ pie. But you be sure and share this pie with yo’ mama and yo’ sisters, ya hear me?”
“I hear,” said the boy, Henry, and turned full toward me. Now I could see his face clear. He had a bad cleft lip, which no doubt had been the object of the boys’ taunts. But that didn’t seem to matter to him at the moment, as his lips curled into a wide grin. “Thank ya.”
“Well, you sure ’nough welcome,” said Caroline. “But you better make sure that pie get all the way home! Yo’ mama can bring me back that tin come church time Sunday.”
“Yes’m, I make sho’.” The boy headed down the road, and the two girls picked up their baskets and started for the store entrance.
“Owww, girl,” said the one called Callie, “Mama’s gonna whip the livin’ daylights outa you ’bout givin’ ’way that pie! You know we s’pose t’ be sellin’ these here pies!”
“Well, you know what, Callie?” said Caroline. “I don’t care! That boy needed somethin t’ make him feel good ’bout himself, and if a little ole sweet-potato pie can do that, then that’s what I give him. Mama can jus’ whip me if she wanna!”
“Well, she’ll wanna, all right!”
Caroline shrugged off her words. “Ya know what, Cal? I’ve gotten my share of whippin’s before. ’Spect I can take another one.” With those words she entered the store, and her sister followed. I headed back to the shed with a smile on my face.
I went back to my work. I labored steadily on the night table the rest of that afternoon and several days after that, sanding it, making the edges rounded and smooth, making it perfect. When I finished, I was satisfied. I got some shellac from Luke Sawyer’s store and he looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “You done already?”
“Soon as it’s stained,” I said, and returned to the shed. I brushed on the first coat of shellac, then settled back waiting for it to dry before coating the table with another. While I was waiting, Luke Sawyer came out to the shed. “It’s not dry yet,” I said.
Luke Sawyer nodded and walked around the night table without touching it. He studied the drawers sitting separately on a shelf, and I could see admiration in his eyes. “If these drawers fit in that table as good as they look, Paul Logan, then I don’t figure you to be chopping wood.”
“They’ll fit,” I assured him.
Two days later, with an additional coat of shellac dry on the night table and the drawers smoothly slid inside, Luke Sawyer had me bring the night table into the store. Soon after, he sent a boy over to the house of a Miz B. R. Tillman, wife of one of the bankers in town, with the message that a night table like the one she’d admired in the catalog was available if she’d like to take a look. Miz B. R. Tillman came late in the day, just before closing, with her husband, Mister B. R. Tillman. Luke Sawyer called me from the shed, and I stood aside as the Tillmans looked over my work.
“I understand you’re a colored boy,” said B. R. Tillman.
I looked at him in silence.
“That right?” he questioned, looking for confirmation.
“I’m a man of color,” I said, quietly correcting him. I was no longer a boy.
B. R. Tillman nodded. “Well, I’ve heard some mighty good things about your woodworking from Mister Sawyer here. Some mighty good things. Now, if this be the kind of work you do, those good words were true, all right.” He walked around the table inspecting it. “Say you made this in just this last week?”
“That’s right.”
“Um-hum,” murmured B. R. Tillman admiringly, and continued his inspection.
Meanwhile, Miz B. R. Tillman had already made up her mind. “Benjamin Roy,” she said, “I want this night table! Best work I’ve seen in a while by anybody around here. I want a chifforobe with the same design. Get them, please!”
B. R. Tillman protested a bit. “Now, Miz Tillman, that’s going to be depending on what Mister Sawyer here is asking for it—”
“He’ll be reasonable,” said Miz Tillman.
“Now, precious—”
“Won’t you, Mister Sawyer?” she asked.
“Well, Miz Tillman,” said Luke Sawyer, “I always try to be.”
“Well, if that’s your attitude,” said B. R. Tillman, “we ought not have a problem. What you asking?”
The haggling over price took more than an hour, and both men seemed to enjoy it immensely. Finally a deal was struck, with B. R. Tillman paying what Luke Sawyer had already told me he would for the table, and a price agreed for the chifforobe if the piece met the Tillmans’ approval. The Tillmans, especially Miz Tillman, went away happy with their purchase. Luke Sawyer locked his store and turned to me. He picked up the money the Tillmans had paid and said, “I suppose now we need to determine how we’re going to split this. I wanted you here because I wanted you to know exactly how much I was getting for this piece of furniture. I mean to treat you fair.”
“I believe that.”
“But you know I’ve got a lot of expenses connected with this woodworking plan of yours. I’ve got the wood to pay for, the tools, and don’t forget the shed you’re working in—and staying in, I might add. So seeing that you’re using my tools and my shed and customers who come through me, as well as the fact that I’m supplying the lumber, I figure that I’m heavy on the expenses end. Now, you talk like an educated young fella. You understand percentages?”
I nodded.
“Good. Well, I figure to pay you twenty-five percent for your labor, and I’ll keep seventy-five percent for my overhead and profit.”
I looked at Luke Sawyer, and had he been a man of color, I would have laughed, and he no doubt would have laughed with me. Instead, I shook my head somberly. “I’m afraid those terms won’t do, Mister Sawyer. I’m a master craftsman and I’ve been at my trade for some years now. Without my experience there’d be no night table worthy of selling to the likes of the Tillmans, or a chifforobe on order, so I figure my investment of time and skills are as important as your investment of your tools and your supplies. Thing is, I figure any piece that’s made, the cost of supplies needs to already be figured. As for my staying in your shed, I appreciate your offer, and it would be convenient for me, but I believe it would be convenient for you too. I’m the kind of man who, once I make a commitment, I stick to it. If I stay in your shed and I say something is going to be done by a certain time, I can work through the night if need be. If you want
to charge me rent for the shed, we could do that, or if I need to find a separate living space, I can do that, but I figure fifty percent of any transaction is the least I can take.”
Luke Sawyer studied me in the dim light. “Equal partnership, eh?” he asked, and his wording was not lost on either of us. “What about my customers? Remember, you wouldn’t be getting any orders for furniture if folks didn’t come to me. They trust me, and I’d have to be standing behind your workmanship. That’s a lot on me.”
I nodded. “I appreciate that, and I believe that as long as I make quality pieces, there’ll be satisfied customers who’ll let other folks know about pieces they can order through your store. I think that fifty percent would be profitable for each of us.”
“Um . . .” murmured Luke Sawyer, thinking that over. “Maybe even more profitable for you, if you start taking on customers that come direct to you without bothering to come through me.”
“If you’re concerned about that, Mister Sawyer, I can tell you right now that as long as we have an arrangement, I’ll take only customers who come through you. I’d figure, though, to set my own hours.”
“Set your own hours? How do I know then that my orders’ll be done when I figure they ought to be?”
“They’ll be done, and on time.”
“Well, if they’re not, I’ll charge you on them. Five percent of what’s coming to you for each day the work’s not done.”
I agreed to that, but added, “Of course, I’ll need to know beforehand what the piece is and have a say in the time it’s going to take me to make it.”
“Long as it’s reasonable. Don’t forget, I know about how long it takes on a piece.”
Again, I agreed.
“So, set your own hours, consult with you before I make my deals, what else you want?” Luke Sawyer asked dryly.
“Nothing,” I said. “But there is something you need to know. I’m looking to buy land and once I do, I’ll be working it. If it’s agreeable to you, I’d contract to work with you for a year.”
Luke Sawyer stared at me in silence, and I didn’t know what he was thinking in that quiet moment. Then he laughed, outright and loud. “Thought I was supposed to be the businessman here! All right, then, Paul Logan,” he said. “We’ll try it this way for a spell, but I tell you one thing right now. I start losing money or you don’t live up to your end of things, then this deal’s off. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said.
“I s’pose I owe you some money, then.” The look on Luke Sawyer’s face was solemn as he gave me my money, but then he extended his hand to me and I shook it, and I remembered that, for he was the first white man to shake my hand since I had left my daddy’s land.
About two months after I started working with Luke Sawyer, Mitchell showed up late one Saturday evening. I had already quit my tools and settled down to my reading when he knocked on the shed door. As we had said we would, we had both sent word about our safe arrivals, but we hadn’t been in contact further. Course, I’d known he’d come eventually, but his sudden appearance gave me quite a surprise. “I must say, it’s about time you showed up,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about coming to look for you.”
“Good to see you too,” said Mitchell. “First time I’ve had to get away.”
“So, where’re you working? Still at that camp I sent word to?”
“Naw . . . was. Got a job there few days after we split up, but I’ve moved on to another camp now. Place called Mud Creek.”
I had heard of the camp. “What happened?” I said. “Why’d you leave the first camp?”
“Same as usual. Folks just don’t seem t’ want t’ get along with me for some reason.”
“Another fight?”
“Wouldn’t call it a fight,” grumbled Mitchell. “It was over with in less’n a minute. Fella couldn’t even hardly make a fist. But then he went and made such a fuss, I figured it was best I find me another place.”
I tried to hide my smile. “What was the fuss about? His woman?”
Mitchell looked at me. “What else?” He suddenly laughed, and I laughed too. It was good to be with him again.
I hadn’t cooked much for my own supper, just some collards and onions with a bit of ham hock, but I had some potatoes in store, as well as a side piece of bacon and some eggs, and I happily cooked them up in celebration of Mitchell’s arrival. Mitchell cooked up some poor corn bread too, and we sat down at my cleared workbench and ate hungrily, as if we had before us one of my daddy’s Christmas feasts.
“So, you’re working just a half day away from here?” I said.
Mitchell was concentrating on eating, and he only nodded.
“Things okay with you there?”
Mitchell glanced across at me, swallowed, then took a gulp of his milk. “You got reason t’ think they wouldn’t be?”
“It’s just that last time I saw you, we had those Mississippi lumbermen after us, as well as that band of men looking for chicken thieves.”
Mitchell smiled. “Well, I ’spect they still lookin’.” I smiled too, and Mitchell added, “Ain’t heard no more ’bout ’em, and ain’t lookin’ to hear no more ’bout ’em. My job ain’t bad. Pay’s ’bout the same. Boss man ’bout the same like the rest I known. Ain’t nothin’ much different, ’ceptin’ I ain’t got nobody watchin’ my back.” Mitchell looked pointedly at me, and I understood. I felt the same. Thing was, though, I was in a different situation now and not having to worry about a camp full of men turning on me. I was feeling like instead of watching over my shoulder, I was looking ahead. “Look like you makin’ out all right,” Mitchell observed, glancing around at an unfinished table and a cabinet that took up a corner of the room.
“For now,” I said.
“So, what kind of deal you work out with Luke Sawyer?”
“Worked out a fifty-fifty partnership with him. He lets me use his tools, his shed, and his lumber, and I make the furniture his customers want.”
“You could’ve done it on your own, Paul. You ain’t needed no white man. Yo’ work good ’nough on its own self.”
“Wasn’t interested in putting what money I got into all the tools I’d need for making furniture. What I was interested in was someone to put up the tools for me and I could still be my own boss.”
“Yeah . . .” murmured Mitchell, “less this here Luke Sawyer see different.”
I shrugged. “It’s only for a short while anyway. You forgotten what I really want?”
“How I’m gonna forget? You been talkin’ ’bout the same ole thing ever since we left outa East Texas.”
I grinned wide. “Well, I found it.”
“Land?”
“Land. Same day we went our separate ways, I found it. I walked late that night and I was so tired, I didn’t give any thought to where I was. I saw what looked to be a safe place on a hillside and I just put down my head and went to sleep. But come the next morning, I woke to an amazement. Mitchell, I was sitting on the most beautiful spot of land I’ve ever seen. I can’t even begin to describe it to you, because words don’t hardly fit, but it had meadows and a virgin forest, and a pond too. When I saw it, I couldn’t believe it. I got up and walked all around the place. I can’t explain it, but that land just drew me to it, like I belonged there. Mitchell, it felt like home.”
Mitchell studied me across the workbench. “So, what you do ’bout it?”
“What do you think? Went to see if I could buy it.”
Mitchell scoffed. “From a white man?”
“What makes you think a white man owned it?”
Now Mitchell laughed. “’Cause a black man couldn’t afford land good as you describin’!”
I let Mitchell finish with his laughter, then said, “There’s something about that land, Mitchell. I mean to have it.”
“The man willin’ t’ sell?”
“Said he wasn’t . . . not right now anyway. But I figure I can wait.”
“Wait how long? A year? Ten? Waitin’ on a
white man t’ let loose of his gold ain’t what I call right smart.”
“Well, maybe not,” I conceded, “but I’m thinking on maybe buying some other land and working it while I’m doing my waiting.”
“And what ’bout your woodworkin’?”
“Never intended to make a lifetime of it. You know that. I told Luke Sawyer the same when I struck my bargain with him. It’s land I want, not a carpentry shop.”
Mitchell nodded. “So when you ’spect t’ get this other land?” “Well, one thing I promised Luke Sawyer was a year’s work with him. I’ll need to live up to that, so I’ll wait awhile.”
“This Luke Sawyer, he a fair man?”
“Seems to be.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Mitchell again gave me that pointed look, and I understood. After all, Luke Sawyer was a white man, and even if he had been a man of color, there wouldn’t have been much trust as far as Mitchell and I were concerned. The two of us had learned long ago to trust only each other. “I get a piece of land,” I said, “you’re welcome to come in on it with me.”
Mitchell laughed again. “Told you before, Paul, I ain’t wantin’ t’ be no farmer. “’Sides, a man get hisself some land, he must be figurin’ t’ settle, get hisself a wife and younguns and tied down.” He shot a quzzical look at me. “You found yourself somebody?”
I shook my head. “Been too busy to look.”
“Seem, though, you given thought to it.”
“Won’t deny that,” I admitted. “I figure it’s time I settled.”
“What you doin’ wit’ your free time? You seeing any young ladies?”
“You know I don’t have time to court.”
“Well, anybody courting you?”
I smiled.
“So—who is she?” demanded Mitchell.
“Well, there’ve been one or two young ladies who’ve invited me to supper.”
“Least that’s something,” said Mitchell. “You go?”
“Too busy.”
Mitchell grunted.
“But what about you?” I asked. “I know you must be seeing somebody. You always are.”
The Land Page 17