by Lois Lenski
“Wisht I could stop and ketch us a bait o’ fish for supper,” said Joe Bob.
“We’ve lost so much time already,” said Papa, “we can’t stop for nothin’ now.”
“Unless it’s me,” said Mama.
“We’ll stop if you don’t feel good, Calla,” said Papa.
A huge snake was worming its way across the road ahead. Papa swerved just in time to avoid hitting it. Then he drove onto a long rickety wooden bridge over a wide stretch of cypress swamp. Soon the engine began to spout water and heat up.
“Gosh almighty!” said Papa. “There she goes again. Thought I had that fan belt fixed. Can’t stop on this narrow bridge …”
The traffic moved slowly, a long line of cars and trucks ahead and more behind. Another long line was going slowly in the other direction. The jalopy kept going, spouting more and more steam.
“Jim,” said Mama. “Let’s find a place to stop soon. I gotta lie down.”
“Yes Calla,” said Papa. “Soon’s we get outa this funeral procession.”
After the bridge was crossed, the road was smoother and it was lined on both sides with pine forests, but there were no turns or side roads. Suddenly the jalopy stopped. Mama said she couldn’t go any farther. That settled it.
A little ahead was a railroad crossing. The woods beside the road was a swamp, a foot deep in water. The only dry place was the grassy slope at the edge of the highway. Papa parked the jalopy and trailer on the slope. He staked the goat farther down. Judy cleared out the back seat of the car and Mama lay down and went to sleep. So did Lonnie and Cora Jane in front.
It was still mid-afternoon. Among the things removed from the car, Judy found the tin cans that held Mary John Gibson’s slips. They were dry and wilted, and so, while she hated to do it, she threw them away. The oleander slip in the blue bottle had started to root. She looked in the grocery basket to see what there was to eat. She found a dry piece of bread, and she and Joe Bob took turns, biting.
Papa opened the hood of the car to let the engine cool off.
“Judy gal,” he called, “come here, listen. You and Joe Bob must go buy me a new fan belt.” He gave her some money. “Go down to the railroad track and follow it till you come to the next town. I see smoke down there. That means there’s a mill or turpentine still or somethin’, so it must be a town. Go to the first garage you see and ask for a fan belt for a Ford. When you come back, watch for this paved road and the jalopy.”
“I could stay with Mama,” said Judy. “You could walk faster, Papa.”
“No,” said Papa. “’Tain’t safe for me to leave your Mama sick and the young uns sleepin’ so close to the highway. You and Joe Bob go do it.”
“Come on, Judy,” called Joe Bob.
They went to the railroad crossing and started off to the right, walking the railroad ties. Soon they were blotted out of their father’s sight by the thicket of tall pine trees.
There was nothing Papa could do to the car, so he sat down on the running board to rest. He decided not to put the tent up until nearly dark. He noticed people in passing cars looking and pointing, but he paid no attention. After a while a big car pulled up. Two well-dressed men were sitting on the front seat. One of them inquired: “What do you call this?”
“Howdy!” said Papa. “I’m jest gittin’ ready to camp here for the night. I’m drivin’ up north, but been havin’ trouble with my car and can’t go no further.”
“Can’t park on the highway,” growled the man. “You’ll have to move on. You’re blockin’ traffic.”
“But I’m off the highway,” said Papa.
“Sorry, mister, but this is against the law.” The man opened his coat to show the star on his vest. “I’m county sheriff. This man with me belongs to the State Police.”
“But my wife’s sick!” protested Papa. “She’s in the car, sick, and my car’s broke down. It won’t go till I git a new fan belt.”
“Sorry. Git goin’ soon’s you can.” They drove on.
Mama was awakened by the sound of the men’s voices and heard what they said. Sick as she was, she got up and packed the stuff back in the car, while Papa put the goat in the trailer.
“If them kids would only come,” sighed Papa.
But they did not come.
A small truck slowed up and a pleasant voice called out, “In trouble, neighbor? Can I help?”
“Where’s the nearest town?” asked Papa. “Garage there?”
“Swampville, two miles,” said the man. “Best garage in the county. Can I tow you in? I’ve got a good chain handy.”
“Thanks,” said Papa. “This is luck.”
The two men fastened the tow line and Papa climbed in the jalopy beside Mama and the little ones.
“Won’t we wait for Joe Bob and Judy?” asked Mama.
“Can’t,” said Papa. “Likely we’ll ketch up with ’em in town.”
Meanwhile Judy and her brother had followed the railroad track till they came to Swampville. They had no difficulty locating the garage and getting the fan belt. While they were there, they heard a long freight train go through the town. They started back the way they had come. Sometimes they stepped on the railroad ties, counting them. Sometimes they tiptoed along on the shiny rails. They liked walking the railroad track.
“What are those big birds?” asked Joe Bob, looking ahead.
Large black birds were circling around above the tracks, now and then dipping low to the ground.
“Don’t you know? Turkey buzzards!” exclaimed Judy with disgust. “They’re after a dead cow or hog, I reckon. Likely that train ran over it. These old range critters go anywhere they’ve a mind to.”
By the time the children came up, the buzzards were hopping about awkwardly on the ground. They looked like big black turkeys, with bald heads. As the children approached, they flopped about before starting to fly away, frightened.
Joe Bob ran to the ditch below the track. It was not a cow or a hog.
“It’s a dog, somebody’s dog,” he said in a low voice. “Oh, I wisht I’d a had that dog for my own …”
“Is he done dead?”
Judy wheeled around at the sound of a strange voice. There stood a small, ragged boy, wearing a torn straw hat. She had not seen him before and wondered how he had slipped up so quietly.
“Dog’s been run over,” she said. “Train musta threw him in the ditch. We seen them buzzards. Where’d you come from?”
The boy pointed toward the pine woods beside the tracks. The trees had had broad gashes chipped off on one side, and earthenware cups were attached to catch the slow-moving gum. No houses could be seen.
“Where do you live?” Judy asked again.
The boy did not answer.
Joe Bob stood looking at the dead dog. “Musta been a nice dog,” he said. “Wisht we could bury him, so them buzzards won’t eat him.”
“There’s a hole over yonder,” said the ragged boy, “where a tree’s been uprooted. If we-uns could git him over there …”
The children found a fallen branch of a cabbage palm, shoved the dog onto its broad, strong leaf, and dragged it over into the woods. They put the dog in the hole, and dug dirt loose with their hands to cover it. It took a long time to fill the hole. Then they piled sticks and branches on top.
The ragged boy was silent the whole time. Then he started off through the woods.
“Where you goin?” asked Judy.
“Back to work,” said the boy.
“What work?”
“Cuppin’ and dippin’,” came the answer. “Pa does the chippin’.”
“What’s that?”
The boy took a gum-filled cup from the slashed side of a pine tree and poured it slowly into a wooden bucket that sat on the ground. The bucket was almost full. It was all he could do to carry it to the next tree.
“Hit’s gittin’ heavy,” said the boy, panting, “Gotta tote it to that barrel and dump it.” He pointed to a barrel some distance off. “Sometimes I git
disabled to tote.”
“Your Pa make you do that heavy work?” asked Judy.
“Boss man won’t hire no families less’n they got boys to dip gum,” said the boy. “Pa’s a chipper. Me and my brother are dippers. We live in the turpentine camp over yonder.”
“What’s your name?” demanded Judy.
“Orrie Fletcher,” said the boy.
“How d’you spell that?”
“Dunno,” said the boy. “Never set foot in ary school in my life.”
“You can’t write your name, nor read, nor do arithmetic?” asked Joe Bob.
“Naw, can’t, don’t want to neither.”
“How old are you?” asked Judy.
“Don’t rightly know. Sometimes Ma says ’leven and agin twelve.” He began to walk off through the woods.
“He don’t look much bigger’n Cora Jane,” said Judy. “Twelve!”
All at once Joe Bob called out after him: “Was that your dog?”
The boy nodded his head without looking back. Then he threw himself down full length on the ground and began to sob loud broken sobs.
Judy and Joe Bob just stood there. They felt like crying too.
They stood there and watched until the boy got up and disappeared in the pines. Then they went back to the railroad track. Soon they saw some weather beaten shacks and a makeshift store in the middle of the woods, and near by a sprawling turpentine still.
“Betcha Orrie lives in one of them shacks,” said Joe Bob.
“Reckon so,” said Judy.
“Not much fun livin’ in the dark, lonely woods and workin’ so hard … and losin’ your dog .…” said Joe Bob.
“And never goin’ to school,” added Judy. “That’s worse’n us.”
They felt a close kinship to the little turpentine worker.
“Mama told me once,” said Judy, “that no matter how bad off you are, there’s always some one worse off somewhere.”
They kept on walking, and soon the tracks crossed the paved road.
“Here’s where we turn off,” said Judy.
“But where’s the jalopy and the trailer … and the goat?” cried Joe Bob.
Judy looked in both directions and could not believe her eyes.
“Gone!” she exclaimed. “But they can’t be, Papa’s car wouldn’t go.” She looked at the fan belt she carried in her hand.
They walked first in one direction, then came back and walked in the other. The paved road stretched off indefinitely in both directions, but there was no sign of the jalopy.
“What’ll we do?” asked Joe Bob.
“I don’t know,” said Judy.
They were standing by the railroad, when a large shiny car pulled up before going over the tracks. It was full of people and in the front seat sat a pretty little girl with light yellow curls. She leaned out the window and waved her hand, calling, “Hello there.”
Then she added: “Why, it’s Judy Drummond. What are you doing here, Judy? Mother, there’s Judy. She was in my class in Florida.”
All the people in the car looked at Judy and her brother standing there so stiffly.
“Is your name Judy Drummond?” called the little girl’s father.
Judy gulped. “Shore is,” she said. “And you’re Gloria Rathbone.”
She wanted to run up to the car and let Gloria know how glad she was to see a familiar face. But she remembered she had her old dirty overalls on, and her face must be dirty. She hadn’t washed it since morning. She glanced at Joe Bob. His hair was wild and his face was dirty too.
“What are you doing here, Judy?” asked Gloria.
“Jest walkin’ along,” said Judy.
“Where are your parents?” asked Gloria.
“I don’t know,” said Judy.
“Can we take you to your father’s car?” asked Gloria. “Has he gone off and left you? We’re driving north. We spent the winter in Florida and we’re on our way home to Connecticut. We’ll be glad to take you, won’t we, mother?”
Gloria’s mother, sitting beside two other ladies, started to make space in the back. She pulled down two little folding seats.
“They can ride here,” she said. “We can’t leave the poor things stranded along the road. We can take them to the next town and report to the police that they are lost.”
“Yes, of course,” said Gloria’s father. “Get in, children, we’ve wasted enough time already.”
Gloria’s mother opened the shiny back door of the car.
“How strange we should meet you children here in Georgia,” she said sweetly. “Please get in, won’t you?”
“No ma’m!” said Judy firmly. “We’re stayin’ here.”
“Oh, won’t you come with us, Judy?” begged Gloria.
But the back door of the car closed with a bang, and the car bounced softly up and down over the railroad tracks. Then it was gone, and Gloria’s little hand could be seen waving goodbye out of the front window.
“Won’t ride in no Yankee’s car!” said Judy defiantly. To call Gloria’s family Yankees gave her a strange malicious pleasure.
“Not even when they’d a took us to where Papa is?” asked Joe Bob.
“No,” said Judy, “not even if I was half-dead.”
“How we ever gonna find Papa?” wailed the boy.
Judy squeezed his hand tightly. She didn’t know herself.
They waited a long time and finally a mule came by pulling a wagon. On the seat rode an old colored man and a little colored boy.
“Want a ride, chillen?” inquired the old man.
“Shore do,” answered Judy.
Before they knew it, Judy and Joe Bob were on the wagon seat talking to Uncle Duff and little Jerry as if they had always known them, When they reached Swampville, the first thing they saw was Papa standing in front of the garage where they had been before.
They flew into his arms.
CHAPTER X
The Carolinas
“LET’S STOP IN BEANS awhile,” said Mama. “Likely we can git outdoor work here. I thought I never wanted to see another bean, but——”
“We’ll need money for gas and oil to git us to New Jersey,” added Papa. “We’ll have to stop and work somewhere.”
So they stopped in South Carolina, in a small town in the Charleston area. The farm was on the edge of town, and a railroad siding reached it from the track a mile away. Several empty freight cars stood beside the packing shed. Papa hunted up the grower and arranged for work. Then he set up the tent in the shade of a tree.
Mama was feeling better and the next day she and the children walked to the bean field, while Papa went to the packing shed to pack. They caught up with a woman and a boy who were also going to the field. The woman wore a pink flowered dress over her blue slacks, and a straw hat on her head. The boy had knee-pads on his knees.
“You-all pickin’ beans?” asked Judy.
The woman frowned and spoke crossly: “Where you from?”
“We just got here from Florida,” said Mama.
“You-uns can go right back where you came from,” said the woman. “No more pickers needed. They use only local labor here. Plenty people here in this town need work, without outsiders comin’ in.”
“But the boss man hired us,” said Mama.
“Crop’s near about over,” said the woman. “Takin’ on more people ends the job for us mighty quick.”
“But he said the bean crop would last till the middle of May,” said Mama.
“This is the second pickin’ now,” said the woman. “We’ll be done in less’n a week. You’re takin’ the bread out of our mouths.” She and the boy strode on.
“We gotta eat too!” Judy sang out after them.
“Judy!” scolded Mama. “Hold your tongue. You only rile folks when you sass ’em back that-a-way.”
The field was not as large as a Florida bean field, but it was large enough. Pickers, young and old, black and white, were scattered over it. Many of them looked like grotesque scar
ecrows, dressed in fantastic odds and ends of clothing. The “field walker” gave Mama two rows to pick, and Judy and Joe Bob one each. Nobody talked to them. They were left severely alone.
“Pick with two hands,” said the field walker, “and fill your hands full. Keep the basket close beside you. Keep your kids with you and see that they work. If they stop pickin’, send ’em out of the field.”
He gave Mama a card to be punched each time she carried a basket to the weigher to have it weighed.
Cora Jane and Lonnie played in the dirt. Judy and Joe Bob picked. Judy wanted to help Papa all she could. It was good to be earning cash money again and she did not mind bending over at first. Then the sun grew hotter and hotter, her back began to ache and the bean row got longer and longer. But she kept on. She hoped Mama would not get sick again. Cora Jane carried a glass jar to the water tank on the truck parked at the side of the field. She brought it back full of water and they drank thirstily.
They picked beans all week, and during that time none of the other pickers spoke to them. Several truckloads of Negro families arrived from Florida, each in charge of a crew leader.
One day out in the field, Judy heard a boy’s sharp scream, and saw women running.
“Somebody’s hurt, I betcha,” said Joe Bob.
“I’ll go see if I can help,” said Judy.
When Judy came up nobody spoke to her. A hoe lay on the ground with blade upturned. She guessed the boy had stumbled and fallen on the sharp blade. The women were helping him to his feet. He held his hand to his head and groaned. Blood was running down his cheek.
“Take him over in the shade,” said Judy. “I’ll git my First Aid kit.”
“Who’s she, the bossy young thing?” inquired a woman.
“Family from Florida,” answered another.
The boy was taken over to the shade beside the water truck. Judy brought her kit and a wash basin which she filled with water at the tank. A large lump had risen on the boy’s right temple and on top of it there was a deep cut. The women stood by not knowing what to do. A crowd of children gathered. The wounded boy, who had been standing, suddenly keeled over.