SHELIA P. MOSES
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA)
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
Copyright © 2014 by Shelia P. Moses.
Interior art copyright © 2014 by John Hendrix.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Moses, Shelia P.
The sittin’ up / Shelia P. Moses.
pages cm
Summary: “When the patriarch of twelve-year-old Bean’s sharecropping community dies, Bean gets a lesson in not only what it means to lose someone you love, but
also in how his family and friends care for their dead”—Provided by publisher.
[1. Community life—North Carolina—Fiction. 2. Death—Fiction. 3. African Americans—Fiction. 4. Sharecroppers—Fiction. 5. Depressions—1929—Fiction.
6. Race relations—Fiction. 7. North Carolina—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M8475Sit 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013013838
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN 978-0-698-14958-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
This novel is dedicated to my mentor and friend,
Willie Stargell.
You gave the world baseball;
you gave me the true meaning of friendship.
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
LATER ON
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“The axe forgets, the tree remembers.”
—African Proverb
ONE
“Steal away, Lord. Steal away. I don’t have long to stay,” Ma sang as the rain came pouring down on the tin roof of our little brown house.
“Tell Mama and Papa I will see them in hev’n,” she said to Mr. Bro. Wiley. “Go on home to be with Jesus.”
I could barely hear her words over the thunder and lightnin’. Ma hated to see the former slave go away from here. He had been like a daddy to her ever since he moved into our one-story house. I reckon he felt like her daddy long ’fore he came here in 1935, ’cause she had known him all her life. Mr. Bro. Wiley, Ma, and all our kinfolk were born in the Low Meadows, just like me. Most folk born in lowland of Northampton County died there.
I was peeping through a small hole in the wall at my mama, Magnolia Jewel Jones, because I wasn’t allowed in the room of death. She was sitting in the wooden chair beside Mr. Bro. Wiley’s rusty old iron bed. Hurt and tears filled poor Ma’s high yellow freckled face as she stared at our friend. His dark wrinkled skin looked worn. His hair was as white as the snow that fell last January. Time and sickness had taken all the meat off his long bones.
To get a better look at Mr. Bro. Wiley, I reached in my overall pocket and pulled out the small knife I found in the cornfield a few weeks earlier. The knife my folks didn’t know I had. I cut a bigger hole in the newspaper Ma used to cover the walls. We didn’t have money for real wallpaper but Ma was always bringing something home from Miss Remie’s house. She washed for the white lady twice a week. I cut in between the picture of President Franklin D. Roosevelt and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt. They were announcing that more help was coming for poor folk to see us through the Depression.
I saw Ma lay her head on the pillow right beside Mr. Bro. Wiley. My papa, Stanbury Jones Sr., was in the room too. He rubbed Ma’s back as if he was trying to make the pain go away. Mr. Bro. Wiley could barely lift his hand, but he managed to touch Ma’s head. His long skinny fingers had more wrinkles than his one-hundred-year-old face. His nails were long too, ’cause he said he didn’t want Ma troubling to cut them no more after he took sick a month ago at the Fourth of July fish fry. We didn’t have much to eat but the menfolk caught enough fish to feed us while we sang songs and roasted fresh corn from the garden out back. Mr. Bro. Wiley never seemed well again after that day. He said he just wanted to be left alone.
“No . . . no, no!” he said when he saw Ma pulling the nail clippers out the drawer. We were listening to Edward Murrow talk about the Great Depression on the radio that evening. Mr. Bro. Wiley loved listening to him. He said Mr. Murrow was a smart man. What we didn’t learn about the outside world from Miss Remie’s day-old newspapers, we learned from Mr. Murrow.
“Ain’t no need to cut my nails again, Magnolia. I’ze working on gettin’ right with Jesus, not my hands,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said that night.
Then he looked across the room at Papa, who was polishing his Sunday-go-to-meeting shoes. “Stanbury, I don’t want my hair cut no more either. My time on this here earth is drawing near. Leave me be while I get ready to go home to be with my Jesus.”
Papa never looked up. Never even answered Mr. Bro. Wiley. Maybe his heart was too full to talk. He just cleared the lump out of his throat and kept on shining his shoes with a breakfast biscuit and an old rag. There was no money for shoe polish, but bread could put a shine so bright on our shoes that we could see our faces right at the toe.
I didn’t say a word. My heart was breaking too.
I thought about that night as I stood and watched Mr. Bro. Wiley preparing to leave this earth.
“Stop your crying, Christmas,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said. That was the nickname he gave Ma because she was born on Christmas morning, 1899. I put my ear closer to the hole. His voice got lower and lower, but his breathing was louder. It sounded like the train coming to a slow stopover in Weldon when it arrived from up North.
“Child, I want to thank you and Stanbury for all you done for me. I thank Bean too,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said. It made me feel good that he remembered me in his final hour.
“We done what we were supposed to do,” Ma said.
“That’s-that’s the truth and we-we gonna keep on doing right by you.” Papa sometimes said his words two at a time, because his ma, Grandma Ethel Mae, dropped Papa on his head when he was a baby. Papa said he don’t remember the fall, but he know he broke his leg. He’s walked with a limp ever since and sometimes he moans late at night because his bones hurt him so bad.
Mr. Bro. Wiley was leaving this earth for sure.
“Stop trying to talk. You need-need your rest,” Papa said. “Don’t thank us. You-you are family.”
“That’s right. We are a family,” Ma said.
I know she meant those words because Ma was real happy when Mr. Bro. Wiley came to live with us after his wife, Miss Celie Mae, went to heaven. Before moving in with us, he lived down on the riverbank in the log cabin where he was born in 1840. He said most slaves didn’t know when they were born, but the Wiley family that owned him wrote his name and birthdate in a Bible that he found years later. Mr. Bro. Wiley’s boy Peter read the dates to him the best he could with the little schooling he had. Peter and Mr. Bro. Wiley’s other eleven children were in heaven with Miss Celie. He outlived them all.
Mr. Bro. Wiley never moved his furniture into our house. Just his clothes and a rocking chair that used to be brown till Papa painted it white. He left Miss Celie Mae’s rocking chair on his back porch facing the river. Mr. Bro. Wiley said he wanted to keep his log cabin, along with his furniture. He said he always wanted to keep a place of his own.
Ma thought Mr. Bro. Wiley should rent the log cabin out for ten dollars a month.
“The Wileys gave you that house but all the other Low Meadows folk have to pay him fifteen dollars a month. Why don’t you rent that place?” Ma asked him one day.
“I got a head, don’t I, gal?”
“Yes, Mr. Bro. Wiley. You got a head.”
“Well, a real man always keeps a roof over his head.”
Ma didn’t say nothing else about that log cabin ’cause she knew Mr. Bro. Wiley had spoke his peace.
Sometimes Mr. Bro. Wiley would go back to his own roof and sit on the porch from sunrise to sunset. If I didn’t have fieldwork or school, I’d join him no sooner than I’d finished my chores. He didn’t think much of folk going in his house. Mainly us children. Said he preferred we sit outside away from his personal belongs. His home place is where he went to remember Miss Celie Mae and their children. So we would just sit on the porch and look at the river together. It was really named the Roanoke River, but Mr. Bro. Wiley called the forty-eight miles of water at the end of the Low Meadows “Ole River.”
One evening while he was sitting in Celie Mae’s chair and I was sitting on the stoop, I asked him, “Mr. Bro. Wiley, why do you call the river old?”
“’Cause, boy, it’s the only thing in Rich Square, and probably all of Northampton County, that’s just as old as me.”
“Even the trees, Mr. Bro. Wiley?”
“Yep, even the trees.”
If Mr. Bro. Wiley was as old as the river and the trees, I reckon he was tired and ready to go on to glory. He seemed tired. I gathered he must be ready to go to heaven from the way he always talked about seeing Miss Celie Mae again. He talked about seeing his Jesus face-to-face.
“Here, Mr. Bro. Wiley, take you a sip of water,” Ma said as Papa held his head up. Death was so thick I could almost see it.
“That’s enough, Christmas. I’m ready to rest now.” Right then my heart fell apart as if it were the brown crust on one of Ma’s apple pies.
Ma started saying the Twenty-Third Psalm over and over. That’s when Mr. Bro. Wiley reached up and put his hand over her lips. The house was as quiet as a mouse. Just the sound of thunder. It reminded me of one of my books falling on the floor at the schoolhouse, but much louder.
The old slave man took one long breath. No pain, nor a cry for his soul. His shoulders, that used to sit high, kind of shuddered down in the bed. Just one breath and it was all over. Over for Mr. George Lewis Wiley. He went away from here. Our friend went to glory. I felt a gust of wind go past my shoulder like the summer I got caught in the windstorm. I knew it was Mr. Bro. Wiley leaving the Low Meadows. I got excited in my heart. I was talking but no words came out. “Off you go, Mr. Bro. Wiley; off you go to see Jesus.”
“Steal away, Lord. Steal away, Lord. I don’t have long to stay.” Ma managed to sing out Mr. Bro. Wiley’s favorite song one more time. Tears ran down her sad face. Papa was crying too, so he didn’t notice when I pushed the door open and walked in. The lightnin’ struck again and lit up the room.
I had never seen a dead man before. I was kind of scared, but I felt I needed to be with Mr. Bro. Wiley. He told me he sat outside that same room when I was born. Because he was there for me when I was born, I was proud to be there for him when he took his last breath. It was the right thing to do.
I wasn’t standing there long before Ma and Papa heard me crying.
Ma turned around while Papa watched over Mr. Bro. Wiley. She held her chest as if her heart might jump out and roll on the floor. Then she rubbed her belly that was filled with baby; a baby that no one bothered to tell me a thing about. Low Meadows folk never said a word when a woman was gonna have a baby. Not one word. Maybe they think us children don’t know where babies come from. You just go to school or the fields one day, and when you come home, a new baby’s living in your house. It was a shame ’fore God to keep a secret about a baby that had my blood in their veins.
I took my mind off the secret baby and looked at Ma. I tried to catch my breath and stop the tears from rolling down my face. The lightnin’ struck so low that I thought it was coming through the window. The whole room lit up again. I could see Ma’s swollen eyes as she stood up.
“Go back, Stanbury Jr. Go back. Death done come for Mr. Bro. Wiley. Go back, child.” Ma never called me Stanbury Jr., unless she was upset. Papa didn’t say a word. He never turned around. He wrapped Mr. Bro. Wiley’s body up real slow with the white bedsheet. Ma sat down in the chair so hard that I heard a thump. I walked backward into the hall and closed the door. I looked at the president and first lady torn apart on the newspaper. Torn apart just like my heart.
“Good-bye, my friend,” Papa said.
“Rest on, Mr. Bro. Wiley. Rest on!” Ma cried out.
Papa reached across his body and grabbed Ma’s hand. They were quiet for a while. Then Papa said, “I best-best go out to town and get Joe Gordon to pick up the body.”
“Wait till morning, Husband. I want Mr. Bro. Wiley to stay here tonight. Let him stay home. Besides the weather is too bad for you to go outside.”
Ma turned her whole body towards the window.
“I reckon it’s a good night for dying. My mama used to say when it rains this hard, the Lord is washing a soul to hev’n.”
“I-I believe that, Wife. I truly do. I need to check on Bean. Will you be all right for a minute?” Papa kissed her on her cheek as she nodded her head. Ma never stopped studying the rain carrying Mr. Bro. Wiley to hev’n. Papa didn’t mention going to the colored undertaker again as he came in the hallway. He pulled me close to his chest. Close to his heart. His voice was sad.
“We’ve done all-all we can for Mr. Bro. Wiley on this side of the mountain.”
“I know, Papa.”
“It’s late. You go on to-to bed.”
“Please, let me stay out here. I want to be near y’all. Please!”
Papa didn’t argue with me. He was too sad and he knew I was hurting all the way to my bones.
“Fine. Get-get your quilt. You can sleep out here if it makes you feel better. I will leave the door open, but do not-not come in Mr. Bro. Wiley’s room. It’s filled with death.”
“I ain’t scared, Papa. I ain’t scared of death.”
“This is grown folks’ business, child. You will see him when the time come for the funeral, but not now.”
Then Papa turned around and went back inside.
“Be
an will be all right, Wife,” Papa told Ma.
“Poor child. He loved Mr. Bro. Wiley,” she said with her gaze still fixed on the window.
They cried together. Then Ma began shouting till she couldn’t shout no more. Up and down she jumped just as the folk do at Sandy Branch Baptist Church on Sunday morning. She stomped her feet. Up in the air her hands went.
Then she cried.
Sang.
Shouted.
Cried.
Sang.
Shouted.
There was nothing I could do for Ma, so I lay down beside the door just in case my papa needed me to get her a glass of water. Papa lay on the floor on the right side of the bed.
“Please come on down here with me, Wife.” Ma didn’t move. She kept sitting in the chair, watching the storm. Every now and then she would stand up and stomp her feet.
“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you for the life of Mr. Bro. Wiley,” she said. As I watched Ma carrying on, I thought about how upset all the Low Meadows folk would be when word got out that our friend was gone.
Now, if Miss Lottie Pearl Cofield was at the house when death knocked on the door, it would have been a mess as sho’ as you born. She was Ma’s best friend and our neighbor that lived right up the road on Stony Hill. Stony Hill wasn’t a real big hill, just high enough for me and my best friend, Pole, to slide down when the snow came each winter.
Pole is Miss Lottie Pearl and her husband Mr. Jabo Cofield’s youngest child. Their only son, Willie, is a porter for the railroad and lives up North in a place called Chicago. Pole’s real name is Martha Rose, but we called her Pole because she didn’t have no meat on her bones. Skinny as she can be. Skinny as one of them poles in our string bean patch in the backyard. I didn’t care nothing about Pole being skinny though. She been my friend all our days on this earth and that’s why they nicknamed me Bean. Folk in Low Meadows said me and Pole act as if we couldn’t live without each other. Mr. Bro. Wiley said we stick together the way a bean vine stick to a pole. Mr. Jabo thought that was some kind of funny, so he decided we were officially Bean and Pole.
The Sittin' Up Page 1