The Sittin' Up

by Shelia P. Moses

  “Yes, Stanbury, Pole is right. Y’all go on.” Miss Lottie Pearl paused and walked back to the edge of the porch. “Would you please ask Mrs. Gordon to call Pullman Railroad in Chicago for me? Tell them to get word to Willie that Mr. Bro. Wiley is dead,” she said. “He pay half price for train tickets and he sho’ gonna want to come South for the funeral.”

  “I’ll make sure she calls for you,” Papa told our neighbor. It sure would be nice for Willie to come to the funeral. He always brought me and Pole candy that the porters pass out on the train. Most of all he had stories from all over the country to tell us. We could travel with Willie without even leaving the front porch.

  I wondered what Mrs. Gordon would say to them important white folk up in Chicago. In school we read all about George Pullman’s first sleeping car carrying the body of President Lincoln from Washington. We learned about how all the coloreds that worked for George Pullman Company were also called “George” by the white passengers, even after he died.

  “Pole, come on in this house and put your Saturday clothes on ’cause we got to go see ’bout Sister.”

  Miss Lottie Pearl turned to walk in the house then.

  “Lord have mercy, Jesus,” she told the Lord as Pole followed her inside.

  Papa seemed fine with leaving the Low Meadows now ’cause he knew she would take care of Ma.

  We headed down Stony Hill. Heavy from all the rain, the weeping willows were leaning on Low Meadows Lane. With water still dripping from the leaves the trees appeared to be crying too. The leaves had fallen all over the ground. It felt like everything in the Low Meadows wanted to come alive and walk with us to town to tell Mr. Gordon that the angels came and got Mr. Bro. Wiley.

  I couldn’t keep my eyes off the sky. The clouds were dark again and sad, as if they were crying too. Mr. Bro. Wiley leaving was something to cry about.

  “Look like the storm is coming back, Papa.”

  “Well, I-I sure hope not, but the wind getting high again. White folk in town say a big storm is coming all the way from Jamaica.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I don’t know. I send you to school every day when it ain’t ’bacco and cotton season. You-you need to look at the globe and tell me.”

  “I hope the storm don’t get here ’fore the sittin’ up.”

  “Now-now, that ain’t in the books. Only the Lord knows that,” Papa said.

  • • •

  Mule Bennett finally made his way down to Low Meadows

  Lane. The first person we saw when we got back on Low Meadows Lane was Ma’s only brother, Lionel. Everyone called him Goat. He was all dressed up like he was going to church with a nice straw hat that covered his gray hair and slightly hid the patch over the eye he lost in an accident at the sawmill.

  My uncle lived down on the riverbank in one of the old slave cabins that he fixed up. He even put a new floor in his house—a tile floor. He got the tile real cheap at the factory he used to work at over in Woodland. He got fired from there just like he did at the sawmill. He claimed he was sick with the flu, but his boss saw him over in Weldon shopping the same day. Now he can only work for Mr. Thomas and I reckon Papa keeps his brother-in-law’s lies a secret from his boss.

  Ma swears Uncle Goat is the biggest liar in Northampton County. Papa said that ain’t so. He said Uncle Goat is the biggest liar in the state of North Carolina. That’s how he got the nickname Goat. Ma said he eats the truth up faster than a goat eats grass. One day while we were picking butter beans from the garden that Ma loved so much, I asked her, “Is Uncle Goat as big a liar folks say he is?”

  “I’m afraid so, child. I don’t know where Goat got his lying from ’cause our daddy and ma were God-fearing folk that never told a lie a day in their lives that I know of. Goat lies to hear himself talk. It’s the way he is.

  “One day I reckon all my brother’s lies gonna catch up with him. One day real soon.”

  “Well, how do you know when he’s lying, Ma?”

  “It ain’t what he says. It’s this crazy look he gets in that one eye the Lord left him with. You want to see him mad, just catch him in a lie. Catch Goat in a lie, and he’s ready to fight.”

  “That ain’t right.”

  “N’all, Son. That ain’t right,” Ma said. She kept on filling the old rusty bucket up with butter beans.

  “I reckon that’s why he ain’t got a wife?” I said.

  Ma wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and laughed.

  “I reckon that’s the main reason. Now get back to work.”

  • • •

  “Mornin’, Stanbury. Mornin’, Bean,” Uncle Goat called out when we got close.

  “Hey, Uncle Goat.”

  “Mornin’, Goat. You need a ride?” Papa asked. I knew he was wondering why Uncle Goat wasn’t in the field working.

  “I’ll walk. I’m gonna go to Jackson to see my gal.”

  Papa slowed Mule Bennett down so he could get a good look at my lying uncle.

  “Jackson? Gal? What gal?” I thought to myself. He supposed to be working.

  “Fine, but-but stop by and see your-your sister when you come back. Mr. Bro. Wiley died last night and Wife tore all to pieces.”

  Uncle Goat threw his arms in the air.

  “Lord, I didn’t know. I’ll go to the house to see about Baby Sister when I get back.” Uncle Goat should have been ashamed of himself. He probably went to the fields and when he didn’t see Papa, he went home, changed clothes, and started walking to Jackson. He’d done that kinda mess before. Soon as Papa turned his back, folk in the Low Meadows started doing as they pleased. Even kinfolk. Uncle Goat didn’t much like the fact Papa was in charge of the colored folk in the Low Meadows. Mr. Thomas paid Papa twenty whole dollars a week to make sure everybody worked. He paid Papa an extra five dollars a month to make sure all the farm equipment in the Low Meadows was fixed. One day when Mr. Bro. Wiley was sitting on our front porch with me and Uncle Goat eating peanuts, Uncle Goat started talking evil about my papa. I’m not old enough to speak my mind, but it sure made me mad enough to spit.

  “Stanbury make me sick. He always bossing Low Meadows folk around. He act like it’s still slavery time and he the overseer,” Uncle Goat said.

  Mr. Bro. Wiley ’bacco almost fell out his mouth.

  “Shut up, Goat, with your lying self. You were born free. You don’t know nothin’ ’bout slavery. Stanbury ain’t no overseer ’cause slavery is over. That man is taking care of his family. Now shut your lying mouth.” Then Mr. Bro. Wiley took his walking stick and pushed Uncle Goat in the back. He almost knocked him off the stoop.

  “Go home, boy,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said.

  Uncle Goat got up and walked away ’cause he knew he was wrong. He knew better than to talk back to Mr. Bro. Wiley. Nobody talked sassy to Mr. Bro. Wiley, no matter how old they were. Uncle Goat got the crazy look with wide eye and his nose turned up as me and Papa left him standing on the side of the road.

  • • •

  “Get ’em up, Ole Bennett,” Papa shouted. I turned around and waved bye to Uncle Goat.

  Uncle Goat loved Mr. Bro. Wiley too, even if the ole slave man did call him a liar to his face. He loved him the way we all did. Mr. Bro. Wiley would be fussing at Uncle Goat one minute and they would be playing checkers the next minute. The men would play all night if Ma didn’t start carrying on for Mr. Bro. Wiley to go to bed. They did more talking than playing checkers though. They talked about fishing, white folk, and women.

  “Papa, are you mad that Uncle Goat ain’t in the field this morning?”

  “No-no, I ain’t. Every man got to answer to God, not to Stanbury Jones. Mr. Bro. Wiley taught me years ago how to handle the folk that live in the Low Meadows. ‘Don’t let these folks run you crazy, Stanbury,’ he would say. ‘Tell them what they need to do and you go on with you
r day. You need to guide them, not stand over them like it’s still slavery time. If Thomas Wiley don’t agree with the way colored folk doing things, let him come back here and fire them himself.’”

  Papa listened to Mr. Bro. Wiley ’cause he said the ole slave man had more sense than every man in the Low Meadows put together. He understood people and how they thought about things.

  Mr. Bro. Wiley taught us all something about this world and the folk that lived in it. Now the time had come for us to live without him.

  FOUR

  Mule Bennett was moving so slow that it took us one level hour to get into town. It usually takes forty minutes according to the gold pocket watch Mr. Bro. Wiley gave me. Out of all the folks in the Low Meadows, he chose to give his watch to me last Christmas.

  “Oh, Mr. Bro. Wiley, I can’t keep your watch,” I’d said when I opened the cigar box that he had wrapped in newspaper and tied with string.

  “Keep it, child. I can’t stay on this earth forever. I want you to have it to remember me by,” he said. It was as if he saw death standing right beside the Christmas tree that was decorated with strung popcorn.

  “I don’t need nothing to remember you, Mr. Bro. Wiley. I could never forget you,” I told him. Then I gave him my gift—a box of shelled pecans. He loved pecans mixed with hard candy, but his hands were too weak to crack them open.

  “I’ze going to have to hide these from myself.” He chuckled while trying to chew one with the few teeth he had left.

  • • •

  “I will never forget Mr. Bro. Wiley,” I thought as we headed to town. Mule Bennett must have felt the same way. He was slowing down and barely lifted his head. Papa kept saying, “Get-get, get up, mule, get up.” But Mule Bennett took his own sweet time.

  When we got to the main road running through Rich Square, I reached over and touched Papa’s leg.

  “Mule Bennett’s heart is surely broken, Papa.”

  “I believe you-you are right, Son. Did I ever tell you the whole story about the mules and Mr. Bro. Wiley?” Papa asked.

  “No, sir, but I sho’ want to know.”

  “Well, after-after slavery the law said that every slave owner was supposed to give each family forty acres of land and a mule. Mr. Thomas’s folk weren’t about to give nobody they land, but they did give Mr. Bro. Wiley’s family a mule and the old log cabin. Told them they could stay in the Low Meadows free the rest of their lives. Mr. Thomas’s folk been giving Mr. Bro. Wiley a mule about every fifteen years since slavery ended. When one mule died, they’d give him another one.

  “Low Meadows folk said it was because Mr. Bro. Wiley’s mama birthed most all the white babies and even gave them milk from her own bosom.”

  “Ain’t fifteen years a long time for a mule to live?” I asked.

  “It-it is a long time. But mules are different from most farm animals. If you-you work them hard in the field, they’ll last about twenty years. If a farmer ain’t too hard on they mule, he’ll last about thirty years. Since Mr. Bro. Wiley was a blacksmith, he had no reason to work his mules hard.

  “Ain’t that right, Mule Bennett?” Papa said. He was always talking to that animal like he was a person.

  By eight o’clock, we were turning onto Main Street where the Gordons lived. A few colored folk had little houses in town, but not on Main Street. Seems as if it was reserved for “Whites Only.” That was until the Creecys and the Gordons came along.

  Mr. and Mrs. Spence Creecy lived about half a mile from the Gordons in a pretty white house that sits right beside the school building. He became our principal when his daddy, William Spence Creecy Sr., died in 1932. Mrs. Creecy was the school secretary.

  Folk in Rich Square surely thought a lot of the Creecys, I can tell you that. Lord, Mr. Bro. Wiley thought the sun rose and set on Mr. Creecy. He watched him grow into a fine proud educated man just like the rest of his family. Mr. Creecy loved Mr. Bro. Wiley too. He seemed thankful to Mr. Bro. Wiley for teaching him, Mr. Jabo, and Papa how to hunt for coon when they were little boys.

  “There are some things that just ain’t in the books that Mr. Bro. Wiley got in his head and heart,” Mr. Creecy would say at church when they recognized Mr. Bro. Wiley as the oldest man in the county.

  The menfolk learned all they could from him on every hunt. After Mr. Bro. Wiley got too old to keep up with the younger men, they would make the journey alone.

  Mr. Bro. Wiley would be sitting on the porch waiting for them to get back. Ma always had a pitcher of ice water waiting for the menfolk. The ole slave man said if it hadn’t been for Mr. Creecy and Mr. Gordon, colored folk wouldn’t have known the moon from the sun when it came to money and education.

  “I’m going before the board of education to ask for new books for the colored children come fall,” Mr. Creecy said to Mr. Bro. Wiley the last time he came to the Low Meadows. Mr. Bro. Wiley looked pleased as he carved Ma a cooking spoon out of a piece of bark I’d found down by the river.

  “Books, huh? That’s good, Spence. That’s real good.”

  • • •

  I smiled at the thought of Mr. Creecy getting new books for the colored children. When I looked up, I saw Mr. Creecy coming out of the bank. I was shocked to see the white banker, Mrs. Carter, saying good-bye. She and her husband the white undertaker owned the bank and two white funeral houses in Rich Square and Jackson. It was as rare as a bald eagle to see white folk talking to coloreds unless they were bossing us around.

  “Thank you for your business,” she said loud enough for the whole town to hear. I reckon he and the Gordons were the only colored folks that had enough money to put in a bank. The little money Papa had he hid in a mason jar under the house.

  Mr. Creecy was a tall man but not as tall as Mr. Jabo, who was six feet eight inches tall. Mr. Creecy always walked straight and proud.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Creecy,” Papa said as we climbed down from the wagon to give him news of the death.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jones. Mornin’, Bean.”

  I loved the way they called each other “Mister” when children were around. Papa said it would teach us to always respect grown folk.

  “Shake his hand, child,” Papa said to me as if I’d forgotten my manners.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Creecy. It’s nice to see you,” I said. I shook his big hand and we smiled at each other.

  “Nice to see you too, Bean.” Mr. Creecy reached in his pocket and gave me a brand-new nickel. I looked at Papa.

  “Is it all right to keep it? It’s not my birthday.”

  “Yes, Bean, you can keep-keep the money.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, Bean,” Mr. Creecy said.

  “What you doing in town so early?”

  Papa looked his friend in the eyes with great sadness. “Mr. Bro. Wiley is dead and gone. We on our way to get Mr. Gordon.”

  Mr. Creecy’s face, that always looked strong as iron, melted like butter on the potbelly stove. He fought back tears.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” Mr. Creecy said, touching Papa’s shoulder for a second.

  Papa was sad all over again.

  “Let me get to this breakfast meeting so that I can go home and tell my wife the sad news.” Mr. Creecy left in a hurry. I reckon he didn’t want me to see him tore all to pieces.

  “Men hurt-hurt too, Bean.”

  “You think the world of Mr. Creecy, don’t you, Papa?”

  “He’s a good man. He’s our hope, child.”

  “Why you always say he our hope?” I asked as we climbed back in the wagon. Papa didn’t answer me for a few minutes. He was looking at the sign hanging over the front door at Taylor’s Grocery: FOR WHITES ONLY.

  Then he pulled my face up by my chin so he could see my eyes.

  “One-one day Mr. Creecy gonna make it possible for that sign to come down. T
hat’s what I mean when I say he’s our hope. He is our hope for an equal life with white folk.”

  “That will be mighty fine,” I said.

  “It ain’t gonna always be this way.”

  “I wonder what kind of breakfast meeting Mr. Creecy talking about,” I asked Papa.

  “He-he going to the café to eat with-with the white folk. That’s where he go-go every Saturday morning. He gonna tell them what else we need at the schoolhouse for the children.”

  “White folk! I didn’t know white folk ate with coloreds,” I shouted. “Do they listen to him and do what he say?”

  “Sure they-they listen. I’ll tell you something else,” Papa bragged. “I done seen him a-a many Saturday mornings in that restaurant looking white folk dead in the eyes.”

  I just couldn’t believe my ears. I was so proud of Mr. Creecy that I wanted to kiss Papa, but I was too big to be kissing a man, even my daddy.

  “I just got to ask you this,” I said as I thought about a colored man sitting in the café with the fancy tablecloths.

  “You can ask me anything.”

  “Do Mr. Creecy go in the front door or the back at the café?”

  “The front, Son. And one of these days, we all gonna go in the front door.”

  FIVE

  I smiled all the way to Mr. Gordon’s fine white house that he bought from the Carters.

  I bet Mr. Bro. Wiley was tickled to death to see Mr. Gordon buy one of the biggest houses in Rich Square. I thought about my friend as Papa tied Mule Bennett to the pecan tree in the colored undertaker’s backyard, just a little ways down the hill. Mule Bennett got real noisy when Papa tied him up. He didn’t like no rope because he was free to do as he pleased back in the Low Meadows as long as he stayed out of the yard and away from Ma’s flowers.

  I could smell Mrs. Gordon’s biscuits cooking as we walked up the small hill. Papa knocked. I saw Mrs. Gordon through the screen. She hurried down the long hallway on the hardwood floors that Papa shined once a month. The Gordons paid him fifteen whole dollars every first Saturday to do the floors and fix anything broken around the house and the funeral home. It wasn’t too much work done at their place or the Creecys’ that Papa didn’t do (when he wasn’t working for Mr. Thomas).