“I’ll get the door, Miss Margie,” Mrs. Gordon said to her housekeeper. The Gordons was the only coloreds in the county with a maid.
I noticed Mrs. Gordon’s nails were painted pink when she unlatched the door. Ma never polished her nails. I reckon she worked too hard in the fields and for Miss Remie to take care of her nails. When I become a lawyer I had plans to buy Ma all the nice things Mrs. Gordon had. I would buy her nail polish and fine dresses with matching shoes. I live for the day when I can tell Ma to never prime another piece of ’bacco or wash another load of clothes for white folk.
Just as Mrs. Gordon opened the door, Miss Margie stood up from dusting the tallest dark wood bookshelf I had ever seen. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A white woman!
I wanted to die and go on to heaven with Mr. Bro. Wiley. She wasn’t high yellow like Ma. She was as white as cotton.
“Papa, Miss Margie is white!”
“Boy, if you don’t-don’t hush your mouth.”
Mrs. Gordon acted as if she didn’t hear me.
Papa made me mind my manners, but I could tell he was just as carried away as I was. He ain’t worked for the Gordons in a few weeks so he surely didn’t know about this white woman.
I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Ma. Ain’t no way in the world she knew ’cause Ma ain’t said a word. I knew good and well Miss Lottie Pearl with her gossiping self didn’t know either. If she had, everybody in the Low Meadows would have known. I heard tell Miss Lottie Pearl wanted to work for the Gordons but they didn’t hire her. I bet the nickel Mr. Creecy gave me they didn’t hire her because she had too much mouth for them dignified folk.
I stopped thinking about her and thought about Mr. Bro. Wiley. I wanted to go home and wake him up from the dead to tell him about the white woman cleaning toilets for colored folk. I could hear his voice so plain in my ears.
“Bean, things ain’t gonna always be this way. If you live long enough you will see this world change. You ain’t gonna have to live a hard life like I’ve lived. No sharecropping like Stanbury done all his life. One day whites and coloreds will learn to get along. The world gonna change. You watch and see.”
I wished Mr. Bro. Wiley could have lived one more day. I wanted to tell him that I saw the world change.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Gordon said.
“Mornin’, sorry to-to bother you, Mrs. Gordon,” Papa said.
Mrs. Gordon was brown as honey and she wore makeup all the time. She always had on fine clothes like a white woman and she talked like she was from New York City. She was wearing a white dress with blue flowers on it. She even had on a dark blue pattern leather belt to match the flowers. Her clothes were finer than what Ma wore to church on Sunday. I stood there and wondered how many chairs Papa would have to paint to get Ma such a dress.
“Please come in. You’re not bothering me at all. What can I do for you and Bean this morning?”
This was my first time going inside; never had a reason to before. The house smelled of lavender and the curtains were blowing in the windows. I had never seen so much dark fine wood furniture in all my years on earth. Everything matched, even the pillows on the couch.
“The storm is lingering on,” Mrs. Gordon added.
“Reckon so,” Papa said. “I got some bad news, Mrs. Gordon. Mr. Bro. Wiley went-went on to glory this mornin’. We need Mr. Gordon to come and get the body.” Papa took off his hat. I pulled my baseball cap off too.
“My Lord,” Mrs. Gordon said. She reached inside the big pocket of her dress and pulled out her handkerchief.
“I know Mrs. Jones is about to lose her mind as much as she thought of that man.”
“Yes, she-she is, but Wife know-know that God is able.”
“That is the truth. I will get Mr. Gordon.” As Mrs. Gordon turned away, I realized she even called her husband “Mr. Gordon.” Us Low Meadows folk needed to get dignified. It ain’t nothing wrong with acting like the town people. Talking the way they talk. Besides I would love to hear Ma calling Papa Mr. Jones, just one time. That would have tickled me to death.
“He was such a nice, nice man,” Mrs. Gordon said softly as she walked to the back of the house. “Mr. Gordon, Mr. Stanbury Jones is here. He said Mr. Bro. Wiley passed on last night.”
“I heard him, Mrs. Gordon. Thank you.” Mr. Gordon was already making his way to the parlor.
As her husband passed her, Mrs. Gordon must have forgotten she was dignified. Next thing I knew she was shouting like Ma and Miss Lottie Pearl.
“My Lord, my Lord!” she cried out.
“Now, Mrs. Gordon, that’s not the way to act in front of company,” Mr. Gordon said. “You know Mr. Bro. Wiley is in a better place.” Then he took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face. She pulled herself together and went down the hallway with Miss Margie holding her head against her shoulder.
Mr. Gordon was fixing his necktie as he walked towards us. Papa told me years ago that Mr. Gordon put on a suit every day of his life; just in case somebody fell dead and he had to pick up a body. He said that was Mr. Gordon’s way of showing respect for the dead. His hair had waves as thick as clay dirt and it was shining same as Miss Lottie Pearl’s hair did right after she washed it and put it in a bun. Mr. Gordon’s big eyebrows were shiny too, and he always had a serious look on his paper-sack brown face.
“Good morning, folks. I was on my way over to the funeral home. Hold on a minute while I call my men so they can help,” Mr. Gordon said.
We waited in the parlor while Mr. Gordon called the twins, TJ and LJ. They had been working for Mr. Gordon since they were teenagers.
“Come with me, Mr. Jones. We need to get a temporary casket to bring Mr. Bro. Wiley back to town in.”
Around that time Mrs. Gordon walked back into the parlor. She looked at me with her kind eyes.
“Bean, would you like a jelly biscuit while the men finish their business?”
I waited for Papa to answer because he didn’t allow me to eat at nobody’s house but the Cofields. I was praying Papa would tell me it was all right to join her. I wanted some jelly real bad. There was no money for those kinda sweets in the Low Meadows. We barely had enough money to put sugar in a pitcher of tea on Sunday.
“That-that is mighty nice of you, Mrs. Gordon. Go-go ahead, Bean, and mind your manners.”
With joy that Papa said yes, I followed Mrs. Gordon to the kitchen. I thought about the day I asked him if I could eat with our neighbor Grady and his mama, Miss Sue.
“No, child. Ain’t you-you talking about the Depression in school? We are poor and other folk got less than we got if they don’t have a garden. This ain’t no time to be eating at other folk’ table.”
We had sho’ been talking about the Great Depression in school and how the stock market dropped in 1929. My teacher Miss Adams was always telling us that there was no money and no food, but I didn’t know it affected colored folk in the Low Meadows too. We had been poor for so long, I couldn’t tell no difference.
“We all-all got troubles till the Depression over,” Papa said.
From that day to this one I ain’t ate a biscuit at nobody’s house but Pole’s. We shared a garden with the Cofields, so that was Papa’s reasoning for letting me eat on Stony Hill. I reckon it was all right to eat at the Gordons’ house ’cause they was rich.
As much as I wanted a biscuit, I was still hoping to see what Mr. Gordon and Papa were doing. I had never been in the nice wood building where Mr. Gordon kept all the caskets. He wasn’t just an undertaker. He had his own factory. The twins built the caskets and Mrs. Gordon put the dead folk fabric linings on the inside to make them look good.
The kitchen was pretty with white lace curtains. I wished my ma had a kitchen like the Gordons’. They even had an electric stove and refrigerator. I figured it would take another five years for Papa to get both for Ma.
�
�Sit down, child. Tell me what time Mr. Bro. Wiley left this world,” Mrs. Gordon said.
That’s when I knew why I was getting a biscuit. Dignified town folk ain’t no different from Low Meadows folk. They gossip too!
“It was before the clock struck midnight,” I told Mrs. Gordon. I looked at Miss Margie’s white hands as she served the biscuits. Her nails were unpolished, reminding me of Ma’s. She had little nicks and scars as if she had picked cotton all her life like colored folk.
I wished I could see her heart. She had a slight smile on her pink lips and her eyes were dark like a woman that cried a lot. I wondered why she was so kind and didn’t seem to mind waiting on colored folk. Right then I wished Mr. Bro. Wiley was alive again, so that I could ask him the difference between Miss Margie and Mr. Taylor, who don’t even allow us to walk in the front door of his grocery. Surely he would know.
“Anything else for you and your company?” Miss Margie asked as Mrs. Gordon sat down at the table with me.
“No, that will be all.” She pushed the jelly jar closer to my plate. For jelly I would have told her anything she wanted to know. Anything!
“Bean, what were you saying about Mr. Bro. Wiley?” she asked.
“Well, he didn’t last long,” I said. I dipped my biscuit in the molasses that she placed beside the jelly. “It was thundering and lightnin’. He was breathing real hard. The next thing I knew he was gone to hev’n.”
I went back and forth with that biscuit. I swear to God, my heart was hurting every time I mentioned Mr. Bro. Wiley’s name. I kept on talking and focused on my food so I wouldn’t cry.
Jelly.
Molasses.
Jelly.
Molasses.
“Did he suffer?” Mrs. Gordon asked.
“I don’t believe he was hurting or nothing. He hadn’t been well since the Fourth of July.”
“I know, child. I know,” Mrs. Gordon said.
“He just got quiet right after supper. I think he knew he was leaving us. I reckon he was dying all day.” I was hurting some kind of bad for Mr. Bro. Wiley as I told Mrs. Gordon the rest of the story. I just wanted the night before to be a bad dream, but I knew it wasn’t. I knew he was lying back there in the Low Meadows, waiting for Mr. Gordon to come for him.
By the time I had eaten my fourth biscuit my belly and heart were both hurting.
I looked out the window at the menfolk.
It scared me to death when Mr. Gordon opened the double doors to the casket factory. I could see caskets stacked on top of one another like ’bacco in the ’bacco barn after we finished priming.
“Bean, how do you know all of this? Were you in the room with Mr. Bro. Wiley when he died?” Mrs. Gordon asked.
“No, ma’am. I was in the hallway. I reckon I was acting just like somebody with no manners. I was listening in and I peeped sometimes to see all that I could see.”
I wanted Mrs. Gordon to stop asking questions so I could hear what the menfolk were saying. That way I could go back and tell Pole. But she never broke a row. She asked me a million questions.
Next thing I knew TJ and LJ drove up. I reckon they enjoyed having a telephone. Mr. Gordon put one in the twin brothers’ house, because he knew that death might come at any time and he would have to call them. TJ and LJ married twin sisters named Lessie and Bessie. They all lived together and them sisters sho’ did some bragging about having a telephone. Miss Lottie Pearl said there was no need for them to brag ’cause they ain’t got a soul to call. The only other coloreds with a telephone are the Creecys. But Lessie and Bessie weren’t thinking about Miss Lottie Pearl. They bragged whenever they pleased.
“Time-time to go,” Papa yelled to me.
“Thank you for the biscuits,” I told Mrs. Gordon. “Bye, Miss Margie,” I said.
“See you later, young man,” she said as kindly as if I was a white boy.
Mrs. Gordon followed me to the back door and waved at the men.
“Good morning, fellows,” she said to the twins.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Gordon.” TJ and LJ tipped their hats and waved back.
While she was waving, I remembered what Miss Lottie Pearl told us to ask Mrs. Gordon.
“Mrs. Gordon, Papa forgot to tell you that Miss Lottie Pearl would like for you to call up to Chicago to let the white folk know that Mr. Bro. Wiley dead. She want them to get word to Willie as soon as possible.”
“You tell Lottie Pearl that I will do it today and for her not to worry.”
“Hop in, Bean. We-we riding home with Mr. Gordon. I’ll come back for Mule Bennett before the sun goes down,” Papa said.
“Okay, Papa, and I told Miss Gordon what to tell Willie’s boss.” I said it with pride because I remembered. Then I looked at the hearse.
“We riding in the dead folks’ car?”
“No, son, in my car,” Mr. Gordon said. “The hearse is to bring the body back to town.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had never been in a new car before. I rode in Mr. Thomas’s work truck all the time and Uncle Goat’s car even though it broke down once a week. Mr. Gordon held the back door of his Ford for me—and just for a moment, I was a king. I looked at the silver dashboard with the nice radio. I could smell the black leather. I rubbed my hand on the seat. It was soft as butter.
Mr. Gordon winked at Papa. He was grown and he could wink all he pleased, but I was as happy as a tick on a dog.
The rest of the coloreds might be in a Depression but judging from his car I could tell Mr. Gordon wasn’t hurting for money. Papa always said folk ain’t gonna stop dying, so Mr. Gordon won’t run out of money.
TJ and LJ followed us in the hearse. Folk walking and driving on Main Street slowed down for the funeral car out of respect. The colored women downtown shopping for the white folk waved.
Mama’s friend and Mrs. Carter’s maid, Miss Lillian, yelled out to Papa: “Iz Mr. Bro. Wiley gone?” She had enough smarts to know that was the only reason Papa would be with Mr. Gordon that early in the mornin’.
“He is gone,” Papa said without yelling but loud enough for Miss Lillian to hear him. The womenfolk began to weep and the menfolk tipped their hats.
The white folk lowered their heads like they were saying a prayer. If they cared about any one colored from the Low Meadows, I reckon it was Mr. Bro. Wiley.
“Papa, the white folk look sad too.”
“They-they sad for sure, child. Mr. Bro. Wiley was a good man. He somehow made people forget the color of his skin with his-his words of wisdom and love.”
“I wonder if they love him?”
“I don’t know if they loved him, but he had earned their respect.”
“Sometimes respect is all a colored man will get in this town, son,” Mr. Gordon added before making a sharp left onto Low Meadows Lane.
Papa was watching me in the rearview mirror. He reached in the backseat and patted me on the knee. I cried. Not out loud. I cried inside my heart for the slave man who loved everybody, helped everybody, and taught us all something.
Mr. Bro. Wiley always said, “The young are strong, but the old know the way.” Who was gonna show us the way now?
Who?
SIX
Ma was standing on the front porch when we pulled into the yard. Miss Lottie Pearl was beside her along with half of the Low Meadows folk who sharecropped for Thomas Wiley. All the menfolk were lined up like soldiers on the right side of the door and the women on the left side. Pole stood with the womenfolk. I wondered if Mr. Thomas Wiley was on the way. Surely someone in town told him that death had come for Mr. Bro. Wiley.
Maybe it didn’t really matter where Mr. Thomas Wiley was. The people who loved our friend the most were with us. They had known Mr. Bro. Wiley all their lives. People who hadn’t lived no place but the Low Meadows stood in sorrow. They knew the land they stood on. Land their slave ancesto
rs worked until their fingers bled.
“We ain’t slaves, but sharecropping is still a part of our soul that ain’t free,” Mr. Bro. Wiley told me and Pole last fall while we were fishing.
“How so?” Pole asked.
“’Cause, child, by the time Thomas Wiley loans folk money, food, and a place to live all year, he still has his boot on their neck.”
“Wonder why the Wileys gave you that log cabin and make everybody else pay rent?” Pole asked.
“Guilt, child. I remind them of their evil. I am the last former slave in this county,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said.
“You free from all that mess now,” I thought to myself as I looked at the Low Meadows folks.
Me, Papa, and Mr. Gordon got out the car and stood for a minute. We just looked at all the love on our porch. Mr. Gordon put on his white gloves and opened the back door to the hearse so that TJ and LJ could pull the casket out. Then Papa, Mr. Jabo, and men from the funeral home walked up the steps carrying the empty brown casket. I headed towards Ma till Papa said, “Stand-stand with the men today, Bean. Stand with the men.”
I crossed the porch. Deacon Ward and Miss Katie Lou’s boy, Ralph, who was fourteen, held my shoulder when I joined the men. Ralph was only two years and a month older than me, but he always acted like a man. I reckon ’cause he stopped school in the sixth grade and worked in the field. Papa didn’t think much of Deacon Ward letting Ralph quit school. He said we would never be so poor that I couldn’t get an education.
Pole and Miss Lottie Pearl had their arms wrapped around Ma for support.
The menfolk were in the house about fifteen minutes before we heard them coming back to the porch. Pole opened the door. The Low Meadows menfolk tipped their straw hats as the women began to sing. Miss Katie Lou led the hymn.
“I woke up this morning with my mind straight on Jesus. I woke up this morning with my mind straight on Jesus,” they sang.
“I did the best I could for you, Bro. Wiley!” Ma cried. Miss Lottie Pearl held Ma back with both hands to keep her from climbing into the hearse. Ma knew good and well that was no way to carry on in front of that dignified man, but her heart was broken. She didn’t seem to care. When Papa and Mr. Jabo finished helping get the casket inside the hearse, Papa came over and held her real tight. The same gust of wind I felt when Mr. Bro. Wiley took his last breath came across me again. I wondered if anyone else felt it. I didn’t say a word. Just whispered a good-bye from my heart.
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