The Sittin' Up

by Shelia P. Moses

  “Yes, ma’am. I didn’t want you to think I had lost my mind,” Ma said as we all joined Miss Remie on the porch.

  “Now, why would I think that? Death is a horrible thing, even for coloreds. Take all the time you need.”

  I could hardly hold my tongue when she said “even for coloreds.” Didn’t she know that colored folk have hearts too?

  “‘Even for coloreds,’” Miss Lottie Pearl shouted out. Pole got her sassy ways from her mama for sure. Ma pushed Miss Lottie Pearl in the side with her elbow so she would shut up. I wanted to push her in the other side so she would keep talking. Miss Remie’s eyes got big like she had never heard a colored person talk smart to her before.

  “I brought you a cake that I purchased from Mr. Taylor’s grocery just this morning. You can keep the cake plate,” Miss Remie said as she turned her back to us.

  “Open the door, Jack,” Miss Remie said to Mr. Jack Faison. She should be shame of herself calling her eighty-year-old colored driver by his first name.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” Mr. Faison said as he got out of the car.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Miss Remie told Ma.

  “I thought you said she could take all the time she needed,” Miss Lottie Pearl said as Miss Remie walked faster. That’s the reason she could only work in the field. She would run her mouth at every house she tried to work in. They would send her home on the first day.

  “Lottie Pearl, stop your mess in front of company,” Ma said.

  Miss Lottie Pearl kept on talking.

  “And I know you don’t want your cake plate because colored folks going to eat from it.”

  “I’ll be back for the sittin’ up,” Mr. Faison managed to say before he drove off with his mad boss.

  When they were gone, Ma turned to Miss Lottie Pearl, her hands on her hips.

  “Woman, you know good and well I need my job when the sittin’ up is over. What is wrong with you?”

  “Girl, Miss Remie ain’t gonna fire you ’cause ain’t nobody gonna put up with her ways.” Then she grabbed the cake from Ma, went back in the house, and headed down the hall.

  “Bye, Miss Remie!” we shouted as Ma ran in the house behind Miss Lottie Pearl. We followed them.

  “Magnolia, did you hear her calling Mr. Faison by his first name. She ain’t got no respect. That man too old for her to call him by his first name,” Miss Lottie Pearl said.

  “Never mind that! Where you going with the cake?” Ma asked as we followed the grown folks.

  “To feed the chickens, honey.”

  Out the back door she went. Me and Pole ran outside and looked on in horror.

  “Lottie Pearl, you best not throw that cake aw—” Before Ma could finish her sentence, the chickens were having dessert.

  “Sister, that ain’t the way to act in front of the children.”

  “Tell them to close their eyes,” Miss Lottie Pearl shouted. She was still holding the cake plate in her hand and spreading the cake out on the ground with her foot.

  “There! Even coloreds know how to serve a chicken.” Then she dropped the cake plate and the top on the ground.

  “Pole, fill the top up with water. The chickens need a drink.”

  Pole went on the back porch and started pumping a jug of water.

  “I’ll help you,” I said, following Pole.

  Ma was so mad at Miss Lottie Pearl that she threw her hands up in the air and went in the house.

  Miss Lottie Pearl screamed with laughter. Then she stopped her mess and fixed her eyes on me and Pole as we filled the cake plate top with water.

  “Children, my way is not always right, but don’t let nobody tell you that you ain’t as good as the next person. White folk think we don’t even have the right to grieve our dead.”

  NINE

  As soon as we knocked off work Tuesday the sittin’ up started. The Cofields were the first to arrive again. Miss Lottie Pearl was still carrying on about Miss Remie acting ugly the day before. Truth be told, folk welcomed Miss Lottie Pearl’s laughter in our house that was filled with grief.

  “I just want to see Miss Remie again. I am gonna tell her off some more,” Miss Lottie Pearl boasted. Around nine Mr. Jabo finally got tired of his wife’s mouth, so he saved the whole neighborhood from one more story.

  “Well, Lottie Pearl, you know you left them butter beans soaking. Let’s head on home.” Off they went with Pole laughing at how Mr. Jabo tricked his wife away from the sittin’ up.

  Wednesday was a sad day for us. Before leaving for the ’bacco field, Papa started going through Mr. Bro. Wiley’s clothes to take to Mr. Gordon. He laid out Mr. Bro. Wiley’s black suit along with his shoes and socks on his bed. Ma placed his shirt that she had washed until it was as white as snow ’side his other belongings.

  “Where we going, Papa?” I asked when he turned towards Ole River instead of heading home after work.

  “To-to Mr. Bro. Wiley’s house.”

  That was my first visit to the river since death had come.

  The truck brakes made a loud noise when Papa stopped, but not loud enough to cover the sound of his crying. I had never wanted to scream so bad before in my life.

  “Why did we come here?” I asked.

  “Need to-to get his Mason pin. Mr. Bro. Wiley brought his clothes to our house, but he left his pin down here with all of the things he-he loved so much. I got to knock off work early tomorrow to take his stuff to Mr. Gordon.”

  I knew better than to ask Papa anything about the Mason organization that he and half the coloreds in town belonged to.

  When we got inside, Papa started searching the house. There really wasn’t a lot to see in the two rooms that smelled like mothballs. Just a kitchen and the bedroom where Mr. Bro. Wiley said he was born in.

  I sat on the wooden bed next to the milk crate where Mr. Bro. Wiley had placed a picture and a lantern. The house was not strange to Papa because the Masons had meetings there all the time.

  “That-that is Mr. Bro. Wiley’s mama. He told me Mr. Thomas gave him that picture. He found it when he was packing up to leave the Low Meadows.”

  It was hard to believe that I was holding a picture of the woman that brought Mr. Bro. Wiley into the world. I touched her face. She was dark and pretty. Her head was wrapped in a rag and there was no smile on her face, just sadness. She just had to be good and kind to be Mr. Bro. Wiley’s mama. In my heart I knew he came from a good woman for sure. While I was looking at the picture, I noticed a piece of paper tucked in between the frame and the glass.

  “Can I open the back of the picture?”

  “Go-go ahead, Son. I don’t reckon Mr. Bro. Wiley would have minded at all.”

  As I opened the back of the picture, his Mason pin fell out.

  “That’s what I-I need,” Papa said as he picked the pin up and placed it in his pocket.

  Behind the glass was a list of names with prices next to each one. I realized quicker than a rooster could crow what I had in my hands. My history teacher, Mr. Pellam, had shown us slave papers in books at school. The numbers were the cost of Mr. Bro. Wiley’s family. The price they were bought and sold for.

  My eyes scrolled down the list.

  There!

  “Property of Thomas Wiley Sr. A baby boy named George Lewis Wiley, born July 5, 1840, $500.00,” I read as Papa looked over my shoulder. He could barely read but he understood what we were looking at.

  “Bean, I want you to keep them papers. Mr. Bro. Wiley would surely want you to have them. Take-take care of them. Let them be a reminder to you of how blessed you are to be born free.”

  “Thank you, Papa. I believe I will take the picture too. I don’t want to leave his ma down here since Mr. Bro. Wiley ain’t coming back to visit her.”

  Putting the picture under my arm, I folded the slave paper and put it carefully in my p
ocket.

  The gust of wind ran across my face again. Papa jumped.

  “You felt it, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “I-I did! Mr. Bro. Wiley done come back to visit us before we put his body in the ground.”

  “Sure have, Papa. Sure have.”

  TEN

  When our rooster’s crow woke me Thursday morning, Ma was standing at my door. “Bean, you ain’t going to the ’bacco field today.”

  “Why, Ma?”

  “Me and Lottie Pearl want you and Pole to stay home and pick flowers. Mr. Bro. Wiley’s casket need a spray. I want to fill the sittin’ up room with roses and daisies.”

  “I’ll be happy to do something special for Mr. Bro. Wiley.”

  I knew she would let me help sooner than later.

  “We gonna take the flowers to town and give them to Ada Bea,” Ma added.

  She was Ma’s second cousin on her daddy’s side. Cousin Ada Bea made flowers in a little room behind Mr. Taylor’s grocery store. If she ain’t baking cakes for the store, she up half the night making flowers for weddings, funerals, and birthday parties for white folk. We best not tell her that Miss Lottie Pearl fed her cake to the chickens even if Miss Remie did pay for it.

  When Cousin Ada Bea heard that Mr. Bro. Wiley was gone, she sent word to Ma to pick a mess of flowers and she would make the prettiest arrangements folk in Rich Square had ever seen. She said when she was done, her husband, Cousin Floyd, would take the arrangement over to Mr. Gordon.

  No sooner than I’d eaten breakfast, Pole was standing at the back door waiting for me. She had her face mashed against the screen door.

  “Good morning.” She was the happiest I’d seen her since Papa told them that Mr. Bro. Wiley was gone. Happier than when she learned she was gonna be a flower girl. I could see her deep dimples clear through the screen.

  “Good morning, Pole,” we all said.

  “I came to get an early start with the flowers.”

  “Well, we appreciate it, Pole. Would you like some breakfast?” Ma asked.

  “Oh no, ma’am. I ate already.”

  “Can I be excused?” I said.

  “Yes, go-go on, Bean.”

  “What we gonna put the flowers in to keep them fresh?” Pole asked as soon as my feet hit the steps.

  “We can use the old washtub,” I said. We walked over to the barn to get a better look at the tub. It was just as old as we were.

  “This will do just fine,” Pole said as I pulled the tub under the pecan tree.

  “Let’s leave it here under the shade until it’s full,” my sassy friend instructed me.

  At the edge of Ma’s garden, we looked at all the flowers. All morning long, we picked roses and all the sneezeweeds we could find around the yard.

  “What about the lilies?” Pole said.

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Mr. Bro. Wiley deserves pretty flowers,” Pole said.

  We walked in the fields. We went up and down Low Meadows Lane. Then we ran up to Stony Hill and picked grady sages and a few of Miss Lottie Pearl’s roses.

  “Get as many as you want,” Pole’s mama yelled from the kitchen window. She had stayed home too so she could finish her cooking.

  “Bean, I think we should go down to the riverbank to pick some flowers.”

  Together we walked down to the place that Mr. Bro. Wiley loved the most.

  “Give me my roses while I can still smell them,” Pole said.

  “That is sho’ what Mr. Bro. Wiley told us.”

  Pole’s eyes were not smiling as she picked a few roses that were growing at the steps of Mr. Bro. Wiley’s house. “I’m gonna miss coming down here.”

  “We can still come, Pole. Mr. Bro. Wiley would want us to look out for his home place.”

  “It won’t be the same without him with us,” Pole said. I took my handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped tears off her face. Then I picked a big red rose and gave it to her.

  “For you.”

  Pole’s big brown eyes that seemed to come straight from her daddy’s head were bright again. Right then I had a soft spot for Pole that I’d never felt before. I placed roses behind her ear. She was doing some giggling. With our arms filled with flowers, we went home feeling a little better.

  “Good job, children,” Ma said, watching Pole fill the tub with flowers from every end of the Low Meadows. I was busy bringing water to keep the flowers fresh.

  “The menfolk in the field. How we gonna get the flowers to Miss Ada Bea?” Pole asked Ma.

  No sooner had the words left Pole’s mouth; TJ drove up in one of Mr. Gordon’s three trucks.

  “Mornin’ to y’all,” he said, taking off his hat like Mr. Gordon taught him to do in front of womenfolk.

  “Mornin’, TJ, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Gordon sent me. He thought he would save Stanbury a trip to town by having me pick up the clothes and the flowers.”

  “I sho’ appreciate you coming. Stanbury ’bout to run himself to death this week.”

  “You know I don’t mind, Miss Magnolia.”

  Ma seemed to be in deep thought for a minute.

  “Bean, you and Pole go to Mr. Bro. Wiley’s room and get his things.”

  Not only did we pick the flowers, but we get to take Mr. Bro. Wiley’s clothes to the truck.

  “Be careful not to get any dirt on the white shirt,” Pole said with her bossy voice.

  “Get the shoes too,” I said, noticing Papa had placed the Mason pin on the suit jacket.

  We rushed outside to finish our duties for Mr. Bro. Wiley. Pole continued to supervise.

  “Careful, Bean. No wrinkles,” she said as Ma finished her business with TJ.

  “How much do I owe you?” Ma asked.

  “Miss Magnolia, you don’t owe me a dime. I’m happy to do something for Mr. Bro. Wiley.” TJ was no different from the rest of us. He had a lot of love in his heart for the slave man. Mr. Bro. Wiley was always fussing at the twins because they loved womenfolk like Uncle Goat. No matter how much he fussed at them they still came by to bring him a little chewing tobacco for Christmas. They would sit with him for hours. TJ lifted the tub as if it didn’t have a drop of water in it. His muscles grew inside his shirt. He was a strong man like my papa. Strong in the way I imagined Mr. Bro. Wiley was before Father Time made him feeble.

  We stood on each side of Ma as TJ drove away. It seemed that grief tried to come back into her heart.

  “Don’t be sad, Miss Magnolia. It’s not good for your baby,” Pole said, like she was already a doctor. That girl done lost her mind mentioning that baby. She knew good and well children don’t talk about babies in the Low Meadows until we see the child. Ma was so sad that she didn’t even hear Pole talking grown-folk mess.

  ELEVEN

  On Friday, me and Pole stayed home again. We had instructions from Papa to help clean the house. Of course, Miss Lottie Pearl was right by Ma’s side.

  “Bean, we working like Governor Hoey coming to visit us from Raleigh or President Roosevelt coming down from Washington, D.C.,” Pole said.

  “Don’t complain, girl. All of this is for Mr. Bro. Wiley.”

  “I’m not complaining. Mr. Bro. Wiley is the first person who told me my hands are for doctoring not priming ’bacco and cleaning.”

  While Pole was carrying on, I was thinking about what she said about President Roosevelt.

  “That’s it. I can do one more thing for my friend,” I thought to myself. I will write the president and tell him that the old slave man was dead. Folk say that the first lady cares about the coloreds. She might read my letter and ask her husband to send a proclamation like they do when important white folk die. It was something inside my heart that made me feel like I should help give Mr. Bro Wiley a good send-off to hev’n.

  “Where you
going?” Pole shouted as I ran out of the house.

  “To the outhouse,” I yelled back.

  Pole was messing with the big gloves on her hands, so she didn’t notice me when I grabbed a piece of notebook paper and pencil from Mama’s living room chest.

  It sure did stink in the outhouse, but that was the only place I could go on Low Meadows Lane where Pole wouldn’t follow me. I just wanted my private time to think about what I wanted to say about Mr. Bro. Wiley to the president. If Pole came she would surely try to tell me what to write. And she could take a pencil and correct every other word. I wanted to say what I wanted to say.

  Dear Mr. President Roosevelt,

  I know you don’t know me, but my name is Stanbury Jones Jr. My papa’s name is Stanbury Jones Sr., and my mama is Magnolia Jones.

  We are not city folk and you probably never heard of Rich Square, North Carolina, or the Low Meadows. I want to tell you about a former slave man named George Lewis Wiley who is dead and gone now.

  He was born in 1840 and he died just six days ago. I know you have to run the country, but can you write it in the important books in Washington that he is dead? Somebody might care one day, like we all care so much here in the Low Meadows.

  Another thing I would like to ask is can you send one of them proclamations that you write when something special happens? You see, Mr. Wiley was special. Special to us! Thank you, Mr. President.

  Sincerely yours,

  Stanbury Jones Jr.

  Low Meadows Lane

  Rich Square, North Carolina

  I tucked my letter in my pocket. Then I walked to the end of the path and put it in the mailbox with the nickel Mr. Creecy gave me. Stamps were only three cents, but our mailman, Mr. Cox, would leave my change.

  I put my pencil in my pocket and walked back in the house. We cleaned every room except the living room, where Ma was planning to put Mr. Bro. Wiley’s body.

  “Y’all children, go and clean the dining room. Clean the kitchen. Everywhere except the sittin’ up room. That’s for us grown folk to do,” Miss Lottie Pearl said like she owned our house.