Mr. Gordon would be back by two o’clock with Mr. Bro. Wiley.
The womenfolk finished cleaning the sittin’ up room while I swept the kitchen. Pole washed the dishes and sang “Jesus Loves Me” with excitement ’cause she was gonna be a flower girl.
It took a while for Miss Lottie Pearl to notice Pole was wearing Mr. Jabo’s gloves again.
“Child, what in the Sam Hill you doing with Jabo’s gloves on. I thought I told you to stop doing that. He ain’t got but two pair.”
“Mama, I don’t mind cleaning one bit, but I got to take being a doctor real serious now that I’m getting older. These hands have to be pretty and steady.”
Sometimes Miss Lottie Pearl’s heart would just melt, mainly for her Pole.
“Child, I’ze so proud of you and your dream. Ma ain’t got many dreams left, but I got high hopes for you. Keep them gloves on.”
A tear rolled down the face of the woman who could be as mean as a black snake if you crossed her. She wanted something good for her child. “All right now, we got work to do,” she said as we went back to clean.
Pole pulled her gloves up tight as possible and walked up beside me on her tiptoe.
“I saw you, Bean,” she whispered.
“Saw what, girl?”
“I saw you put something in the mailbox. What was it?”
The girl had eyes in the back of her pretty little head.
“All right, but you got to cross your heart and hope to die not to tell.”
“Okay, cross my heart and hope to die,” she said. Then she crossed her heart with her finger.
“I wrote President Roosevelt and told him that Mr. Bro. Wiley was dead. I asked him to send one of them proclamations that he mail to white folk.”
I thought Pole would laugh at me, but she didn’t.
“Boy, do you have the right address?”
“Nope, but it ain’t but one president, so I just put President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Washington, D.C.”
Pole smiled so bright that the whole house lit up.
“Well now, you smart to be a boy. You gonna be a lawyer for sure. Mr. Bro. Wiley deserves a proclamation,” she said.
Pole’s eyes got teary again. I swear if we don’t bury Mr. Bro. Wiley in a hurry, folks gonna cry themselves to death.
“Okay, don’t start that crying now. If you do, I won’t tell you my other secret.”
“Other secret?”
“Come with me,” I said, pulling Pole into my room.
The womenfolk were so busy talking that they didn’t notice when we ducked inside my room before Pole could say jackrabbit.
“Look at this.” I pulled the slave papers and the picture out of my drawer.
“Jesus, Bean, these look like the papers Mr. Pellam showed us in history class. Are they real?”
“Yes, girl! Look a little closer.”
“They real all right,” she said as she jumped around like she had ants in her britches. Anything dealing with school excited that smart girl. “Who’s this woman?” Pole asked. She stroked the picture as if she could feel the skin.
“That woman is Mr. Bro. Wiley’s mama.”
Pole kissed Mr. Bro. Wiley’s mama’s face like they were old friends.
“You know, Bean, Mr. Bro. Wiley loved us so much, but he had his own family a long time ago.”
“I know, Pole. I know. Now let’s hide this until after the funeral. It might be too much for Ma right now.”
Pole took her dust rag and wiped the picture off like it was more valuable than gold.
She tucked it safely in the drawer.
“Our secret is safe for now, Bean. Let’s go get ready for the sittin’ up.”
TWELVE
After the womenfolk were done cleaning, they started polishing the silverware that Ma got from Miss Remie. When Miss Remie turned sixty, she bought brand-new sterling silver and fancy china to match. She decided to give her old dinnerware to Ma. Actually, nothing was free. Ma’s boss lady would happily swap her nice belongings for a day’s work. If we had enough money for the month, Ma would gladly take the fine things instead of cash. She would only use the fancy silverware on Sundays, and at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Ma was still polishing when Miss Lottie Pearl announced she was walking over to Stony Hill to get the cabbage and white potatoes. She said the cabbage Miss Dora Mae cooked “sho’ ain’t good.”
There was nothing in the world wrong with that cabbage, but Miss Lottie Pearl wasn’t satisfied unless she was outdoing the other womenfolk. She wanted her cabbage to be waiting on the stove just in case Miss Dora Mae came back with more.
“Bring them blue glasses you won at the county fair last fall,” Ma yelled as Miss Lottie Pearl walked out the kitchen door.
“You need me to go with you, Mama?” Pole asked, pulling off her gloves for the one hundredth time.
“No, child, stay here and help out.”
Me and Pole had wiped everything in the house down, so I went to help Ma with the polishing, while Pole put the last cleaning cloths away. Ma wasn’t talking, so I thought it was a good time to ask some questions that me and Pole had been wondering about.
“Why are we bringing Mr. Bro. Wiley back to the Low Meadows? Can’t we just go out to the funeral home to have the last sittin’ up?”
She stopped shining the big spoon and looked at me as if I’d stolen her fake pearl earrings from her old tin jewelry box.
“Lord, child, ain’t I raised you no better than that? It ain’t right to let a man lay in that lonely funeral home all week and not bring him home the last night. A man got a right to come home.”
I loved Mr. Bro. Wiley too and I surely wanted him to come home one last time even if I didn’t exactly understand what Mama had just said. I stopped asking questions and helped her with the silver.
While we were working in silence, Pole went outside and picked the few flowers that were left in the backyard to fill the vases in the house. When she ran out of vases, she used mason jars.
Mama saw the daisies and her sadness went away for a short while.
“Thank you, Dr. Cofield.”
“You’re most welcome, Mrs. Magnolia Jones,” Pole said. My friend already had a way of making folk feel better.
“I would appreciate you two going in the pantry and getting my green Depression plates. I do not have enough china dishes for everyone.”
“Ma, why do you call the dishes Miss Remie gave you Depression plates?”
Pole would not hold her tongue.
“Bean, you ain’t listening in school. How you gonna be a lawyer if you don’t listen?”
She sat down so she could explain.
“These plates were made real cheap for folk to save money till the Depression is over. The folk who make the Quaker Oats oatmeal put a cup or saucer in every container to keep even poor folk buying the brand. You know, Bean, if you can throw a straight horseshoe you can win a Depression glass at the fair. Aaaaand,” Pole said real long to get her point across, “the gas station will give you a piece of Depression glass if and only if you buy a whole tank of gas.”
Pole went on and on until she was out of breath. Finally, stopping for air, she looked at Ma.
“Miss Magnolia?”
“What is it, Pole?”
“Why do people really have sittin’ ups and why do they have to do it every night? And why is the last night so important?” Ma put the last piece of silver back in the wood box.
“I don’t know if it’s so, but my papa, Melton Sr., told me that folk been having sittin’ ups for over one hundred years. He said that a long, long time ago, folk get sick and fall into a deep, deep sleep. Something they call a coma. He said that the family would dress the body and then put them on the bed or in a casket if they had one. According to Papa, they wouldn’t bury folk for over a w
eek to make sure they didn’t wake up. You see some of these people weren’t dead, just sleeping from the illness. Folk would sit with the dead to make sure someone was there if they woke up.”
“What would happen if they did bury somebody and they were just in a coma and not dead at all?” Pole asked.
“I hear tell of a few folk been buried alive, so they started burying them with a bell in their hands.”
I couldn’t hold my tongue another minute.
“A bell! Why they need a bell?”
That’s when Miss Lottie Pearl came back with a wood crate full of food.
“Girl, stop scaring them children.” But Ma didn’t pay her friend no mind; she kept right on talking.
“Papa said they would have a string on the casket that led inside to the person’s hand. If the person woke up, they would pull the string so the bell would ring really loud.” Pole almost jumped out of her chair when Ma said that. I didn’t move.
“You ought to be shame of yourself,” Miss Lottie Pearl said. “Anyway, I got to go back to get my glasses. I don’t want to send the children ’cause I’ll be mad as all get out if they drop one.”
“Are they Depression glasses?” I asked Miss Lottie Pearl so that I would sound as smart as Pole.
“Yes, Bean,” Pole said as she twisted her body from side to side in her know-it-all position.
“Stop it, Pole.” Miss Lottie Pearl tried to save me from another lecture. “They sure are Depression glasses, child. They ain’t made of much, but they pretty,” she said as she headed back to Stony Hill.
Me and Pole got us a glass of ice tea and went outside to sit on the front porch and rest our bones.
“Ma never did say why they bring the body home the night before the funeral,” Pole said.
This was my chance to show her that I was just as smart as she was.
“A man got a right to come home one last time, Pole.”
Not even Pole had a comment for that.
So we just sat there drinking our tea before all the ice melted.
Only a few minutes had passed when we heard a car coming down Low Meadows Lane. Pole stood up to get a better look.
“It’s Mr. Gordon! Do you want me to get Mr. Stanbury?” Pole called into the house. Ma came to the door.
“Ain’t no time for that.”
That black hearse was so much longer than it looked sitting at the funeral home. It seemed bigger than when they carried Mr. Bro. Wiley away. The twins had shined the car so bright that the trees were reflected on it.
“They coming, Miss Magnolia. They coming to bring Mr. Bro. Wiley home.”
“Yes, they is, child. Yes, they is. It ain’t but one thirty.” Ma thought for a minute and looked down at herself. She pulled the red-and-white apron over her head and threw it behind Mr. Bro. Wiley’s chair. She rubbed her hair to make sure it was lying flat. “Don’t worry, Miss Magnolia. You look real pretty,” Pole said. She smoothed the right side of Ma’s dress down. Pole could help Ma look pretty, but she couldn’t keep her from crying. The tears ran down her face, down her neck, and all the way to her bosom. Pole walked to the end of the porch and yelled towards Stony Hill.
“Hurry up, Mama. Mr. Gordon here with Mr. Bro. Wiley.”
“It ain’t no need to yell. It ain’t no need to rush. Mr. Bro. Wiley gone forever. Ain’t no hurry at all. Mr. Gordon just bringing his shell back to us. His soul is already resting.” Then Ma stuck her hands out like a stop sign. She bent her knees, stooped down real low, and began to holler.
Don’t know why she told us not to yell when she was shouting all over the porch. Pole ran behind Ma, fanning her the best she could.
I peeped down into the back window of the hearse. The wooden casket was covered in the flowers me and Pole picked on Thursday. I felt mighty proud.
Mr. Bro. Wiley appreciated anything you did for him and I knew the flowers made him smile from heaven.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jones. Good afternoon, Bean, Pole,” Mr. Gordon said. He was wearing a fine double-breasted black suit and white gloves again.
He looked dignified, but something was missing from his spirit. His serious face was darker. Then I realized that he was not just the undertaker bringing Mr. Bro. Wiley home. He was a broken-hearted man, just like Papa, Mr. Jabo, and Mr. Creecy.
“Afternoon to you, Mr. Gordon,” Ma said.
“Afternoon,” me and Pole echoed.
“Where is Mr. Jones?”
“Husband’s not home. He’s in the field getting up ’bacco ’fore the storm comes. He’ll be back directly. We were expecting you at two. Lottie Pearl will be back any time now.” Ma was talking a mile a minute.
“Do you want us to wait?” Mr. Gordon asked.
“No, bring Mr. Bro. Wiley inside. The Lord is with us. You just come right on in.”
Mr. Gordon and his men pulled the casket out of the back of the hearse real slow.
“It ain’t fancy ’cause Mr. Bro. Wiley didn’t have no bury legion,” Pole whispered in my ear.
“Bury legion? What in the world is that?” I whispered back.
“Boy, you know a bury legion—life insurance.”
“Well, that don’t make no sense. Why don’t they just call it life insurance?” I asked.
“I don’t know. That’s just the way grown folk in the Low Meadows do. They call words whatever they want to.”
I knew Pole was telling the truth because even though the folk at church took up a collection at Bible study on Wednesday night to help Ma and Papa pay for the sittin’ up, it still wasn’t enough. I believe they sent Papa thirty-one dollars and some change by Mr. Jabo. Papa thanked him and went under the house to dig up his mason jar of money while Mr. Jabo waited with a lantern.
I thought about what Mr. Bro. Wiley told Ma about his own funeral. It was an evening last fall right after supper. We were all sitting on the front porch eating pumpkin pie.
“Magnolia, when I leave this here earth, you sell this rocking chair. You’ll get enough money for my funeral. I don’t need nothing fancy. Just a pine box to carry me home.” Mr. Bro. Wiley never took his eyes off Ma as he ate his pie.
“I will do no such thing. I ain’t selling your rocking chair. Besides, you already home.”
“Home! Child, this ain’t my home. My home is in hev’n. I’m just a stranger passing through this here ole earth. We all just strangers passing through.”
“I hear you, Mr. Bro. Wiley,” Ma said.
“All right now. You know white folk love antiques. You’ll get a pretty penny for this chair, I can tell you that. Sell Celie Mae’s chair too. We’ll have our seat together with the Lord.”
“Who you think got money for chairs during this Depression? Just keep on working on getting to hev’n. God will take care of the rest.”
“I reckon you ‘bout right, Christmas,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said with a chuckle.
THIRTEEN
“Hold the door, son,” Mr. Gordon said as they got closer with the casket. I rushed over as fast as my legs could carry me. Pole fanned Ma with an old newspaper as sweat ran down all of our faces. The newspapers were filled with good news about white folk but they never printed a word about coloreds unless we did something bad. They gave us our own section called “Colored News.” Enough space to let others know if we stole or killed. Never mentioned when we got married or when we died. I wondered if the paper would print that Mr. Bro. Wiley was gone. I thought about my letter to President Roosevelt and wondered when it would arrive in Washington.
I was still holding the door when the Holy Ghost went all over Ma.
“Don’t cry, Miss Magnolia,” Pole said.
“That’s right, Ma. Don’t cry. You said yourself that Mr. Bro. Wiley’s in a better place.” But she still cried until she was satisfied. We followed Mr. Bro. Wiley’s casket to the sittin’ up room.
“Here, Mr. Gordon,” Ma said, watching the men carefully place the casket. “Put him here and put the flowers around him.” Then she leaned close to the casket. “Welcome home, Mr. Bro. Wiley, welcome back home where you belong.”
Mr. Gordon looked some kind of upset as he reached in the pocket of his suit and pulled out his smelling salts, putting the bottle under Ma’s nose. “The flowers look nice,” LJ said to his twin brother.
Then they went outside and came back with some brown wooden folding chairs and the other arrangements Miss Ada Bea sent.
“I brought extra chairs for your company. Anything else I can do for you?” Mr. Gordon asked as the men placed the chairs around the house. Me and Pole pitched in. Just one more thing we could do for Mr. Bro. Wiley.
“No, Mr. Gordon. You done more than enough.”
He talked to Ma for a few minutes as she walked the men to the door.
“We’ll be back at eleven thirty tomorrow to pick up the body.” He knew that Ma wanted the funeral to start on time. Not a minute past one o’clock.
Then Mr. Gordon removed his gloves and put his big hands on Ma’s shoulders.
“I have buried every colored man, woman, and child that has left Northampton County in the last twenty-five years. This has shaken my very soul, so I know you are hurting. God bless you and your family.”
Their eyes came together, not as a customer and an undertaker, but as two people with something in common. Love for the slave man. Nothing else was said. No more words were needed. Mr. Gordon headed back to town and Ma went back inside.
Me and Pole were sitting on the hot porch when we heard Papa’s truck coming down Low Meadows Lane.
’Fore I could say a word, Ma came running past us like her dress was on fire. Soon as Papa stopped the truck, she opened the door and wrapped her arms around him.
“Lord, Husband, they brought Mr. Bro. Wiley home.”
“Calm-calm down, Wife. It’s gonna be-be all right.”
Me and Pole followed them inside as he held her tight.
Miss Lottie Pearl came through the back door with her Depression glasses. She put the box on the dining room table and rushed down the hall to the sittin’ up room, but she didn’t go inside. She stood in the doorway and watched. Me and Pole stood beside her. We knew better than to go a step farther without permission.
The Sittin' Up Page 7