Jason whined again and I got up.
I started to climb back up onto the porch but froze as a caravan of headlights appeared suddenly in the east, coming fast along the rain-soaked road like cat eyes in the night. Jason whined loudly, growing skittish as the lights approached, and when they slowed and braked before the house he slunk beneath the porch. I wanted to follow, but I couldn’t. My legs would not move.
The lead car swung into the muddy driveway and a shadowy figure outlined by the headlights of the car behind him stepped out. The man walked slowly up the drive.
I stopped breathing.
The driver of the next car got out, waiting. The first man stopped and stared at the house for several long moments as if uncertain whether it was the correct destination. Then he shook his head, and without a word returned to his car. With a wave of his hand he sent the other driver back inside, and in less than a minute the lead car had backed into the road, its headlights facing the other cars. Each of the cars used the driveway to turn around, then the caravan sped away as swiftly as it had come, its seven pairs of rear lights glowing like distant red embers until they were swallowed from view by the Granger forest.
Jason began barking now that the danger had passed, but he did not come out. As I reached for the porch to steady myself, there was a sense of quiet movement in the darkness. The moon slid from its dark covers, cloaking the earth in a shadowy white light, and I could see Mr. Morrison clearly, moving silently, like a jungle cat, from the side of the house to the road, a shotgun in his hand. Feeling sick, I crawled onto the porch and crept trembling toward the door.
Once inside the house, I leaned against the latch while waves of sick terror swept over me. Realizing that I must get into bed before Mama or Big Ma came from the other room, I pulled off my muddy clothes, turning them inside out to wipe the mud from my body, and put on my night clothes. Then I climbed into the softness of the bed. I lay very still for a while, not allowing myself to think. But soon, against my will, the vision of ghostly headlights soaked into my mind and an uncontrollable trembling racked my body. And it remained until the dawn, when I fell into a restless sleep.
4
“Cassie, what’s the matter with you, girl?” Big Ma asked as she thrust three sticks of dried pine into the stove to rekindle the dying morning fire. “You sure are takin’ a sorrowful long time to churn that butter.”
“Nothin’,” I muttered.
“Nothin’?” Big Ma turned and looked directly at me. “You been mopin’ ’round here for the past week like you got the whoopin’ cough, flu, and measles all put together.”
I sighed deeply and continued to churn.
Big Ma reached out and felt my forehead, then my cheeks. Frowning, she pulled her hand away as Mama entered the kitchen. “Mary, feel this child’s face,” she said. “She seem warm to you?”
Mama cupped my face in her thin hands. “You feel sick, Cassie?”
“No’m.”
“How do you feel?”
“All right,” I said, still churning.
Mama studied me with the same disturbed look Big Ma wore and a tiny frown line appeared on her brow. “Cassie,” she said softly, fixing her dark eyes upon me, “is there something you want to tell me?”
I was on the verge of blurting out the awful truth about the bus and the men in the night, but then I remembered the pact Stacey had made us all swear to when I had told him, Christopher-John, and Little Man about the caravan and I said instead, “No, ma’am,” and began to churn again. Abruptly, Mama took hold of the churning stick, her eyes searching mine. As she studied me, she seemed about to ask me something, then the question faded and she pulled away, lifting the lid of the churn. “It looks ready now,” she said with a sigh. “Dip out the butter like I showed you and wash it down. I’ll take care of the milk.”
I scooped the butter from the churning lid onto a plate and went through the curtain to the small pantry off the kitchen to get the molding dish. It had been placed on a high shelf under several other dishes and I had to stand on a stool to get it. As I eased it out, Mama and Big Ma spoke softly in worried tones on the other side of the curtain.
“Somethin’ the matter with that child, Mary.”
“She’s not sick, Mama.”
“There’s all sorts of sickness. She ain’t ate right for goin’ on over a week. She ain’t sleepin’ right neither. Restless and murmurin’ in her sleep all night long. And she won’t hardly even go out and play, rather be in here helpin’ us. Now you know that ain’t like that child.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Mama whispered so I could hardly hear her. “You think…Mama, you think she could’ve seen—”
“Oh, Lord, no, child,” Big Ma exclaimed hastily. “I checked in there right after they passed and she was sound asleep. She couldn’t’ve seen them ole devils. The boys neither.”
Mama sighed. “The boys, they’re not themselves either. All of them, too quiet. Here it is Saturday morning and they’re quiet as church mice. I don’t like it, and I can’t shake the feeling it’s got something to do with— Cassie!”
Without warning, I had lost my balance and with an absurd topple from the knee-high stool crashed upon the floor with the molding dish. “Cassie, you hurt?” Mama asked, stooping beside me.
“No’m,” I mumbled, feeling very clumsy and close to tears. I knew that if I let the tears fall, Mama’s suspicion that something was wrong would be confirmed for I never cried about such a silly thing as a fall; in fact, I seldom ever cried. So instead of crying, I jumped up quickly and began to pick up the broken pieces of the dish.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said, helping me. When we had swept the chips away with the long field-straw broom, she told me, “Leave the butter, Cassie, and go on in with the boys.”
“But, Mama—”
“I’ll do the butter. Now go on, do like I say.”
I stared up at Mama, wondering if she would ever know what we had done, then joined the boys who were sitting listlessly around the fire absently listening to T.J.
“See, fellows, there’s a system to getting out of work,” T.J. was expounding as I sat down. “Jus’ don’t be ’round when it’s got to be done. Only thing is, you can’t let your folks know that’s what you’re doin’. See, you should do like me. Like this mornin’ when Mama wanted to bring back them scissors she borrowed from Miz Logan, I ups and volunteers so she don’t have to make this long trip down here, she bein’ so busy and all. And naturally when I got here, y’all wanted me to stay awhile and talk to y’all, so what could I do? I couldn’t be impolite, could I? And by the time I finally convince y’all I gotta go, all the work’ll be done at home.” T.J. chuckled with satisfaction. “Yeah, you just have to use the old brain, that’s all.”
He was quiet a moment, expecting some comment on his discourse, but no one said a word.
T.J.’s eyes roamed the length of the room, then he admonished, “See, if you was smart like me, Stacey, you’d use the old brain to get the questions on that big test comin’ up. Just think, they probably jus’ sittin’ right here in this very room waitin’ to be discovered.”
Stacey cast T.J. an annoyed look, but did not speak.
“Y’all sure are a sorry lot this mornin’,” T.J. observed. “A fellow’s just wastin’ his know-how talkin’ to y’all.”
“Ain’t nobody asked you to give it,” said Stacey.
“Well, you don’t have to get snippety about it,” replied T.J. haughtily. Again, silence prevailed; but that would not do for T.J. “Say, how ’bout we sneak down to that ole Wallace store and learn how to do them new dances?”
“Mama told us not to go down there,” Stacey said.
“You some mama’s boy or somethin’ you gotta do everything your mama tells—”
“You go on if you wanna,” said Stacey quietly, not rising to T.J.’s bait, “but we staying here.”
Again, silence.
&nbs
p; Then T.J. said: “Say, y’all hear the latest ’bout them night men?” Suddenly, all eyes turned from the fire and riveted themselves upon him. Our faces were eager question marks; we were totally in T.J.’s power.
“What ’bout them?” Stacey asked, almost evenly.
T.J., of course, intended to nurse the moment for as long as he could. “You see when a fellow’s as smart as me, he gets to know things that other folks don’t. Now, this kind of information ain’t for the ears of little kids so I really shouldn’t even tell y’all—”
“Then don’t!” said Stacey with smooth finality, turning back toward the fire as if he cared not at all about the night men. Taking his cue, I nudged Christopher-John and Christopher-John nudged Little Man, and the three of us forced ourselves to stare into the fire in feigned disinterest.
Without a captive audience, T.J. had to reinterest us by getting to the point. “Well, ’bout a week ago, they rode down to Mr. Sam Tatum’s place—you know, down the Jackson Road toward Strawberry—and you know what they done?”
Stacey, Little Man, and I kept our eyes upon the fire, but Christopher-John piped eagerly, “What?”
I poked Christopher-John and he turned guiltily around, but T.J., triumphant with an assured audience of one, settled back in his chair ready to prolong the suspense. “You know Mama’d kill me if she knowed I was tellin’ this. I heard her and Miz Claire Thompson talkin’ ’bout it. They was real scared. Don’t know why though. Them ole night men sure wouldn’t scare me none. Like I told Claude—”
“Hey, y’all,” Stacey said, standing and motioning us up. “Mama said she wanted us to take some milk and butter down to Miz Jackson before noon. We’d better get started.”
I nodded, and Christopher-John, Little Man, and I got up.
“Tarred and feathered him!” T.J. announced hastily. “Poured the blackest tar they could find all over him, then plastered him with chicken feathers.” T.J. laughed. “Can you imagine that?”
“But why?” asked Little Man, forgetting our ploy.
This time T.J. did not slow down. “I dunno if y’all’s little ears should hear this, but it seems he called Mr. Jim Lee Barnett a liar—he’s the man who runs the Mercantile down in Strawberry. Mr. Tatum’s s’pose to done told him that he ain’t ordered up all them things Mr. Barnett done charged him for. Mr. Barnett said he had all them things Mr. Tatum ordered writ down and when Mr. Tatum asked to see that list of his, Mr. Barnett says, ‘You callin’ me a liar, boy?’ And Mr. Tatum says, ‘Yessuh, I guess I is!’ That done it!”
“Then it wasn’t ’cause of the bus?” Christopher-John blurted out.
“Bus? What’s a bus got to do with it?”
“Nothin’,” said Stacey quickly. “Nothin’ at all.”
“Well, if anybody said them night men was down in here ’cause of some stupid bus, they crazy,” said T.J. authoritatively. “ ’Cause my information come direct from Miz Claire Thompson who seen Mr. Tatum herself.”
“You sure?” Stacey asked.
“Sure? Sure, I’m sure. When do I ever say anythin’ when I ain’t sure?”
Stacey smiled with relief. “Come on, let’s get the milk.”
All of us went into the kitchen, then to the bedrooms to get our coats. When we got outside, T.J. remembered that he had left his cap by the fire and ran back to retrieve it. As soon as we were alone, Little Man asked, “Stacey, you really think them night men put tar and feathers all over Mr. Tatum?”
“I s’pose so,” said Stacey.
Little Man frowned, but it was Christopher-John who spoke, whispering shrilly as if a stray morning ghost might overhear. “If they ever find out ’bout the bus, you think they gonna put tar and feathers all over us?”
Little Man’s frown deepened and he observed gravely, “If they did, we’d never get clean again.”
“Cassie,” said Christopher-John, his eyes wide, “w-was you real s-scared when you seen ’em?”
Little Man shivered with excitement. “I wish I could’ve seen ’em.”
“Well, I don’t,” declared Christopher-John. “In fact, I wish I’d never heard of no night men or buses or secrets or holes in the road!” And with that outburst, he stuffed his pudgy hands into his thin jacket, pressed his lips firmly together, and refused to say another word.
After a few moments, Stacey said, “What’s keeping T.J.?” The rest of us shrugged, then followed Stacey back up the porch into Mama’s room. As we entered, T.J. jumped. He was standing at the desk with Mama’s W.E.B. Du Bois’s The Negro in his hands.
“That don’t look like your cap,” said Stacey.
“Aw, man, I ain’t done nothin’. Jus’ lookin’ at Miz Logan’s history book, that’s all. I’m mighty interested in that place called Egypt she been tellin’ us ’bout and them black kings that was rulin’ back then.” Still talking, he casually put down the book and picked up his cap.
All four of us looked accusingly at T.J. and he halted. “Say, what is this? What’s the meanin’ of sneakin’ up on me like that anyway? Y’all think I was lookin’ for them test questions or somethin’? Shoot, a fellow’d think you didn’t trust him.” Then, thrusting his arm around Stacey’s shoulders, he chided, “Friends gotta trust each other, Stacey, ’cause ain’t nothin’ like a true friend.” And with those words of wisdom he left the room, leaving us to wonder how he had managed to slink out of this one.
* * *
The Monday after his arrival Mr. Morrison had moved into the deserted tenant shack that stood in the south pasture. It was a sorry mess, that house. Its door hung sadly from a broken hinge; its porch floorboards were rotted; and its one-room interior was densely occupied by rats, spiders, and other field creatures. But Mr. Morrison was a quiet man, almost shy, and although Mama had offered him lodging in our house, he preferred the old shack. Mama sensed that Mr. Morrison was a private person and she did not object to the move, but she did send the boys and me to the house to help clean it.
Little Man, Christopher-John, and I took to Mr. Morrison immediately and had no objections to the cleaning. Anybody who was a friend of Papa’s was all right in our book; besides, when he was near, night men and burnings and midnight tarrings faded into a hazy distance. But Stacey remained aloof and had little to do with him.
After the cleaning I asked Mama if Christopher-John, Little Man, and I could go visit Mr. Morrison, but she said no.
“But, Mama, I wanna know more ’bout him,” I explained. “I just wanna know how come he’s so big.”
“You know about as much as you need to know,” she decided. “And long as Mr. Morrison stays here, that’s his house. If he wants you down there, he’ll ask you.”
“Don’t know how come y’all wanna go down there noway,” Stacey said moodily when Mama was out of hearing.
“’Cause we like him, that’s why,” I answered, tired of his distant attitude toward Mr. Morrison. Then, as discreetly as I could, I said, “What’s the matter with you, boy, not liking Mr. Morrison?”
Stacey shrugged. “I like him all right.”
“Don’t act that way.”
Stacey looked away from me. “Don’t need him here. All that work he doing, I could’ve done it myself.”
“Ah, you couldn’t’ve done no such thing. Besides”—I looked around to be certain that Big Ma and Mama were not near—“besides, Papa didn’t just bring him here to do no work. You know how come he really here.”
Stacey turned toward me haughtily. “I could’ve taken care of that too.”
I rolled my eyes at him, but held my peace. I didn’t feel like a fight, and as long as Mr. Morrison was within hollering distance of the back porch, it made little difference to me what Stacey thought he could do.
* * *
“I sure wouldn’t want that big ole man stayin’ at my place,” said T.J. on the way to school. “I betcha he get mad one time, he’d take ole Little Man and swing him over that tree yonder like he wasn’t nothin’ but a twig.” He laughed then as Little Man
set his lips and stared angrily up. “Course, I could probably ’bout do that myself.”
“Couldn’t neither!” denied Little Man.
“Hush, Man,” said Stacey. “T.J., leave Man alone.”
“Aw, I ain’t botherin’ him. Little Man’s my buddy, ain’t ya, Man?” Little Man scowled, but didn’t reply. T.J. turned back to Stacey. “You ready for that history test?”
“Hope so,” said Stacey. “But I keep forgetting them dates.”
“Betcha I could help ya, if you be nice.”
“How? You worse than I am ’bout dates.”
T.J. grinned, then slyly pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Stacey. Stacey unfolded it, looked at it curiously, then frowned. “You planning on cheating?”
“Well, naw, I ain’t plannin’ on it,” said T.J. seriously. “Jus’ if I gotta.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna,” said Stacey, tearing the paper in two.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you, man!” cried T.J. grabbing for the paper. But Stacey turned his back to him and tore the paper into bits, then deposited them in the gully. “Man, that sho’ ain’t right! I wouldn’t do you that way!”
“Maybe not,” replied Stacey. “But at least this way you won’t get into no trouble.”
T.J. mumbled, “If failin’ ain’t trouble, I don’t know what is.”
* * *
Little Man, Christopher-John, Claude, and I were sitting on the bottom step of the seventh-grade-class building after school waiting for Stacey and T.J. when the front door banged open and T.J. shot out and tore across the yard. “What’s the matter with him?” asked Christopher-John. “Ain’t he gonna wait for Stacey?”
The rest of the seventh grade, led by Little Willie Wiggins and Moe Turner, spilled from the building. “There he go!” cried Little Willie as T.J. disappeared on the forest road. Moe Turner yelled, “Let’s see where he goin’!” Then he and three other boys dashed away in pursuit of T.J. But the others stood restlessly near the steps as if school had not yet ended.
Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry Page 6