Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

by Mildred D. Taylor

  When she had gone inside, T.J. said, “What you wanna see that ole white man for anyway, Cassie? What you and him got to talk ’bout?”

  “I just wanted to see him, that’s all,” I said, going to the raised sidewalk and taking a seat. I liked Mr. Jamison and I didn’t mind admitting it. He came to see us several times a year, mainly on business, and although the boys and I were somewhat shy of him, we were always glad to see him. He was the only white man I had ever heard address Mama and Big Ma as “Missus,” and I liked him for it. Besides that, in his way he was like Papa: Ask him a question and he would give it to you straight with none of this pussyfooting-around business. I liked that.

  After several minutes of watching farmers in faded overalls and their women in flour-sack-cut dresses promenading under the verandas, T.J. said, “Why don’t we go on down to the mercantile and look around?”

  Stacey hesitated. “I don’t know. I think Big Ma wanted to go with us.”

  “Ah, shoot, man, we’ll be doin’ her a favor. We go on down to the mercantile now and order up our stuff, we’ll save her some time so when she come from seein’ that lawyer, we can jus’ go on home. Besides, I got somethin’ to show ya.”

  Stacey pondered the suggestion for a long moment. “Well, I guess it’ll be all right,” he said finally.

  “Big Ma said stay here!” I objected, hoping that Mr. Jamison would come out with Big Ma.

  “Stay here then,” Stacey called over his shoulder as he crossed the street with T.J.

  I dashed after them. I wasn’t about to stay on that sidewalk by myself.

  The Barnett Mercantile had everything. Its shelves, counters, and floor space boasted items from ladies’ ribbons to burlap bags of seeds; from babies’ bottles to brand-new potbellied stoves. T.J., who had been to the store several times before, wove his way among the farmers and led us to a counter at the far corner of the room. The counter had a glass top, and beneath the glass were handguns artfully displayed on a bolt of red velvet.

  “Jus’ look at it,” T.J. said dreamily. “Ain’t she somethin’?”

  “What?” I said.

  “That pearl-handled one. Stacey, man, you ever seen a gun like that before in your whole life? I’d sell my life for that gun. One of these days I’m gonna have it, too.”

  “I reckon I ain’t,” said Stacey politely. “It’s a nice-looking gun all right.”

  I stared down at the gun. A price tag of $35.95 stared back at me. “Thirty-five dollars and ninety-five cents!” I almost screamed. “Just for an ole gun? What the devil you gonna use it for? Can’t hunt with it.”

  T.J. looked at me with disgust. “Ain’t s’pose to hunt with it. It’s for protection.”

  “Protection of what?” I asked, thinking of Papa’s sturdy shotgun that hung over his and Mama’s bed, and the sleek Winchester rifle which Big Ma kept locked in the trunk beneath our own bed. “That thing couldn’t hardly kill a rattlesnake.”

  “There’s other things a body needs protectin’ from more than a rattlesnake,” he said haughtily. “I get me that gun and ain’t nobody gonna mess with me. I wouldn’t need nobody.”

  Stacey backed away from the counter. He seemed nervous being in the store. “We better get those things you need and get on outa here ’fore Big Ma comes looking for us.”

  “Ah, man, there’s plenty of time,” said T.J., looking longingly at the gun. “Sure wish I could jus’ hold it, jus’ once.”

  “Come on, T.J.,” ordered Stacey, “or me and Cassie’s gonna go on back outside.”

  “Oh, all right.” T.J. turned reluctantly away and went to a counter where a man was measuring nails onto a scale. We stood patiently waiting behind the people in front of us and when our turn came, T.J. handed his list to the man. “Mr. Barnett, sir,” he said, “I got me this here list of things my mama want.”

  The storekeeper studied the list and without looking up asked, “You one of Mr. Granger’s people?”

  “Yessir,” answered T.J.

  Mr. Barnett walked to another counter and began filling the order, but before he finished a white woman called, “Mr. Barnett, you waiting on anybody just now?”

  Mr. Barnett turned around. “Just them,” he said, indicating us with a wave of his hand. “What can I do for you, Miz Emmaline?” The woman handed him a list twice as long as T.J.’s and the storekeeper, without a word of apology to us, proceeded to fill it.

  “What’s he doing?” I objected.

  “Hush, Cassie,” said Stacey, looking very embarrassed and uncomfortable. T.J.’s face was totally bland, as if nothing at all had happened.

  When the woman’s order was finally filled, Mr. Barnett again picked up T.J.’s list, but before he had gotten the next item his wife called, “Jim Lee, these folks needing help over here and I got my hands full.” And as if we were not even there, he walked away.

  “Where’s he going?” I cried.

  “He’ll be back,” said T.J., wandering away.

  After waiting several minutes for Mr. Barnett’s return, Stacey said, “Come on, Cassie, let’s go.” He started toward the door and I followed. But as we passed one of the counters, I spied Mr. Barnett wrapping an order of pork chops for a white girl. Adults were one thing; I could almost understand that. They ruled things and there was nothing that could be done about them. But some kid who was no bigger than me was something else again. Certainly Mr. Barnett had simply forgotten about T.J.’s order. I decided to remind him and, without saying anything to Stacey, I turned around and marched over to Mr. Barnett.

  “Uh…’scuse me, Mr. Barnett,” I said as politely as I could, waiting a moment for him to look up from his wrapping. “I think you forgot, but you was waiting on us ’fore you was waiting on this girl here, and we been waiting a good while now for you to get back.”

  The girl gazed at me strangely, but Mr. Barnett did not look up. I assumed that he had not heard me. I was near the end of the counter so I merely went to the other side of it and tugged on his shirt sleeve to get his attention.

  He recoiled as if I had struck him.

  “Y-you was helping us,” I said, backing to the front of the counter again.

  “Well, you just get your little black self back over there and wait some more,” he said in a low, tight voice.

  I was hot. I had been as nice as I could be to him and here he was talking like this. “We been waiting on you for near an hour,” I hissed, “while you ’round here waiting on everybody else. And it ain’t fair. You got no right—”

  “Whose little nigger is this!” bellowed Mr. Barnett.

  Everyone in the store turned and stared at me. “I ain’t nobody’s little nigger!” I screamed, angry and humiliated. “And you ought not be waiting on everybody ’fore you wait on us.”

  “Hush up, child, hush up,” someone whispered behind me. I looked around. A woman who had occupied the wagon next to ours at the market looked down upon me. Mr. Barnett, his face red and eyes bulging, immediately pounced on her.

  “This gal yourn, Hazel?”

  “No, suh,” answered the woman meekly, stepping hastily away to show she had nothing to do with me. As I watched her turn her back on me, Stacey emerged and took my hand.

  “Come on, Cassie, let’s get out of here.”

  “Stacey!” I exclaimed, relieved to see him by my side. “Tell him! You know he ain’t fair making us wait—”

  “She your sister, boy?” Mr. Barnett spat across the counter.

  Stacey bit his lower lip and gazed into Mr. Barnett’s eyes. “Yessir.”

  “Then you get her out of here,” he said with hateful force. “And make sure she don’t come back till yo’ mammy teach her what she is.”

  “I already know what I am!” I retaliated. “But I betcha you don’t know what you are! And I could sure tell you, too, you ole—”

  Stacey jerked me forward, crushing my hand in the effort, and whispered angrily, “Shut up, Cassie!” His dark eyes flashed malevolently as he pushed me in front o
f him through the crowd.

  As soon as we were outside, I whipped my hand from his. “What’s the matter with you? You know he was wrong!”

  Stacey swallowed to flush his anger, then said gruffly, “I know it and you know it, but he don’t know it, and that’s where the trouble is. Now come on ’fore you get us into a real mess. I’m going up to Mr. Jamison’s to see what’s keeping Big Ma.”

  “What ’bout T.J.?” I called as he stepped into the street.

  Stacey laughed wryly. “Don’t worry ’bout T.J. He knows exactly how to act.” He crossed the street sullenly then, his hands jammed in his pockets.

  I watched him go, but did not follow. Instead, I ambled along the sidewalk trying to understand why Mr. Barnett had acted the way he had. More than once I stopped and gazed over my shoulder at the mercantile. I had a good mind to go back in and find out what had made Mr. Barnett so mad. I actually turned once and headed toward the store, then remembering what Mr. Barnett had said about my returning, I swung back around, kicking at the sidewalk, my head bowed.

  It was then that I bumped into Lillian Jean Simms.

  “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” she asked huffily. Jeremy and her two younger brothers were with her. “Hey, Cassie,” said Jeremy.

  “Hey, Jeremy,” I said solemnly, keeping my eyes on Lillian Jean.

  “Well, apologize,” she ordered.

  “What?”

  “You bumped into me. Now you apologize.”

  I did not feel like messing with Lillian Jean. I had other things on my mind. “Okay,” I said, starting past, “I’m sorry.”

  Lillian Jean sidestepped in front of me. “That ain’t enough. Get down in the road.”

  I looked up at her. “You crazy?”

  “You can’t watch where you going, get in the road. Maybe that way you won’t be bumping into decent white folks with your little nasty self.”

  This second insult of the day was almost more than I could bear. Only the thought of Big Ma up in Mr. Jamison’s office saved Lillian Jean’s lip. “I ain’t nasty,” I said, properly holding my temper in check, “and if you’re so afraid of getting bumped, walk down there yourself.”

  I started past her again, and again she got in my way. “Ah, let her pass, Lillian Jean,” said Jeremy. “She ain’t done nothin’ to you.”

  “She done something to me just standing in front of me.” With that, she reached for my arm and attempted to push me off the sidewalk. I braced myself and swept my arm backward, out of Lillian Jean’s reach. But someone caught it from behind, painfully twisting it, and shoved me off the sidewalk into the road. I landed bottom first on the ground.

  Mr. Simms glared down at me. “When my gal Lillian Jean says for you to get yo’self off the sidewalk, you get, you hear?”

  Behind him were his sons R.W. and Melvin. People from the store began to ring the Simmses. “Ain’t that the same little nigger was cuttin’ up back there at Jim Lee’s?” someone asked.

  “Yeah, she the one,” answered Mr. Simms. “You hear me talkin’ to you, gal? You ’pologize to Miz Lillian Jean this minute.”

  I stared up at Mr. Simms, frightened. Jeremy appeared frightened too. “I—I apologized already.”

  Jeremy seemed relieved that I had spoken. “She d-did, Pa. R-right now, ’fore y’all come, she did—”

  Mr. Simms turned an angry gaze upon his son and Jeremy faltered, looked at me, and hung his head.

  Then Mr. Simms jumped into the street. I moved away from him, trying to get up. He was a mean-looking man, red in the face and bearded. I was afraid he was going to hit me before I could get to my feet, but he didn’t. I scrambled up and ran blindly for the wagon. Someone grabbed me and I fought wildly, attempting to pull loose. “Stop, Cassie!” Big Ma said. “Stop, it’s me. We’re going home now.”

  “Not ’fore she ’pologizes to my gal, y’all ain’t,” said Mr. Simms.

  Big Ma gazed down at me, fear in her eyes, then back at the growing crowd. “She jus’ a child—”

  “Tell her, Aunty—”

  Big Ma looked at me again, her voice cracking as she spoke. “Go on, child…apologize.”

  “But, Big Ma—”

  Her voice hardened. “Do like I say.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Go on!”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, Miz Lillian Jean,” demanded Mr. Simms.

  “Big Ma!” I balked.

  “Say it, child.”

  A painful tear slid down my cheek and my lips trembled. “I’m sorry…M-Miz…Lillian Jean.”

  When the words had been spoken, I turned and fled crying into the back of the wagon. No day in all my life had ever been as cruel as this one.

  6

  The ride home was long and silent. None of us felt like talking, not even T.J. Big Ma had informed him shortly after leaving Strawberry that she did not want to hear another word out of him before we reached home. He sulked for a while with a few audible grumbles which no one paid any attention to, but finally he fell asleep and did not awaken until we had driven up the Granger road and stopped in front of the Avery house.

  By the time Jack pulled into our own yard, the night was a thick blackness and smelled of a coming rain. Big Ma climbed wearily down from the wagon and went into the house without a word. I stayed with Stacey to help him put the wagon inside the barn and unhitch and feed Jack. While I held the flashlight on the barn doors, Stacey slowly slid aside the plank of wood that held the doors fastened. “Cassie,” he said, in a quiet, thoughtful voice, “don’t go blaming Big Ma for what she done.”

  “Why not?” I asked angrily. “She made me apologize to that ole ugly Lillian Jean ’bout something wasn’t even my fault. She took them ole Simmses’ side without even hearing mine.”

  “Well, maybe she couldn’t help it, Cassie. Maybe she had to do it.”

  “Had to do it!” I practically screamed. “She didn’t have to do nothin’! She’s grown just like that Mr. Simms and she should’ve stood up for me. I wouldn’t’ve done her that way.”

  Stacey put the plank on the ground and leaned against the barn. “There’s things you don’t understand, Cassie—”

  “And I s’pose you do, huh? Ever since you went down into Louisiana to get Papa last summer you think you know so doggone much! Well, I betcha I know one thing. If that had been Papa, he wouldn’t’ve made me apologize! He would’ve listened to me!”

  Stacey sighed and swung open the barn doors. “Well, Papa…that’s different. But Big Ma ain’t Papa and you can’t expect…” His voice trailed off as he peered into the barn. Suddenly he cried, “Cassie, give me that flashlight!” Then, before I could object, he tore the flashlight from my hand and shone it into the barn.

  “What’s Mr. Granger’s car doing in our barn?” I exclaimed as the silver Packard was unveiled by the light. Without answering me, Stacey swiftly turned and ran toward the house. I followed closely behind. Throwing open the door to Mama’s room, we stood dumbfounded in the doorway. Instead of Mr. Granger, a tall, handsome man, nattily dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and vest, stood by the fire with his arm around Big Ma. For a moment we swayed with excitement, then as if by signal we both cried, “Uncle Hammer!” and dashed into his arms.

  Uncle Hammer was two years older than Papa and, unmarried, he came every winter to spend the Christmas season with us. Like Papa, he had dark, red-brown skin, a square-jawed face, and high cheekbones; yet there was a great difference between them somehow. His eyes, which showed a great warmth as he hugged and kissed us now, often had a cold, distant glaze, and there was an aloofness in him which the boys and I could never quite bridge.

  When he let us go, Stacey and I both grew consciously shy, and we backed away. I sat down beside Christopher-John and Little Man, who were silently gazing up at Uncle Hammer, but Stacey stammered, “Wh-what’s Mr. Granger’s car doing in our barn?”

  “That’s your Uncle Hammer’s car,” Mama said. “Did
you unhitch Jack?”

  “Uncle Hammer’s!” Stacey exclaimed, exchanging shocked glances with me. “No kidding?”

  Big Ma stammered, “Hammer, you—you went and got a car like Harlan Granger’s?”

  Uncle Hammer smiled a strange, wry smile. “Well, not exactly like it, Mama. Mine’s a few months newer. Last year when I come down here, I was right impressed with that big ole Packard of Mr. Harlan Filmore Granger’s and I thought I’d like to own one myself. It seems that me and Harlan Granger just got the same taste.” He winked slyly at Stacey. “Don’t it, Stacey?”

  Stacey grinned.

  “You like, maybe we’ll all go riding in it one day. If it’s all right with your mama.”

  “Oh, boy!” cried Little Man.

  “You mean it, Uncle Hammer?” I asked. “Mama, can we?”

  “We’ll see,” Mama said. “But in any case, not tonight. Stacey, go take care of Jack and draw up a bucket of water for the kitchen. We’ve done the other chores.”

  Since no one told me to help Stacey, I forgot all about Jack and settled back to listen to Uncle Hammer. Christopher-John and Little Man, who Big Ma had feared would be moping because they had not been allowed to go to town, seemed not at all concerned that Stacey and I had gone. They were awestruck by Uncle Hammer, and compared to his arrival a day in Strawberry was a minor matter.

  For a while Uncle Hammer talked only to Mama and Big Ma, laughing from deep down inside himself like Papa, but then to my surprise he turned from them and addressed me. “I understand you had your first trip to Strawberry today, Cassie,” he said. “What did you think?”

  Big Ma stiffened, but I was pleased to have this opportunity to air my side of the Strawberry affair. “I didn’t like it,” I said. “Them ole Simmses—”

  “Mary, I feel a bit hungry,” Big Ma interrupted abruptly. “Supper still warm?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Mama standing. “I’ll set it on the table for you.”

  As Mama stood up, I started again. “Them ole Simmses—”