“There’s talk that some of the people around here are looking to shop in Vicksburg,” he said.
Big Ma looked around at Papa and Uncle Hammer, but neither of them acknowledged her glance; their eyes were pinned on Mr. Jamison.
“There’s talk too why folks are looking to shop there.” He paused, met Papa’s eyes, then Uncle Hammer’s, and went on. “As you know, my family has roots in Vicksburg—we’ve a number of friends there still. I got a call from one of them this morning. Said you were looking to find credit for about thirty families.”
Papa and Uncle Hammer neither affirmed nor denied this. “You know as well as I do that credit doesn’t come easy these days,” continued Mr. Jamison. “You expect to get any, you’ll need something to back it.”
“I reckon we know that,” said Uncle Hammer.
Mr. Jamison glanced at Uncle Hammer and nodded. “I reckoned you did. But as far as I can see, the only thing any of you got to back that credit with is this land…and I’d hate to see you put it up.”
“Why’s that?” asked Uncle Hammer, wary of his interest.
“Because you’d lose it.”
The fire popped and the room grew silent. Then Papa said, “What you getting at?”
“I’ll back the credit.”
Again, silence. Mr. Jamison allowed Papa and Uncle Hammer several moments to search for a motive behind his masklike face. “I’m a Southerner, born and bred, but that doesn’t mean I approve of all that goes on here, and there are a lot of other white people who feel the same.”
“If you and so many others feel that way,” said Uncle Hammer with a wry sneer, “then how come them Wallaces ain’t in jail?”
“Hammer—” Big Ma started.
“Because,” answered Mr. Jamison candidly, “there aren’t enough of those same white people who would admit how they feel, or even if they did, would hang a white man for killing a black one. It’s as simple as that.”
Uncle Hammer smiled slightly and shook his head, but his eyes showed a grudging respect for Mr. Jamison.
“Backing the loan will be strictly a business matter. In the fall when the crops are in, those people who’ve bought the goods in Vicksburg will have to pay for them. If they don’t, then I’ll have to. Of course, as a businessman, I’m hoping that I won’t have to put out a penny—my own cash box isn’t exactly overflowing—so there’ll have to be a credit limit. Still, it would lend me a great deal of satisfaction to know that I was a part of all this.” He looked around. “What do you think?”
“You know it ain’t hardly likely,” Papa said, “that after accounts are figured, there’ll be any money to pay any debts at all, except those up at that Wallace store.”
Mr. Jamison nodded knowingly. “But the offer still stands.”
Papa inhaled deeply. “Well, then, I’d say it’s up to those people who’d be buying on your signature. They want to do it, then we got no say in it. We always pay cash.”
“You know if you sign that credit,” said Uncle Hammer, “you won’t be the most popular man down in here. You thought about that?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Jamison thoughtfully, “my wife and I discussed it fully. We realize what could happen…. But I’m just wondering if you do. Besides the fact that a number of white folks around here resent this land you’ve got and your independent attitude, there’s Harlan Granger. Now I’ve known Harlan all my life, and he’s not going to like this.”
I wanted to ask what Mr. Granger had to do with anything, but common sense told me that I would only earn eviction by asking. But then Mr. Jamison went on and explained without any prodding from me.
“Ever since we were boys, Harlan’s lived in the past. His grandmother filled him with all kinds of tales about the glory of the South before the war. You know, back then the Grangers had one of the biggest plantations in the state and Spokane County practically belonged to them…and they thought it did too. They were consulted about everything concerning this area and they felt it was up to them to see that things worked smoothly, according to the law—a law basically for whites. Well, Harlan feels the same now as his grandmother did back then. He also feels strongly about this land and he resents the fact that you won’t sell it back to him. You back the credit with it now and he’ll seize this opportunity to take it away from you. You can count on it.”
He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had grown so quiet I had to lean forward to hear his next words. “And if you continue to encourage people not to shop at the Wallace store, you could still lose it. Don’t forget that Harlan leases that store land to the Wallaces and gets a hefty percentage of its revenue. Before he let the Wallaces set up storekeeping, he was only getting his sharecroppers’ money. Now he gets a nice bit of Montier’s and Harrison’s sharecroppers’ money too since both of those plantations are too small to have a store, and he’s not hardly going to stand for your interfering with it.
“But even more important than all that, you’re pointing a finger right at the Wallaces with this boycott business. You’re not only accusing them of murder, which in this case would be only a minor consideration because the man killed was black, but you’re saying they should be punished for it. That they should be punished just as if they had killed a white man, and punishment of a white man for a wrong done to a black man would denote equality. Now that is what Harlan Granger absolutely will not permit.”
Mr. Jamison was silent, waiting; no one else spoke and he went on again.
“What John Henry Berry and his brother were accused of—making advances to a white woman—goes against the grain of Harlan Granger and most other white folks in this community more than anything else, you know that. Harlan may not believe in the methods of the Wallaces, but he’ll definitely support them. Believe me on that.”
Mr. Jamison picked up his briefcase, ran his fingers through his graying hair, and met Papa’s eyes. “The sad thing is, you know in the end you can’t beat him or the Wallaces.”
Papa looked down at the boys and me awaiting his reply, then nodded slightly, as if he agreed. “Still,” he said, “I want these children to know we tried, and what we can’t do now, maybe one day they will.”
“I do hope that’s so, David,” murmured Mr. Jamison going to the door. “I truly hope that’s so.”
* * *
In the days that followed Mr. Jamison’s visit, Papa, Mama, and Uncle Hammer went to the houses of those families who were considering shopping in Vicksburg. On the fourth day Papa and Uncle Hammer again went to Vicksburg, but this time in the wagon with Mr. Morrison. Their journey took two days and when they returned, the wagon was loaded with store-bought goods.
“What’s all that?” I asked Papa as he jumped from the wagon. “That for us?”
“No, Cassie girl. It’s things folks ordered from Vicksburg.”
I wanted to ask more questions about the trip, but Papa seemed in a hurry to be off again and my questions went unanswered until the following day, when Mr. Granger arrived. Christopher-John and I were drawing water from the well when the silver Packard glided to a smooth stop in the drive and Mr. Granger stepped out. He stared sour-faced at Uncle Hammer’s Packard in the barn, then opened the gate to the front yard and stepped briskly across the lawn to the house.
Hastily Christopher-John and I tugged on the well rope, pulled up the water tube, and poured the water into the bucket. Each of us gripping a side of the heavy bucket, we hurried to the back porch where we deposited it, then tip-toed silently through the empty kitchen to the door leading to Mama and Papa’s room. Little Man and Stacey, just leaving the room under Mama’s orders, allowed the door to remain slightly cracked, and all four of us huddled against it stepladder fashion.
“You sure giving folks something to talk ’bout with that car of yours, Hammer,” Mr. Granger said in his folksy dialect as he sat down with a grunt across from Papa. In spite of his college education he always spoke this way. “What they got you doing up North? Bootlegging whiskey?” He laughe
d dryly, indicating that the question was to be taken lightly, but his eyes tight on Uncle Hammer showed that he intended to have an answer.
Uncle Hammer, leaning against the fireplace mantel, did not laugh. “Don’t need to bootleg,” he said sullenly. “Up there I got me a man’s job and they pay me a man’s wages for it.”
Mr. Granger studied Uncle Hammer. Uncle Hammer wore, as he had every day since he had arrived, sharply creased pants, a vest over a snow-white shirt, and shoes that shone like midnight. “You right citified, ain’t you? Course you always did think you was too good to work in the fields like other folks.”
“Naw, that ain’t it,” said Uncle Hammer. “I just ain’t never figured fifty cents a day was worth a child’s time, let alone a man’s wages.” Uncle Hammer said nothing else; he didn’t need to. Everyone knew that fifty cents was the top price paid to any day laborer, man, woman, or child, hired to work in the Granger fields.
Mr. Granger ran his tongue around his teeth, making his lips protrude in odd half circles, then he turned from Uncle Hammer to Papa. “Some folks tell me y’all running a regular traveling store up here. Hear tell a fellow can get just ’bout anything he wants from up at Tate’s in Vicksburg if he just lets y’all know.”
Papa met Mr. Granger’s eyes, but did not speak.
Mr. Granger shook his head. “Seems to me you folks are just stirring up something. Y’all got roots in this community. Even got yourselves that loan Paul Edward made from the First National Bank up in Strawberry for that eastern two hundred acres. Course now with times like they are, that mortgage could come due anytime…and if it comes due and y’all ain’t got the money to pay it, y’all could lose this place.”
“Ain’t gonna lose it,” said Uncle Hammer flatly.
Mr. Granger glanced up at Uncle Hammer, then back to Papa. He took a cigar from his pocket, then a knife to cut off the tip. After he had thrown the tip into the fire, he settled back in his chair and lit the cigar while Papa, Mama, Uncle Hammer, and Big Ma waited for him to get on. Then he said: “This is a fine community. Got fine folks in it—both white and colored. Whatever’s bothering you people, y’all just tell me. We’ll get it straightened out without all this big to-do.”
Uncle Hammer laughed outright. Mr. Granger looked up sharply, but Uncle Hammer eyed him insolently, a smile still on his lips. Mr. Granger, watching him, cautioned sternly, “I don’t like trouble here. This is a quiet and peaceful place…. I aim to see it stays that way.” Turning back to Papa, he continued. “Whatever problems we have, we can work them out. I ain’t gonna hide that I think y’all making a big mistake, both for the community and for yourselves, going all the way down to Vicksburg to do your shopping. That don’t seem very neighborly—”
“Neither does burning,” said Uncle Hammer.
Mr. Granger puffed deeply on his cigar and did not look at Uncle Hammer. When he spoke again it was to Big Ma. His voice was harsh, but he made no comment on what Uncle Hammer had said. “I don’t think your Paul Edward would’ve condoned something like this and risked losing this place. How come you let your boys go do it?”
Big Ma smoothed the lap of her dress with her hands. “They grown and it’s they land. I got no more say in it.”
Mr. Granger’s eyes showed no surprise, but he pursed his lips again and ran his tongue around his teeth. “The price of cotton’s mighty low, y’all know that,” he said finally. “Could be that I’ll have to charge my people more of their crops next summer just to make ends meet…. I’d hate to do it, ’cause if I did my people wouldn’t hardly have enough to buy winter stores, let alone be able to pay their debts….”
There was a tense, waiting silence before his glance slid to Papa again.
“Mr. Joe Higgins up at First National told me that he couldn’t hardly honor a loan to folks who go around stirring up a lot of bad feelings in the community—”
“And especially stirring the colored folks out of their place,” interjected Uncle Hammer calmly.
Mr. Granger paled, but did not turn to Uncle Hammer. “Money’s too scarce,” he continued as if he had not heard, “and folks like that are a poor risk. You ready to lose your land, David, because of this thing?”
Papa was lighting his pipe. He did not look up until the flame had caught in the tobacco and held there. Then he turned to Mr. Granger. “Two hundred acres of this place been Logan land for almost fifty years now, the other two hundred for fifteen. We’ve been through bad times and good times but we ain’t never lost none of it. Ain’t gonna start now.”
Mr. Granger said quietly, “It was Granger land before it was Logan.”
“Slave land,” said Papa.
Mr. Granger nodded. “Wouldn’t have lost this section if it hadn’t been stolen by your Yankee carpetbaggers after the war. But y’all keep on playing Santa Claus and I’m gonna get it back—real easy. I want you to know that I plan to do whatever I need to, to keep peace down in here.”
Papa took the pipe from his mouth and stared into the fire. When he faced Mr. Granger again his voice was very quiet, very distinct, very sure. “You being white, you can just ’bout plan on anything you want. But I tell you this one thing: You plan on getting this land, you’re planning on the wrong thing.”
Mama’s hand crossed almost unseen to Papa’s arm.
Mr. Granger looked up slyly. “There’s lots of ways of stopping you, David.”
Papa impaled Mr. Granger with an icy stare. “Then you’d better make them good,” he said.
Mr. Granger stood to go, a smile creeping smugly over his lips as if he knew a secret but refused to tell. He glanced at Uncle Hammer, then turned and left, leaving the silence behind him.
8
“Uh…Miz Lillian Jean, wouldja wait up a minute, please?”
“Cassie, you cracked?” cried Stacey. “Cassie, where you…get back here! Cassie!”
Stacey’s words faded into the gray stillness of the January morning as I turned deaf ears to him and hurried after Lillian Jean. “Thanks for waiting up,” I said when I caught up with her.
She stared down at me irritably. “What you want?”
“Well,” I said, walking beside her, “I been thinking ’bout what happened in Strawberry back last month.”
“Yeah?” commented Lillian Jean suspiciously.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I was real upset for a while there. But my papa told me it don’t do no good sitting around being mad. Then I seen how things was. I mean, I should’ve seen it all along. After all, I’m who I am and you’re who you are.”
Lillian Jean looked at me with astonishment that I could see the matter so clearly. “Well, I’m glad you finally learned the way of things.”
“Oh, I did,” I piped readily. “The way I see it—here, let me take them books for you, Miz Lillian Jean—the way I see it, we all gotta do what we gotta do. And that’s what I’m gonna do from now on. Just what I gotta.”
“Good for you, Cassie,” replied Lillian Jean enthusiastically. “God’ll bless you for it.”
“You think so?”
“Why, of course!” she exclaimed. “God wants all his children to do what’s right.”
“I’m glad you think so…Miz Lillian Jean.”
When we reached the crossroads, I waved good-bye to Lillian Jean and waited for the others. Before they reached me, Little Man exclaimed, “Owwww, I’m gonna tell Mama! Carrying that ole dumb Lillian Jean’s books!”
“Cassie, whatja do that for?” questioned Christopher-John, his round face pained.
“Ah, shoot,” laughed T.J. “Ole Cassie jus’ learned she better do what’s good for her if she don’t want no more of Mr. Simms’s back hand.”
I clinched my fists behind me, and narrowed my eyes in the Logan gaze, but managed to hold my tongue.
Stacey stared at me strangely, then turned and said, “We’d better get on to school.”
As I followed, Jeremy touched my arm timidly. “C-Cassie, you didn’t have to do that. That—that o
le Lillian Jean, she ain’t worth it.”
I stared at Jeremy, trying to understand him. But he shied away from me and ran down the road after his sister.
“Mama gonna whip you good, too,” said prideful Little Man, still fuming as we approached the school. “’Cause I’m gonna sure tell it.”
“Naw you ain’t,” said Stacey. There was a shocked silence as all heads turned to him. “This here thing’s between Cassie and Lillian Jean and ain’t nobody telling nobody nothin’ ’bout this.” He stared directly at T.J., caught his eye, and repeated, “Nobody.”
“Ah, man!” cried T.J. “It ain’t none of my business.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he added, “I got too many worries of my own to worry ’bout Cassie Uncle Tomming Lillian Jean.”
My temper almost flew out of my mouth, but I pressed my lips tightly together, forcing it to stay inside.
“Them final examinations comin’ up in two weeks, man, and ain’t no way I can afford to fail them things again,” T.J. continued.
“Then you won’t,” said Stacey.
“Shoot, that’s what I thought last year. But your mama makes up the hardest examinations she know how.” He paused, sighed, and ventured, “Bet though if you kinda asked her ’bout what kind of questions—”
“T.J., don’t you come talking to me ’bout no more cheating!” cried Stacey angrily. “After all that trouble I got in the last time ’count of you. You got questions, you ask Mama yourself, but you say one more word to me ’bout them tests, I’m gonna—”
“All right, all right.” T.J. smiled in feigned apology. “It’s just that I’m gonna have to figure out somethin’.”
“I got a solution,” I said, unable to resist just one bit of friendly advice.
“What’s that?”
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