Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

by Mildred D. Taylor

“Papa,” rasped Christopher-John, moving close to him, “M-Mama gonna be all right?”

  Papa turned and, putting his arms around Christopher-John, drew him even nearer. “Son, your mama…she’s born to teaching like the sun is born to shine. And it’s gonna be hard on her not teaching anymore. It’s gonna be real hard ’cause ever since she was a wee bitty girl down in the Delta she wanted to be a teacher.”

  “And Grandpa wanted her to be one, too, didn’t he, Papa?” said Christopher-John.

  Papa nodded. “Your mama was his baby child and every penny he’d get his hands on he’d put it aside for her schooling…and that wasn’t easy for him either ’cause he was a tenant farmer and he didn’t see much cash money. But he’d promised your grandmama ’fore she died to see that your mama got an education, and when your mama ’come high-school age, he sent her up to Jackson to school, then on to teacher training school. It was just ’cause he died her last year of schooling that she come on up here to teach ’stead of going back to the Delta.”

  “And y’all got married and she ain’t gone back down there no more,” interjected Little Man.

  Papa smiled faintly at Little Man and stood up. “That’s right, son. She was too smart and pretty to let get away.” He stooped and looked out the window again, then back at us. “She’s a strong, fine woman, your mama, and this thing won’t keep her down…but it’s hurt her bad. So I want y’all to be extra thoughtful for the next few days—and remember what I told you, you hear?”

  “Yessir, Papa,” we answered.

  Papa left us then and went onto the back porch. There he leaned against the porch pillar for several minutes staring out toward the pasture; but after a while he stepped into the yard and crossed the garden to join Mama.

  * * *

  “T.J.? You sure?” Stacey asked Little Willie Wiggins at recess the next day. Little Willie nodded morosely and answered, “Heard it myself. Clarence, too. Was standin’ right up ’side him at the store when he told Mr. Kaleb. Come talkin’ ’bout how Miz Logan failed him on purpose and then said she wasn’t a good teacher and that she the one stopped everybody from comin’ up to they store. Said she even was destroyin’ school property—talkin’ ’bout them books, you know.”

  “Who’s gonna take him?” I cried.

  “Hush, Cassie,” said Stacey. “How come you just telling this now, Little Willie?”

  Little Willie shrugged. “Guess I got fooled by ole T.J. Clarence and me, we told him we was gonna tell it soon as we left the store, but T.J. asked us not to do it. Said he was goin’ right back and tell them it wasn’t nothin’ but a joke, what he said. And he went back too, and I thought nothin’ was gonna come of it.” He hesitated, then confessed, “Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout it before ’cause me and Clarence wasn’t s’pose to be up there ourselves…but then here come Mr. Granger yesterday and fires Miz Logan. I figure that’s T.J.’s doin’.”

  “He probably figured it too,” I said. “That’s why he ain’t in school today.”

  “Talking ’bout he sick,” said Christopher-John.

  “If he ain’t now, he gonna be,” prophesied Little Man, his tiny fists balled for action. “’Round here telling on Mama.”

  After school when Claude turned up the forest trail leading to the Avery house, we went with him. As we emerged from the forest into the Avery yard, the house appeared deserted, but then we spied T.J., lazily swinging straddle-legged atop an inner tube hanging from an old oak in the front yard. Stacey immediately charged toward him, and when T.J. saw him coming he tried to swing his long right leg over the tube to escape. He didn’t make it. Stacey jumped up on the inner tube, giving them both a jerky ride before they landed hard on Mrs. Avery’s azalea bush.

  “Man, what’s the matter with you?” T.J. cried as he rolled from under Stacey to glance back at the flattened bush. “My mama gonna kill me when she see that bush.”

  Stacey jumped up and jerked at T.J.’s collar. “Was you the one? Did you do it?”

  T.J. looked completely bewildered. “Do what? What you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Didja tell it? You tell them Wallaces ’bout Mama?”

  “Me?” asked T.J. “Me? Why, man, you oughta know me better’n that.”

  “He do know you,” I said. “How come you think we up here?”

  “Hey, now, wait a minute,” objected T.J. “I don’t know what somebody been tellin’ y’all, but I ain’t told them Wallaces nothin’.”

  “You was down there,” Stacey accused. “The day Mama caught you cheating, you went down to them Wallaces.”

  “Well, that don’t mean nothin’,” said T.J., jerking away from Stacey’s grip and hopping to his feet. “My daddy says I can go down there if I wanna. Don’t mean I told them ole folks nothin’ though.”

  “Heard you told them all sorts of things…like Mama didn’t know nothin’ and she wasn’t even teaching what she s’pose to—”

  “Didn’t neither!” denied T.J. “Ain’t never said that! All I said was that it was her that…” His voice trailed off as he realized he had said too much, and he began to laugh uneasily. “Hey, look, y’all, I don’t know how come Miz Logan got fired, but I ain’t said nothin’ to make nobody fire her. All I said was that she failed me again. A fellow got a right to be mad ’bout somethin’ like that, ain’t he?”

  Stacey’s eyes narrowed upon T.J. “Maybe,” he said. “But he ain’t got no right to go running his mouth off ’bout things that ain’t s’pose to be told.”

  T.J. stepped backward and looked nervously over his shoulder to the south, where the fields lay fallow. The rutted wagon trail which cut through the fields leading from the distant Granger mansion revealed a thin woman stepping briskly toward us. T.J. seemed to take heart from the figure and grew cocky again. “Don’t know who’s been tellin’, but it ain’t been me.”

  A moment’s silence passed, and then Stacey, his eyes cold and condemning, said quietly, “It was you all right, T.J. It was you.” Then, turning, he motioned us back toward the forest.

  “Ain’t you gonna beat him up?” cried a disappointed Little Man.

  “What he got coming to him is worse than a beating,” replied Stacey.

  “What could be worse than that?” asked Christopher-John.

  “You’ll see,” said Stacey. “And so will T.J.”

  * * *

  T.J.’s first day back at school after almost a week’s absence was less than successful. Avoiding us in the morning, he arrived late, only to be shunned by the other students. At first he pretended that the students’ attitude didn’t matter, but by the afternoon when school was out, he hurried after us, attempting to convince us that he was merely a victim of circumstances.

  “Hey, y’all ain’t gonna hold what Little Willie said against me, are you?” he asked.

  “You still saying what Little Willie said ain’t true?” questioned Stacey.

  “Why, shoot, yeah!” he exclaimed. “When I catch up with that little rascal, I’m gonna beat him to a pulp, ’round here tellin’ everybody I got Miz Logan fired. Ain’t nobody even speakin’ to me no more. Little Willie probably told them Wallaces that hisself, so he figures to get out of it by tellin’ everybody it was—”

  “Ah, stop lying, T.J.,” I said testily. “Don’t nobody believe you.”

  “Well, I should’ve known you wouldn’t, Cassie. You never liked me noway.”

  “Well, anyway, that’s the truth,” I agreed.

  “But,” said T.J., grinning again and turning toward Little Man and Christopher-John, “my little buddy Christopher-John believes me, don’t you, fellow? And you still my pal, ain’t you, Little Man?”

  An indignant Little Man looked up at T.J., but before he could speak, easygoing Christopher-John said, “You told on Mama, T.J. Now she all unhappy ’cause she can’t teach school no more and it’s all your fault, and we don’t like you no more!”

  “Yeah!” added Little Man in agreement. T.J. stared down at Christopher-John, not believing that h
e had said that. Then he laughed uneasily. “I don’t know what’s got into folks. Everybody’s gone crazy—”

  “Look,” Stacey said, stopping, “first you run off with the mouth to them Wallaces and now you blaming Little Willie for what you done. Why don’t you just admit it was you?”

  “Hey, man!” T.J. exclaimed, grinning his easy grin. But then, finding that the grin and the smooth words no longer worked, his face dropped. “Oh, all right. All right. So maybe what if I did say somethin’ ’bout Miz Logan? I can’t even remember saying nothin’ ’bout it, but if both Little Willie and Clarence said I did then maybe I did. Anyways, I’m real sorry ’bout your mama losin’ her job and—”

  All of us, including Claude, stared distastefully at T.J. and walked away from him.

  “Hey, wait…. I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” he asked, following us. “Look, what’s a fellow got to do anyway? Hey, y’all, look, this here is still ole T.J.! I ain’t changed. Y’all can’t turn on me just ’cause—”

  “You the one turned, T.J,” Stacey called over his shoulder. “Now leave us alone. We don’t want no more to do with you.”

  T.J., for the first time comprehending that we were no longer his friends, stopped. Then, standing alone in the middle of the road, he screamed after us, “Who needs y’all anyway? I been tired of y’all always hangin’ ’round for a long while now, but I been too nice to tell ya…. I should’ve known better. What I look like, havin’ a bunch of little kids ’round all the time and me here fourteen, near grown….”

  We walked on, not stopping.

  “Got me better friends than y’all! They give me things and treat me like I’m a man and…and they white too….”

  His voice faded into the wind as we left him and we heard no more.

  9

  Spring. It seeped unseen into the waiting red earth in early March, softening the hard ground for the coming plow and awakening life that had lain gently sleeping through the cold winter. But by the end of March it was evident everywhere: in the barn where three new calves bellowed and chicks the color of soft pale sunlight chirped; in the yard where the wisteria and English dogwood bushes readied themselves for their annual Easter bloom, and the fig tree budded producing the forerunners of juicy, brown fruit for which the boys and I would have to do battle with fig-loving Jack; and in the smell of the earth itself. Rain-drenched, fresh, vital, full of life, spring enveloped all of us.

  I was eager to be in the fields again, to feel the furrowed rows of damp, soft earth beneath my feet; eager to walk barefooted through the cool forest, hug the trees, and sit under their protective shadow. But although every living thing knew it was spring, Miss Crocker and the other teachers evidently did not, for school lingered on indefinitely. In the last week of March when Papa and Mr. Morrison began to plow the east field, I volunteered to sacrifice school and help them. My offer was refused and I trudged wearily to school for another week.

  “I guess I won’t be seein’ much of y’all after next Friday,” said Jeremy one evening as we neared his forest trail.

  “Guess not,” said Stacey.

  “Be nice if our schools ended at the same time.”

  “You crazy!” I cried, remembering that Jefferson Davis didn’t dismiss until mid-May.

  Jeremy stammered an apology. “I—I just meant we could still see each other.” He was silent a moment, then brightened. “Maybe I can come over to see y’all sometime.”

  Stacey shook his head. “Don’t think Papa would like that.”

  “Well…I just thought…” He shrugged. “It’ll sure be lonely without y’all.”

  “Lonely?” I asked. “With all them brothers and sisters you got?”

  Jeremy frowned. “The little ones, they too young to play with, and the older ones…Lillian Jean and R.W. and Melvin, I guess I don’t like them very much.”

  “What you saying?” asked Stacey. “You can’t not like your own sister and brothers.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” I said soberly. “I sure don’t like them.”

  “But they’re his kin. A fellow’s gotta like his own kin.”

  Jeremy thought about that. “Well, Lillian Jean’s all right, I guess. She ain’t so persnickety since Cassie stopped bein’ her friend.” He smiled a secret smile to himself. “But that R.W. and Melvin, they ain’t very nice. You oughta see how they treat T.J….” He halted, looked up embarrassed, and was quiet.

  Stacey stopped. “How they treat him?”

  Jeremy stopped too. “I don’t know,” he said as if he was sorry he had mentioned it. “They just don’t do him right.”

  “How?” asked Stacey.

  “Thought you didn’t like him no more.”

  “Well…I don’t,” replied Stacey defensively. “But I heard he was running ’round with R.W. and Melvin. I wondered why. Them brothers of yours must be eighteen or nineteen.”

  Jeremy looked up at the sun, squinted, then glanced up his forest trail a few feet ahead. “They brung T.J. by the house a couple of times When Pa wasn’t home. They treated him almost friendly like, but when he left they laughed and talked ’bout him—called him names.” He squinted again at the trail and said hurriedly, “I better go…. See y’all tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “Mama, how come you suppose R.W. and Melvin putting in time with T.J.?” I asked as I measured out two heaping tablespoons of flour for the cornbread.

  Mama frowned down into the flour barrel. “Only one tablespoon, Cassie, and not so heaping.”

  “But, Mama, we always use two.”

  “That barrel will have to last us until Papa goes back to the railroad. Now put it back.”

  As I returned one tablespoon of flour to the barrel, I again asked, “What you think, Mama? How come them Simmses running ’round with T.J.?”

  Mama measured out the baking powder and gave it to me. It was a teaspoon less than we had been using, but I didn’t ask her about it. It was running low too.

  “I don’t really know, Cassie,” she said, turning to the stove to stir milk into the butter beans. “They may just want him around because it makes them feel good.”

  “When T.J.’s around me, he don’t make me feel good.”

  “Well, you told me Jeremy said they were laughing at T.J. behind his back. Some folks just like to keep other folks around to laugh at them…use them.”

  “I wonder how come T.J. don’t know they laughing at him? You s’pose he’s that dumb?”

  “T.J.’s not ‘dumb,’ Cassie. He just wants attention, but he’s going after it the wrong way.”

  I was going to ask what use T.J. could possibly be to anyone, but I was interrupted by Little Man running into the kitchen. “Mama!” he cried. “Mr. Jamison just drove up!” He had been in the barn cleaning the chicken coop with Christopher-John and stubby particles of straw still clung to his head. I grinned at his mussed appearance but didn’t have time to tease him before he was gone again.

  Mama looked at Big Ma, a question in her eyes, then followed Little Man outside. I decided that the cornbread could wait and dashed after them.

  “Girl, get back in here and finish mixin’ this cornbread!” ordered Big Ma.

  “Yes’m,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” Before Big Ma could reach me, I was out the back door running across the yard to the drive.

  Mr. Jamison touched his hat as Mama approached. “How you doing, Miz Logan?” he asked.

  “Just fine, Mr. Jamison,” Mama answered. “And yourself?”

  “Fine. Fine,” he said absently. “Is David here?”

  “He’s over in the east field.” Mama studied Mr. Jamison. “Anything wrong?”

  “Oh, no…no. Just wanted to speak to him.”

  “Little Man,” Mama said, turning, “go get Papa.”

  “Oh, no—don’t do that. I’ll just walk on over there if that’s all right. I need the exercise.” Mama nodded, and after he had spoken to me Mr. Jamison crossed the yard to the field. Little Man and I started
to follow after him but Mama called us back and returned us to our jobs.

  Mr. Jamison did not stay long. A few minutes later he emerged from the field alone, got into his car, and left.

  When supper was ready, I eagerly grabbed the iron bell before Christopher-John or Little Man could claim it, and ran onto the back porch to summon Papa, Mr. Morrison, and Stacey from the fields. As the three of them washed up on the back porch, Mama went to the end of the porch where Papa stood alone. “What did Mr. Jamison want?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  Papa took the towel Mama handed him, but did not reply immediately. I was just inside the kitchen dipping out the butter beans. I moved closer to the window so that I could hear his answer.

  “Don’t keep anything from me, David. If there’s trouble, I want to know.”

  Papa looked down at her. “Nothing to worry ’bout, honey…. Just seems that Thurston Wallace been in town talking ’bout how he’s not gonna let a few smart colored folks ruin his business. Says he’s gonna put a stop to this shopping in Vicksburg. That’s all.”

  Mama sighed and stared out across the plowed field to the sloping pasture land. “I’m feeling scared, David,” she said.

  Papa put down the towel. “Not yet, Mary. It’s not time to be scared yet. They’re just talking.”

  Mama turned and faced him. “And when they stop talking?”

  “Then…then maybe it’ll be time. But right now, pretty lady,” he said, leading her by the hand toward the kitchen door, “right now I’ve got better things to think about.”

  Quickly I poured the rest of the butter beans into the bowl and hurried across the kitchen to the table. As Mama and Papa entered, I slid onto the bench beside Little Man and Christopher-John. Papa beamed down at the table.

  “Well, look-a-here!” he exclaimed. “Good ole butter beans and cornbread! You better come on, Mr. Morrison! You too, son!” he called. “These womenfolks done gone and fixed us a feast.”

  * * *

  After school was out, spring drooped quickly toward summer; yet Papa had not left for the railroad. He seemed to be waiting for something, and I secretly hoped that whatever that something was, it would never come so that he would not leave. But one evening as he, Mama, Big Ma, Mr. Morrison, and Stacey sat on the front porch while Christopher-John, Little Man, and I dashed around the yard chasing fireflies, I overheard him say, “Sunday I’m gonna have to go. Don’t want to though. I got this gut feeling it ain’t over yet. It’s too easy.”