Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

by Mildred D. Taylor

  I released the firefly imprisoned in my hand and sat beside Papa and Stacey on the steps. “Papa, please,” I said, leaning against his leg, “don’t go this year.” Stacey looked out into the falling night, his face resigned, and said nothing.

  Papa put out his large hand and caressed my face. “Got to, Cassie girl,” he said softly. “Baby, there’s bills to pay and ain’t no money coming in. Your mama’s got no job come fall and there’s the mortgage and next year’s taxes to think of.”

  “But, Papa, we planted more cotton this year. Won’t that pay the taxes?”

  Papa shook his head. “With Mr. Morrison here we was able to plant more, but that cotton is for living on; the railroad money is for the taxes and the mortgage.”

  I looked back at Mama wanting her to speak, to persuade him to stay, but when I saw her face I knew that she would not. She had known he would leave, just as we all had known.

  “Papa, just another week or two, couldn’t you—”

  “I can’t, baby. May have lost my job already.”

  “But Papa—”

  “Cassie, that’s enough now,” Mama said from the deepening shadows.

  I grew quiet and Papa put his arms around Stacey and me, his hands falling casually over our shoulders. From the edge of the lawn where Little Man and Christopher-John had ventured after lightning bugs, Little Man called, “Somebody’s coming!” A few minutes later Mr. Avery and Mr. Lanier emerged from the dusk and walked up the sloping lawn. Mama sent Stacey and me to get more chairs for the porch, then we settled back beside Papa still sitting on the steps, his back propped against a pillar facing the visitors.

  “You goin’ up to the store tomorrow, David?” Mr. Avery asked after all the amenities had been said. Since the first trip in January, Mr. Morrison had made one other trip to Vicksburg, but Papa had not gone with him.

  Papa motioned to Mr. Morrison. “Mr. Morrison and me going the day after tomorrow. Your wife brought down that list of things you need yesterday.”

  Mr. Avery cleared his throat nervously. “It’s—it’s that list I come ’bout, David…. I don’t want them things no more.”

  The porch grew silent.

  When no one said anything, Mr. Avery glanced at Mr. Lanier, and Mr. Lanier shook his head and continued. “Mr. Granger making it hard on us, David. Said we gonna have to give him sixty percent of the cotton, ’stead of fifty…now that the cotton’s planted and it’s too late to plant more…. Don’t s’pose though that it makes much difference. The way cotton sells these days, seems the more we plant, the less money we gets anyways—”

  Mr. Avery’s coughing interrupted him and he waited patiently until the coughing had stopped before he went on. “I’m gonna be hard put to pay that debt in Vicksburg, David, but I’m gonna…. I want you to know that.”

  Papa nodded, looking toward the road. “I suppose Montier and Harrison raised their percentages too,” he said.

  “Montier did,” replied Mr. Avery, “but far as I know Mr. Harrison ain’t. He’s a decent man.”

  “That does it,” Mama sighed wearily.

  Papa kept looking out into the darkness. “Forty percent. I expect a man used to living on fifty could live on forty…if he wanted to hard enough.”

  Mr. Avery shook his head. “Times too hard.”

  “Times are hard for everybody,” Papa said.

  Mr. Avery cleared his throat. “I know. I—I feel real bad ’bout what T.J. done—”

  “I wasn’t talking ’bout that,” said Papa flatly.

  Mr. Avery nodded self-consciously, then leaned forward in his chair and looked out into the forest. “But—but that ain’t all Mr. Granger said. Said, too, we don’t give up this shoppin’ in Vicksburg, we can jus’ get off his land. Says he tired of us stirrin’ up trouble ’gainst decent white folks. Then them Wallaces, they come by my place, Brother Lanier’s, and everybody’s on this thing that owes them money. Said we can’t pay our debts, they gonna have the sheriff out to get us…put us on the chain gang to work it off.”

  “Oh, good Lord!” exclaimed Big Ma.

  Mr. Lanier nodded and added, “Gotta go up to that store by tomorrow to show good faith.”

  Mr. Avery’s coughing started again and for a while there was only the coughing and the silence. But when the coughing ceased, Mr. Lanier said, “I pray to God there was a way we could stay in this thing, but we can’t go on no chain gang, David.”

  Papa nodded. “Don’t expect you to, Silas.”

  Mr. Avery laughed softly. “We sure had ’em goin’ for a time though, didn’t we?”

  “Yes,” agreed Papa quietly, “we sure did.”

  When the men had left, Stacey snapped, “They got no right pulling out! Just ’cause them Wallaces threaten them one time they go jumping all over themselves to get out like a bunch of scared jackrabbits—”

  Papa stood suddenly and grabbed Stacey upward. “You, boy, don’t you get so grown you go to talking ’bout more than you know. Them men, they doing what they’ve gotta do. You got any idea what a risk they took just to go shopping in Vicksburg in the first place? They go on that chain gang and their families got nothing. They’ll get kicked off that plot of land they tend and there’ll be no place for them to go. You understand that?”

  “Y-yessir,” said Stacey. Papa released him and stared moodily into the night. “You were born blessed, boy, with land of your own. If you hadn’t been, you’d cry out for it while you try to survive…like Mr. Lanier and Mr. Avery. Maybe even do what they doing now. It’s hard on a man to give up, but sometimes it seems there just ain’t nothing else he can do.”

  “I…I’m sorry, Papa,” Stacey muttered.

  After a moment, Papa reached out and draped his arm over Stacey’s shoulder.

  “Papa,” I said, standing to join them, “we giving up too?”

  Papa looked down at me and brought me closer, then waved his hand toward the drive. “You see that fig tree over yonder, Cassie? Them other trees all around…that oak and walnut, they’re a lot bigger and they take up more room and give so much shade they almost overshadow that little ole fig. But that fig tree’s got roots that run deep, and it belongs in that yard as much as that oak and walnut. It keeps on blooming, bearing good fruit year after year, knowing all the time it’ll never get as big as them other trees. Just keeps on growing and doing what it gotta do. It don’t give up. It give up, it’ll die. There’s a lesson to be learned from that little tree, Cassie girl, ’cause we’re like it. We keep doing what we gotta, and we don’t give up. We can’t.”

  * * *

  After Mr. Morrison had retired to his own house and Big Ma, the boys, and I had gone to bed, Papa and Mama remained on the porch, talking in hushed whispers. It was comforting listening to them, Mama’s voice a warm, lilting murmur, Papa’s a quiet, easy-flowing hum. After a few minutes they left the porch and their voices grew faint. I climbed from the bed, careful not to awaken Big Ma, and went to the window. They were walking slowly across the moon-soaked grass, their arms around each other.

  “First thing tomorrow, I’m gonna go ’round and see how many folks are still in this thing,” Papa said, stopping under the oak near the house. “I wanna know before we make that trip to Vicksburg.”

  Mama was quiet a moment. “I don’t think you and Mr. Morrison should go to Vicksburg right now, David. Not with the Wallaces threatening people like they are. Wait awhile.”

  Papa reached into the tree and broke off a twig. “We can’t just stop taking care of business ’cause of them Wallaces, Mary. You know that.”

  Mama did not reply.

  Papa leaned against the tree. “I think I’ll take Stacey with me.”

  “Now, David, no—”

  “He’ll be thirteen next month, honey, and he needs to be with me more. I can’t take him with me on the railroad, but I can take him with me where I go ’round here. And I want him to know business…how to take care of it, how to take care of things when I ain’t around.”

 
“David, he’s just a boy.”

  “Baby, a boy get as big as Stacey down here and he’s near a man. He’s gotta know a man’s things. He gotta know how to handle himself.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Mary, I want him strong…not a fool like T.J.”

  “He’s got more brains and learning than that,” Mama snapped.

  “I know,” Papa said quietly. “Still it worries me, seeing T.J. turning like he is.”

  “Seems to me it isn’t bothering Joe Avery much. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it.”

  Papa allowed the silence to seep between them before he said, “It’s not like you, honey, to be bitter.”

  “I’m not bitter,” said Mama, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s just that the boy’s gotten out of hand, and doesn’t seem like anybody’s doing anything about it.”

  “The other day Joe told me he couldn’t do nothing with T.J. anymore. That’s a hard thing for a man to admit.”

  “He can still put a good strip of leather against his bottom, can’t he?” It was clear that Mama was unsympathetic to Mr. Avery’s problem.

  “Said he tried, but his health’s so poor, he ended up with a bad coughing spell. Got so sick from it, he had to go to bed. Said after that Fannie tried to whip the boy, but T.J.’s stronger than her, and it didn’t do no good.” Papa paused, then added, “He’s gotten pretty sassy, too, I understand.”

  “Well, sassy or not,” Mama grumbled, “they’d better figure out some way of getting that boy back on the right track because he’s headed for a whole lot of trouble.”

  Papa sighed heavily and left the tree. “We’d better go in. I’ve gotta get an early start if I’m gonna get ’round to everybody.”

  “You’re still set on going to Vicksburg?”

  “I told you I was.”

  Mama laughed lightly in exasperation. “Sometimes, David Logan, I wonder why I didn’t marry sweet, quiet Ronald Carter or nice, mild Harold Davis.”

  “Because, woman,” Papa said, putting his arm around her, “you took one look at big, handsome me and no one else would do.” Then they both laughed, and together moved slowly to the side of the house.

  Seven families, including ours, still refused to shop at the Wallace store even with the threat of the chain gang. Mama said that the number was not significant enough to hurt the Wallaces, only enough to rile them, and she worried, afraid for Papa, Stacey, and Mr. Morrison to make the trip. But nothing she could say could change Papa’s mind and they left as planned on Wednesday morning long before dawn.

  On Thursday, when they were to return, it began to rain, a hard, swelling summer rain which brought a premature green darkness to the land and forced us to leave our hoeing of the cotton field and return to the house. As the thunder rumbled overhead, Mama peered out the window at the dark road. “Wonder what’s keeping them,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

  “Probably got held up someplace,” said Big Ma. “Could’ve stopped to get out of this storm.”

  Mama turned from the window. “You’re most likely right,” she agreed, picking up a pair of Christopher-John’s pants to mend.

  As the evening fell into total darkness, we grew silent, the boys and I saying very little, Mama and Big Ma concentrating on their sewing, their brows furrowed. My throat grew tight, and without knowing why I was afraid, I was. “Mama,” I said, “they all right, ain’t they?”

  Mama stared down at me. “Course they’re all right. They’re just late, that’s all.”

  “But, Mama, you s’pose maybe somebody done—”

  “I think you children better go on to bed,” Mama said sharply without letting me finish.

  “But I wanna wait up for Papa,” objected Little Man.

  “Me, too,” said sleepy Christopher-John.

  “You’ll see him in the morning. Now get to bed!”

  Since there was nothing we could do but obey, we went to bed. But I could not sleep. A cold fear crept up my body, churning my stomach and tightening its grip on my throat. Finally, when I felt that I was going to be sick from it, I rose and padded silently into Mama and Papa’s room.

  Mama was standing with her back to me, her arms folded, and Big Ma was still patching. Neither one of them heard the door swing open. I started to speak, but Mama was talking and I decided not to interrupt her. “…I’ve got a good mind to saddle Lady and go looking for them,” she said.

  “Now, Mary, what good would that do?” Big Ma questioned. “You runnin’ ’round out there on that mare by yo’self in this darkness and rain?”

  “But something’s happened to them! I can feel it.”

  “It’s just in yo’ mind, child,” Big Ma scoffed unconvincingly. “Them menfolks all right.”

  “No…no,” said Mama shaking her head. “The Wallaces aren’t just in my mind, they—” She stopped suddenly and stood very still.

  “Mary—”

  “Thought I heard something.” The dogs started barking and she turned, half running, across the room. Pushing up the lock in a mad haste, she swung the door open and cried into the storm, “David! David!”

  Unable to stay put, I dashed across the room. “Cassie, what you doin’ up, girl?” asked Big Ma, swatting me as I passed her. But Mama, staring into the wet night, said nothing when I reached her side.

  “Is it them?” I asked.

  Out of the darkness a round light appeared, moving slowly across the drive, and Mr. Morrison’s voice drifted softly to us. “Go on, Stacey,” he said, “I got him.” Then Stacey, a flashlight in his hand, came into sight, followed by Mr. Morrison carrying Papa.

  “David!” Mama gasped, her voice a frightened whisper.

  Big Ma standing behind me stepped back, pulling me with her. She stripped the bed to its sheets and ordered, “Put him right here, Mr. Morrison.”

  As Mr. Morrison climbed the stairs, we could see that Papa’s left leg stuck straight out, immobilized by his shotgun strapped to it with a rope. His head was wrapped in a rag through which the dark redness of his blood had seeped. Mr. Morrison eased Papa through the doorway, careful not to hit the strapped leg, and laid him gently on the bed. Mama went immediately to the bed and took Papa’s hand.

  “Hey, baby…” Papa said faintly, “I’m…all right. Just got my leg broke, that’s all….”

  “Wagon rolled over it,” said Mr. Morrison, avoiding Mama’s eyes. “We better get that leg set. Didn’t have time on the road.”

  “But his head—” Mama said, her eyes questioning Mr. Morrison. But Mr. Morrison said nothing further and Mama turned to Stacey. “You all right, son?”

  “Yes’m,” Stacey said, his face strangely ashen, his eyes on Papa.

  “Then get out of those wet things. Don’t want you catching pneumonia. Cassie, you go to bed.”

  “I’ll get a fire started,” said Big Ma disappearing into the kitchen as Mama turned to the closet to find sheets for making a cast. But Stacey and I remained rooted, watching Papa, and did not move until Christopher-John and Little Man made a sleepy entrance.

  “What’s going on?” asked Little Man, frowning into the light.

  “Go back to bed, children,” Mama said, rushing to keep them from coming farther into the room, but before she could reach them Christopher-John spied Papa on the bed and shot past her. “Papa, you got back!”

  Mr. Morrison swung him upward before he could jar the bed.

  “Wh-what’s the matter?” asked Christopher-John, wide awake now. “Papa, what’s the matter? How come you got that thing on your head?”

  “Your Papa’s asleep,” said Mama as Mr. Morrison set Christopher-John back down. “Stacey, take them back to bed…and get out of those clothes.” None of us stirred. “Move when I tell you!” Mama hissed impatiently, her face more worried than angry.

  Stacey herded us into the boys’ room.

  As soon as the door closed behind us, I asked, “Stacey, how bad Papa hurt?” Stacey felt around for the lamp, lit it, the
n plopped wearily on the side of the bed. We huddled around him. “Well?”

  Stacey shook his head. “I dunno. His leg’s busted up by the wagon…and he’s shot.”

  “Shot!” Christopher-John and Little Man exclaimed fearfully, but I was silent, too afraid now to speak, to think.

  “Mr. Morrison says he don’t think the bullet hurt him much. Says he thinks it just hit his skin…here.” Stacey ran his forefinger along his right temple. “And didn’t sink in nowhere.”

  “But who’d shoot Papa?” asked Little Man, greatly agitated. “Can’t nobody just shoot Papa!”

  Stacey stood then and motioned Christopher-John and Little Man under the covers. “I’ve said too much already. Cassie, go on to bed.”

  I continued to sit, my mind unable to move.

  “Cassie, go on now like Mama said.”

  “How the wagon roll over him? How he get shot?” I blurted out angrily, already plotting revenge against whoever had dared hurt my father.

  “Cassie…you go on to bed!”

  “Ain’t moving till you tell me!”

  “I’ll call Mama,” he threatened.

  “She too busy,” I said, folding my arms and feeling confident that he would tell the story.

  He went to the door and opened it. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I watched him eagerly. But he soon closed the door and came back to the bed.

  “What was they doing?” asked Little Man.

  “Big Ma’s tending Papa’s head.”

  “Well, what happened out there?” I repeated.

  Stacey sighed despairingly and sat down. “We was coming back from Vicksburg when the back wheels come off,” he said, his voice a hollow whisper. “It was already dark and it was raining too, and Papa and Mr. Morrison, they thought somebody done messed with them wheels for both of them to come off at the same time like they did. Then when I told them I’d seen two boys near the wagon when we was in Vicksburg, Papa said we didn’t have time to unhitch and unload the wagon like we should to put them wheels back on. He thought somebody was coming after us.