"Me, neither," Big Si said, sounding almost relieved that the older man was as awestruck and mystified as himself.
"What should we do, Pa?" Little Si asked, hoping he didn't sound as fearful as he felt.
"Nothin' we can do," his father said.
"Go to bed," Uncle Will said, "and pray that it's finished by morning."
The snow was finished by morning, but so was their store of food—the last of the bacon and eggs and grits cooked for breakfast, the last of the meat and beans and corn bread eaten the day before. Now, for the first time since the storm began, people were worried, and not just the five people in this one house in Carrie's Crossing, Georgia, but all the people who were buried under three feet of snow that would not be melting any time soon due to temperatures that would not rise above twenty-five degrees for the next two days. "What are we going to do?" Ruthie asked Mack and Little Si. "We can't eat fruit preserves and pickled okra and cucumbers and tomatoes, and that's all we've got—the cans and jars in the pantry." She didn't need to say that the stored fruit and vegetables would be fine if there was meat, too, but without meat—and there would be no hunting or fishing for the foreseeable future—they wouldn't survive. They would be warm—there was no danger of their freezing—firewood was stacked to the ceiling on the back porch, as was always the case in winter. And they could drink the melted snow after boiling it. Food was their problem. Were it not for the snow, Beau and Mr. First would have arrived today with the monthly store of provisions, but not even Beau's truck could plow through the field of snow and ice that surrounded them.
Mack and Little Si tried not to look as worried and frightened as Ruthie though neither of them were doing a very good job until suddenly her Little Si's eyes widened and grabbed Ruthie's arms, and he lifted her into a big hug before handing her off to Mack, who kept her lifted and hugged as Si hopped from one foot to the other. "We got money, y'all. We got money! We can go to the store and buy us some food!"
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to register fully, but when they did, Ruthie pounded Mack's shoulders. "Put me down, Mack."
He did and she scurried across the kitchen to the pantry, disappeared, then reappeared, a tin can held aloft. They watched as she upended the can on the kitchen table, and they all gasped at the amount of money that tumbled out. "Good God," Little Si yelled, which brought his father and uncle running into the kitchen.
"What's wrong?" the two older men exclaimed in unison. They saw the money at the same moment and had the same reaction. Stunned silence. Big Si recovered first.
"I forgot all about Nellie's money."
"Whose money?" Uncle Will said. Then, "Nellie's money? Where Nellie get money?"
"From Beau," Big Si said. "Beau was always givin' her money and she'd just put it in this can. Said she didn't need money what with him and First always bringing things. And he's kept right on with bringing money and I just put it in the can where Nellie put it, didn't think no more about it."
"Well I do declare," Uncle Will said, reaching out a hesitant hand to the wad of bills. "I don't b'lieve I ever saw so much money. How much is it?"
Everybody looked at Mack, then backed away from the table a step so that he could step forward and count. He did it quickly, then did it again. He looked up at them, a big grin replacing the amazement on his face. "Five hundred and sixteen dollars and forty-seven cents."
The quiet in the room was as deep as the drifting snow outside—and as rare. Not one of them spoke for a few long moments, and each of them was wishing that Nellie were there so that she not only could share the wonder, but if anyone could think of something to say, it would be Nellie. It was Little Si who finally found words.
"That's enough money to buy a motorcar," he said, eyes watching the piles of bills and coins on the kitchen table as if he expected the money to come alive.
"Then I guess it's enough to buy some groceries at Thatcher's Market," Ruthie said.
"And it'll be the first, last and only time anybody from this fam'ly stands at the back door of that store to buy anything," Uncle Will said. "Y'all know how I feel about that."
"Yes, sir," everybody—including Big Si—said. And they did: He had forbidden any of them to buy anything from any of the Zeb Thatcher-owned establishments, no matter that Zeb himself still was in jail. Today, however, they had no choice—because they had no food.
Uncle Will pointed at Little Si and Mack. "Y'all two go to the store—"
"I'm going too," Ruthie said, interrupting the old man.
"No, you are not." All the men in the room glared at her. She had not been able to travel on any of the nearby roads since Nellie was killed except in Beau's truck and surrounded by all the men in her family. She knew and understood what they felt, but their protective curtain felt more stifling every day.
"What could happen in all this snow? We'll prob'ly be the only ones out in it," Ruthie said, working hard to keep her voice from conveying the anger, frustration and pain she felt.
Mack put his arm around her. "We'll go and come back as fast as we can," putting an end to her insistence that she accompany them.
Big Si rushed from the room and returned almost immediately, unwrapping something in a burlap bag. "Y'all take this with you," he said, holding a long-barreled pistol. "It's loaded up and ready to shoot."
Mack and Little Si looked at each other, then Si reached for the weapon. He was, after all, a child of the forest, and weapons were familiar tools to him—as familiar as a plow or a hoe. However, he'd never held a pistol, a weapon designed solely for the purpose of shooting another man. He was used to shooting—with a shotgun—deer or squirrel or rabbit or fowl for food, used to shooting snakes or bobcats in self-defense. He'd never shot or shot at a man, but he would, just as he'd shoot that snake or that cat, to protect himself and his family. Then he wondered how and when his Pa had come to own a pistol, and the answer came to his mind as quickly as had the query: From First Freeman after Nellie's murder. Nobody knew—probably never would know—who had killed her, but nobody doubted that it had been a white man because, until very recently, only white men owned pistols.
He and Mack wrapped themselves in practically every article of clothing they owned though they both realized it for the exercise in futility that it was: The layers of clothes would help them stay warm only if they could stay dry, and that they could not do. They'd be waist-deep in snow as soon as they opened the door and stepped out on the porch, and by the time they found their way to the road, the snow would have penetrated all their layers of clothing. They'd be both cold and wet before they were out of sight.
"How long do you think it'll take you to get there?" Ruthie asked, her irritation at not being able to accompany them replaced by concern for their well-being.
Mack shook his head and said, "No way to know." Probably way too long was what he thought as he hugged her.
"Y'all take these things with you," Uncle Will said, coming into the living room carrying one of the eight foot long poles used to support the fruits and vegetables that grew upward on vines and two burlap bags. When they all looked askance at him, he explained, as if to very young children, that if they tied the bags of groceries to either end of the pole, then placed the pole across their shoulders, they could balance the weight of the food and also give themselves some support on the trek back through the snow.
"That's a real good idea, Uncle Will," Big Si exclaimed.
The snort the old man emitted said he knew what a good idea it was and didn't need anybody to tell him, either. Ruthie laughed and hugged him, and they all followed Little Si and Mack to the front door and huddled together as the razor-sharp cold air rushed in.
"Y'all be careful," Uncle Will called out, not hearing the answer as the door slammed shut against the weather.
The three remaining Thatchers hurriedly stuffed the rags back into the cracks around the door, then Ruthie hurried to the window to watch the two men disappear into the bright whiteness that surrounded them
. "You ever seen so much snow, Uncle Will?" she asked.
"I don't b'lieve I ever did."
"You ever felt this much cold?"
He nodded, then stopped himself. "I was 'bout to say back in the old times it got pretty cold, then I 'membered the places where we lived—they didn't have no doors or windows—and we didn't hardly have no clothes, so we was always hot or cold or wet or being et by bugs." He looked around the room, at the huge fire casting its warmth, at the curtains covering the windows, at the rugs on the floor, even at the rags stuffed into the cracks, and he shivered, not because he was cold—he wasn't, and he knew that many people, both Colored and white, were much colder this day than he was—but he shivered at the force of the dredged up memory of his life as a slave. No matter how many years of freedom he had enjoyed, the horror of that time still had the power to weaken him and lessen him.
Ruthie left the window, dropping the curtain back into place, and hurried to the fire to warm herself. "Anybody hungry?" she asked, though she knew that nobody would eat or sleep or do anything but watch and worry until Little Si and Mack returned.
"This is the only time I've ever been glad white folks take such good care of their own selves," Little Si said, breathless from the exertion but grateful that they'd finally left the deeply rutted and frozen solid dirt road in the Colored section and now were walking on the smoothly paved part of the road that led into the Carrie's Crossing shopping district. "We're lucky we didn't break a foot or a leg back there."
Mack looked behind them. "If nobody comes along behind us, we can go back in our same tracks, where we know it's safe to step."
Little Si nodded, unable and unwilling to speak: Whenever he opened his mouth, the cold air burned his throat and lungs like fire, sucking out what little breath he had.
"We're almost there," Mack said, his own breath labored, and hugged his almost-brother a little closer. They'd walked with their arms around each other, as much for warmth as for support, Mack using the long pole to probe beneath the snow looking for a safe place to walk. They were soaked to the bone and shivering, and they whispered prayers of thanks in unison as the buildings of Carrie's Crossing came into view.
They helped each other up the wooden steps to the back door of the market, steps that had been swept clear of snow, letting them know that they weren't the only Colored people in town who had run out of food during the past few days of bad weather. Si pulled the bell over the door, and they still were holding each other up and breathing hard when the door opened.
Jonas's shock was total. He gaped at them, then grinned and pushed the door open wider and stood back, waving them forward. They stood where they were, Mack working to unwrap the shirt that Ruthie had wrapped around his hand for warmth, so that he could give Jonas their grocery list.
"Hey, Silas," Jonas finally managed. "How're you doing? I almost forgot what you looked like, been so long since I saw you. How's Ruthie? Why didn't she come with you?"
"Ruthie's just fine," Mack said, "and she didn't come 'cause she's not allowed out on this road since her Ma got killed." He took the grocery list from his pocket.
Jonas felt like he'd been slapped, felt like Mack McGinnis might as well have slapped his face. Jonas had come to suspect that McGinnis was more than just the teacher. Now he knew for certain: The way he spoke for Ruthie, the way Si was looking at him—looking up to him the way he looked up to Beau. "Y'all come in," Jonas finally said, "where it's warm."
"Who else is here?" Little Si asked, remembering all the warnings he'd heard about the brother-in-law who was just like Jonas's pa.
Jonas's face fell, then changed into an expression Little Si had never seen before as he read the list that Mack had given him. Mack, however, knew exactly how to read what was written on Jonas's face—on the business face of the man who once was the boyhood friend of Little Silas Thatcher. Jonas looked from the list to the two men who stood before him. Without a word, he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote a number beside each item on the list, then looked again at his customers. Mack withdrew money from his pocket—obviously more money than was needed to purchase the items on the list.
As Jonas turned to go into the store, they heard a bell ring from inside. Jonas turned back to his back door customers. "Y'all step in and close the door. He'll be busy up front for a while," he said, referring to his brother-in-law. Then he hustled away to fill their order.
"He thought we didn't have money?" Little Si looked at his almost brother-in-law. "He thought we came here expecting him to give us something?" He pulled open the door with such force that Mack had to grab it keep it from slamming against the wall. "I'd rather stand out here in the cold," he said. Mack joined him, and they stood huddled together on the narrow porch, stamping their feet to keep them from freezing.
Jonas returned quickly enough that they knew he'd rushed to fill their order. He opened the door holding a large box. "I told y'all you didn't have to stand out here—" He let the words trail off when he saw Little Si's face. "I put everything in a box for you."
"We don't need a box, Jonas. We got these sacks," Little Si said, and he began filling the burlap bags from the box Jonas held.
Mack grabbed a bag of dried lima beans. "This wasn't on our list," he said, holding the bag toward Jonas, who waved it off.
"We always give our good customers a free gift. Keeps them coming back," he said with a smile.
"We're not some of your good customers," Little Si said. "This is our first time here and unless it keeps snowing like this, it'll be our last time."
"I know Beau and Tobias bring y'all things from Belle City," Jonas said, trying to boost his morale after the shoot-down from Mack McGinnis. "They been doing that for quite a while."
"That's right," Mack said. "They buy from a store where they can walk in the front door any time they want." Then he tied the tops of the burlap bags with a thick rope, looped the bags over the end of a long pole and started down the steps. "I'll tell Ruthie you said hello, Jonas," he said and started down the steps, holding one end of the pole.
Little Si picked up the other end of the pole. "You thought we didn't have any money, didn't you, Jonas? You thought we'd come here to beg."
"I didn't know what to think, Si, since y'all never been here before."
"Suppose we had come here with no money. What then?"
Jonas gave Si the look that was foreign to him, the look of the businessman. "Then I'd give you what you asked for and have you sign a IOU slip, which I'd then give to Beau."
"Give it to Beau? Why, if we're the ones who did the buying?"
"'Cause Beau's the one with the money."
That made sense, Little Si thought, if the idea was to get money, but the thought, the idea that had been drummed into their heads all their lives was pounding its beat: Get education first, and everything else would follow. But they were Colored, and things were different for them. No point in thinking about money if you couldn't count it. Even Mr. First could count, though he couldn't read a word. Still...
"Ruthie read a whole book by Miss Louisa May Alcott all by herself, and I read one by Mr. Charles Dickens. We like them better than Mr. Mark Twain."
Jonas looked at Si for a long moment. "Tell Ruthie..."
"Ruthie's gettin' married in three months and maybe even movin' to Belle City," Little Si said, hoisting the long pole up to his shoulder, willing himself not to watch Jonas to see the impact of his words. He and Mack shifted the bags and pole several times until the weight was as evenly distributed as possible, given that Mack was a couple of inches taller. Then they started off home, looking down at the ground and taking care to place their feet in their own footprints, Mack thinking how right the older men had been regarding Jonas Thatcher's feelings toward Ruthie. He had just witnessed it firsthand: Jonas loved Ruthie. It was ridiculous, but it was true.
Jonas, standing in the doorway, oblivious to the cold, watched their careful progress, thinking he'd walk twice as far in twice as much snow and ice,
carrying twice as much weight, if Ruth Thatcher were waiting for him. And both Little Si and Jonas were thinking, wondering, if their friendship was completely over.
***
The first time Ruthie spent an entire weekend in Belle City she knew that she wanted to live there because that's what she wanted for herself and not because it's what her mother had wanted for her. Her weekend visits began at the end of March so that she could attend Friendship Baptist Church on Easter Sunday, March 27th, and the plan was that she'd spend every weekend thereafter in Belle City until her wedding day at the end of May. And then what? She didn't like to think about that. She found that she didn't like to think about her home, about Carrie's Crossing, at all because it made her sad. Certainly contributing to the sadness was the ever-present memory of her mother, but it was more than that: It was how small the place seemed in comparison to Belle City, and she didn't mean "small" in the weights and measurements sense, but in the way that Carrie's Crossing diminished life for Colored people.
Her weekend visits had begun at the suggestion of Maisy Cooper, Emma Johnson, Tobias's mother-in-law, and Clara McGinnis, Mack's mother, who were planning her wedding. In addition to the shopping that was necessary for a bride-to-be, it was even more necessary, according to her surrogate mothers, that she establish a presence in the Friendship Baptist Church, where she would be married. Ruthie remembered Mr. First telling her, years ago, that Colored in Carrie's Crossing needed a church, a permanent one, not a once-a-month traveling preacher. Now she understood his meaning, for Friendship Baptist was about more than religious or spiritual development; it was about connections and relationships—friendships—strength in numbers, for on Sunday mornings, inside the churches where Colored people gathered, the perpetual threat to their existence that was white people was obliterated for an hour or two. That wasn't just true in Friendship Baptist, but also within the Wheat Street Baptist Church, where Maisy Cooper was a member. Ruthie visited there only once because it was across town, in the Fourth Ward. It was a structure of similar size and beauty to Friendship, and filled with similar Colored people—that is, people of all ages and descriptions, men, women and children, educated and not, the obviously well-to-do and the just as obviously down-and-out. She was no expert at church-going, but it seemed—and felt—to Ruthie that the people all attended church on Sunday for the same reason: To be a part of each other's lives.
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