by Shana Burg
Delilah and me join our neighbors in the lane. Since church let out just an hour ago, you’d think the reverend would be tired of talking. But that’s not the way it’s fixing to be. “Praise Jesus,” he says. He holds a large cardboard poster in his hands. The second I see it, I know exactly what this ruckus is about.
A few days back, I was making Ralphie his favorite treat in the Tates’ kitchen while Mrs. Tate and her friends were drawing up posters in the living room. I held Ralphie on my hip, as I stirred the pot of applesauce on the stove and listened to them talk.
“Between his new shop in Muscadine County and his poor mama in Florida, Mr. Mudge hasn’t made it back to Kuckachoo for three weeks!” Mrs. Worth said. “He gave me the garden keys. He said with the grand opening scheduled for early November, there’s no way he’ll make it back to town for the picking.”
“What a shame!” Miss Springer chirped.
She sure didn’t sound sorry Mr. Mudge wouldn’t make it to the picking.
“Well, at least the garden was laid by before he left,” Miss Springer said. “After that, there’s nothing to do but wait for everything to grow anyhow.”
“Well, I stopped by the garden just yesterday,” Mrs. Tate said. “The corn lining the gate is taller than me! I couldn’t see a thing past it.”
Then, out of nowhere, Miss Springer asked, “Have you heard the rumors?”
“What rumors?” Mrs. Tate asked.
“’Bout Mr. Adams’s will,” Miss Springer said.
I almost dropped poor Ralphie on the floor.
“Well, I was down at the Very Fine Fabric Shop the other day. Dorotha told me she overheard the girl who cleans the shop tell someone that in his will Old Man Adams left half his garden to the Negroes,” Miss Springer said.
“You can’t be serious!” Mrs. Worth said.
I pressed Ralphie close to me with one hand, stirred the pot round and round with the other.
“I am serious,” Miss Springer replied. “And knowing how that man felt in his old age, I can believe it’s true. This is a community garden. It seems Mr. Adams wanted the whole Kuckochoo community to participate.”
Well, if that didn’t send Mrs. Worth into a tizzy! “You don’t know that and I don’t know that. We’ll never know what Mr. Adams intended. By the time he wrote up his will, that salty old buzzard was nothing but a colored-loving cuckoo,” Mrs. Worth said.
Words fought inside my throat. They climbed all over each other trying to get out. I know what the will said! He left us the land too! I could hear the words inside me, screaming out, over and over. But who was I to interrupt a white ladies’ conversation?
My hands got so shaky, though, I had to set Ralphie on the floor. And of course, he went running out the open back door into the yard. I turned the knob on the burner to low and chased after him, so I didn’t get to hear another word those ladies said. But I can tell you one thing: they sure had a good fight, the three of them, before they finished drawing up their posters.
Now Reverend Walker holds one and shouts, “We need to be moving that movement—that movement that’s brewing in Birmingham, that movement that’s mixing life upside down in Jackson—we need to be moving it right here to Kuckachoo.”
The reverend turns the sign round so we can see it. Then he reads it out loud:
The Kuckachoo Garden Club
invites you to a picking party!
TUESDAY. SUNRISE
Free vegetables! Bring sacks!
He points to the purple writing at the bottom of the sign and reads:
P.S. Negroes invited to pick at noon.
“This garden’s supposed to be for everyone!” Mrs. Montgomery shouts.
“I hear you,” says the reverend.
“What you sayin’?” Brother Babcock asks.
“I’m saying sure our empty bellies can go growling for another thousand years. We always got by on less than nothing. However”—the reverend raises a finger in the air—“we can’t go hungering for our dignity one more day. We’re not gonna pick at noon to gather no scraps!”
And it’s clear that at long last the reverend’s finished thinking about the garden. He actually does have a plan.
“We’re going at the crack of dawn just like every other Kuckachookian,” he says.
“Praise the Lord!” yells Delilah.
I reckon she belongs in the amen corner! And dog my cats, suddenly she’s all about that picking. “I’ll do your eyes later,” she tells me.
Well, that’s fine with me. I don’t need any more color on my eyes. I’ve got all the color I need right in front of them. I’m seeing blue and red stars, I’m so angry about this garden.
“We need to do this for Emmett Till,” the reverend shouts. “And for Medgar Evers. For the four young girls murdered last month in Birmingham—Denise McNair, Carole Robertson, Cynthia Wesley, and Addie Mae Collins. And for Elias Pickett, our very own son, wherever he may be.”
I’ve thought of Emmett. I’ve thought of Medgar. I’ve thought about those four girls, one my age, one named Addie like me. And Lord knows I’ve thought about my brother. But to think of them all at the same time, Elias along with the dead, it’s just too much. Too much to bear!
I stumble away from the crowd to the edge of the lane. But the reverend’s words boom across the dirt straight to me: “There comes a time when a man’s dignity’s worth more than his life. Oh Lord, this is our time!”
I know the reverend’s right. We can’t just sit by and let them steal what’s ours. They’ve taken our land, they’ve chased my brother away, they’ve taken too many lives. And even if I get beaten or put in jail, it doesn’t matter. I’m ready to fight.
Reverend Walker charges down the lane. Most of the men follow. As usual, they’re going to sort things out without us ladies and children, so Delilah and me hurry on over to my porch to sit beside our mamas. No doubt they’re fretful as we are, and I reckon we could all lean on each other after what we’ve just heard. But soon as I settle on the step, I’m sorry I’m there. That’s because Mama and Mrs. Montgomery, they’re shaking their tails at each other about whether we should go to the picking or not.
Mama says, “There’s no way for us to show up for the picking at sunrise without infuriating the white folk. If we do that, we may as well shoot ourselfs ’cause that’s what happens when you make white folk think twice before they even thunk once. If we go, we’ll get ourselfs killed.”
Mrs. Montgomery turns to me and says, “Looks like your mama’s turned into Eartha Kitt.”
I sure wish Mama looked like a beautiful actress, but right about now, her eyebrows are knitted together and the circles under her eyes look like mud puddles. I hate to say it, but Mama doesn’t look like Eartha Kitt at all, so I’m not sure what Mrs. Montgomery’s talking about.
But now Mrs. Montgomery says to Mama, “No need for the drama, Eartha. We should show up, but not till noon. That way, we’re taking up good on the offer but not losing out on the food we need.”
But Mama doesn’t like Mrs. Montgomery’s teasing. Her bottom lip quivers just like mine. “We’re not going,” she says. “We can’t go. Not you. Not me. None of us. Sunrise? Noon? The hour don’t matter.”
Truth be told, sometimes Mrs. Montgomery takes things one step too far. Even though she and Mama, they’re the best of friends, sometimes she hurts Mama real bad. “Since when can a Pickett afford to skip out on a free sack of beans?” Mrs. Montgomery asks.
I reckon that does it. Mama stands right up, hand on her hip. “Well, I don’t see you bringing out the lamb chops on a regular basis neither,” she says, and storms inside.
At dinner, Mama’s still steaming. She yanks the macaroni and cheese from the oven. “She ain’t got no sense ’bout how to protect her family,” she says, more to the food than to anyone. It seems Mama’s cooked up an extra-special meal just to prove our family’s got more than enough to eat.
“Mmm! Mmm!” Uncle Bump says.
I want to tell M
ama that truth be told, I reckon Mrs. Montgomery’s right. We should be at that picking. What’s ours is ours. I want to tell her that Elias wouldn’t like to see her all scared, that Elias would want her to fight for our rights. But right about now Mama’s just a deer collapsing in the forest to lick her wounds. And nothing I say about the picking will do anything but hurt her more.
So I do what we Picketts do best: I change the subject. “Wow, Mama!” I say, and shovel in another spoonful of macaroni and cheese. “This sure is scrumptious!”
But what do you know? In the middle of my compliments, Mama goes and switches the subject right back. She stares at Uncle Bump. “You ain’t going, I ain’t going, and you, Addie Ann,” she says, “you ain’t going to that picking neither.”
Seeing Mama so scared scares me. I reckon ever since Elias left, her age is speeding up faster than the days and the years. And one thing’s clear: Mama isn’t about to let any more danger destroy our family, no matter how much dignity it might cost.
“’Scuse me,” she says.
The instant she leaves the table, I get a twisty feeling in my belly. No one has to say my brother’s name for us to know he’s all she can think about. Yesterday Mama met with the reverend, and even he had to admit Elias might be in God’s hands.
I don’t know why the reverend thinks that the more days my brother’s gone, the more evidence he’s never coming back. But I reckon it’s like Mrs. Jacks says: grown-ups only believe what they see in front of their eyes. If they don’t see something, it isn’t there. So even though the reverend’s a spiritual man, he can’t help it. He’s still a grown-up.
CHAPTER 20
October 15, 1963, Dawn
From my seat on the swing, I see the sky’s the soft blue it only turns fall mornings. A few stars still sparkle. And right about now, the world seems half-asleep, stuck in a place where everything’s all right and everyone who should be in it is. Past the oak leaves, I watch folks stroll down the lane, wiping sleep from their eyes. Most every one of them is off to church, where they’re going to meet up before the picking. They’re following Reverend Walker’s plan, showing up to pick at dawn, even though us Negroes weren’t invited till noon.
No one seems to notice me out here on my swing. No one except Delilah. She’s wearing her dress for courage, the orange one with the yellow iris down the back.
“You coming?” she asks, and walks into the yard.
Course I’m more than dying to go to that picking and see what all the fuss is about. I want to see what Mrs. Tate’s been planning for months. I want to know what stand the reverend will take, and if he’ll get the white folks to give us any kind of respect. But if I go to that garden picking and Mama hears of it, I’ll never see daylight again.
“Gotta go to school,” I say.
But here’s Delilah fixing her eyes on something bigger than her own appearance and getting all high-and-mighty about it too. “You should come,” she says. “It’s the right thing to do.”
And I can’t believe it: Delilah Montgomery telling me, Addie Ann Pickett, the right thing to do! I push my feet against the ground to set the swing in motion. “You’re just jealous I get to walk all the way with Cool Breeze,” I tell her.
“Thrills, chills, and charges!” she says, and throws back her shoulders. Her pecan eyes roast with determination. Then she turns round and folds into the wave of folk marching down the lane.
I want to jump off the swing and run after her, but Mama would boil up if she found out I even thought about going to the garden picking.
More neighbors shuffle by till at long last Cool Breeze saunters into the yard looking fine as ever.
“Well, come on!” he calls, and walks away.
I grab my schoolbag from beside the swing and race to catch up. But when I reach him, Cool Breeze seems like he’s concentrating on something real important. Together, we rush down Kuckachoo Lane. As usual, we don’t toss a word between us.
But the second we turn onto the highway, Cool Breeze pushes the mulberry branches out of the way and steps into the bush. Before I know what’s happening, his long fingers are digging into the crook of my arm. And here I am in the bush too, my face right near his. I smell ginger on his breath. I take in his long lashes. My arms and legs buzz. And all of a sudden, it’s clear: the silence between us as we walk to school each day isn’t empty silence. No sir. It’s full. Full silence overflowing with yearning, desire, and love. Now I’m tingly all over.
Cool Breeze leans toward me.
I pucker up, and in the humid air, I relish the kiss to come.
My heart flutters like a sheet on a drying line. It all happens so fast. I think many thoughts at once, feel everything at the same time. Soon we’ll kiss. Then we’ll walk hand in hand. One day we’ll get married.
But all of a sudden, his lips screech to a halt beside my ear.
“I’m going to the picking,” he whispers.
My dream, it shatters like the honey jar in the Corner Store lot.
“You can’t tell anyone at school where I’m at,” he says.
I suffer my humiliation among the mulberry branches. Not only doesn’t Cool Breeze kiss me, but now he’s made me late. And being late for class at West Thunder Creek Junior High School is nothing like being late at Acorn Elementary.
My chest tightens in a double panic.
“It’ll be a sight!” he says, and smiles. “With the rumors floating, you know. I can’t miss that.” Then he says, “Why don’t you come too?”
I pull my schoolbag over my shoulder. “I can’t. My mama would find out.”
“Now how’s she gonna find out? So many folks will be there. They’ll think it’s odd if you’re not there.”
Well, I’ve got to admit, Cool Breeze Huddleston can sure think out a problem. He’s got a point. If no one from my whole family goes to the picking, folks will wonder whether us Picketts are loyal to the cause. And right about now, we can’t afford to have anyone thinking that.
I nod to myself, and Cool Breeze can see I’m coming along. But then I hit a rock in my thinking. A rock so big it’s blocking the road and I can’t see any way over it. “What about Mrs. Jacks?” I ask. “She’s gonna rip you up, and me too, if we skip out.” There’s no explaining to Mrs. Jacks why you’re late, or why your homework’s only part finished, or why you slump down at your desk. I can hear her saying it right now: “I went to sixteen years of school—that’s more years than any of you been singing to the Lord—and I never, I mean never, missed a day. Learning’s too precious to give up even one minute for something silly like your stomach aching or goblins sneaking out your nose.”
I push aside the branches and climb out the thicket.
Cool Breeze follows.
By the way he still tries to convince me, I reckon he really does want me to go to the picking with him. And if I do, that kiss might land on my lips by the end of the day.
A school bus rushes down the highway. As usual, a few white students yell something nasty out the window. No matter how many times it happens, their taunting voices still make me want to scream.
“Do as you like,” he says. “But trust me, even if Mrs. Jacks does find out, she’ll be nothing but proud when we tell her we stood up for ourselves. Heck,” he says, and laughs, “she’s probably gonna make us give a report to the class so we can be examples to others.”
It’s true. Mrs. Jacks always says we need to dream bigger and fight harder than everyone else just because we’re Negroes. Maybe Cool Breeze is right. Maybe she’ll put us up in front of the class. Now wouldn’t that be something! When Elias was in her class, Mrs. Jacks asked him to teach the other students how to give a persuasive speech. She said Elias could orate just like Frederick Douglass. Mama cried, she was so proud of him for that.
“We’ll take the back path to church so your mama won’t see,” Cool Breeze says. Of course, he doesn’t have to worry about his mama finding out, because he said she’s gone down to Sunflower for the day to take
care of her sick sister. And he sure doesn’t need to worry about his daddy finding out, because he split when Cool Breeze was in first grade.
“You’re already late for school anyhow!” he says. Then he takes off running down the path through the woods.
I haven’t had time to make up my whole mind about it, but I figure, Cool Breeze, he’s smarter than me. So I push the branches out of the way and tear down the path after him. My schoolbag thumps against my hip. By the time we turn off to First Baptist, I’ve got to hunch over, hands on my knees, to rest.
Cool Breeze huffs and puffs too, but he stands up straight like our sprint was nothing. “Here,” he says. “Gimme your bag.”
I hand over my schoolbag, and Cool Breeze sets it down beside his in a ditch. “Now no one will know we’re supposed to be at school at all,” he says.
I smile, thinking how smart he is, how he’s seeing to all the details, how he’s taking care of me.
Then the two of us go on inside the church and stand in back. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought it was the Easter service. There’s not an empty pew in the place. By the look of things, lots of kids from Acorn Elementary are missing class today. Why, they’re sitting right with their parents.
Up front, the reverend bellows. Each word swells in his belly, then shimmies across his tongue. “This past spring, the young Negroes of Birmingham stood up when they marched for equality. Six, twelve, sixteen years old. Some were bitten by police dogs. Some were toppled by the force of fire hoses. But their actions helped desegregate Birmingham’s downtown stores.”
And I know “segregate” means “to separate,” so “desegregate” must mean “to mix back together again.” I whisper that word, “desegregate,” and it tickles the roof of my mouth.
“In Jackson,” the reverend says, “although it was against the law, Negro college students stood up by trying to eat at a white lunch counter while white customers threw ketchup on them and beat them bloody. And even your little old reverend here stood up this summer, when he marched on the nation’s capital and urged Congress to pass the president’s civil rights bill.”