by Shana Burg
“You all right?” he asks.
I go ahead and nod. But how am I supposed to be all right with the fact that my daddy was murdered? How am I supposed to be all right when my family didn’t even trust me with the truth?
“I can’t stay out here long. If the wrong folks see me, we’ll have double trouble,” he says. “So you’ve gotta talk. You’ve gotta tell our story.”
I dig my fingernails into the dirt.
“The story of our family. The real one. When folks hear it, they’ll remember what’s at stake for Uncle Bump. For us all.” Elias swipes under his nose, but his tears fall anyway. “Can you tell it?” he asks.
The sparks catch inside me. They burst into a river of flame. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I can. And I will.”
When I hear that whisper, I know whose it is. Before this moment, I would’ve sworn that whisper belonged to my brother, who’s always sure where to go, what to do. But when I hear it now, so clear, so close, I know that voice. It’s my own.
CHAPTER 24
October 15, 1963, Night
I leave my brother in the milkweed and race back to the lane. My neighbors are still fixed on the flames. Shadows flicker on their faces. And one thing’s clear: we can’t stand here and watch our lives burn. This isn’t just about Uncle Bump. This isn’t just about us Picketts. This is about all of us. Who we are. What our future holds.
Now I’m madder than a rare-roast devil. I grab a bucket set on the porch of a nearby house, lug it to the lane, turn it over, and climb on top. Then I scream louder than I thought I knew how. “Listen!”
All of a sudden, I remember what that man from the NAACP said: When it’s your time, you’ll know. You won’t be able to sit on your rumps and watch. You’ll feel it in your bones. You won’t have a choice but to get up and… There’s no doubt about it. “This is our time!” I shout.
And what do you know? Cool Breeze Huddleston is the first to hear me shout hellfire and brimstone. He’s the first to turn and stare.
“You really Cool Breeze?” I yell.
He nods.
“Then prove it!” I shout.
Cool Breeze glides toward me like he’s under my spell.
“Now I want you to run faster than Jesse Owens in training,” I tell him. “Get Mrs. Jacks. Tell her this is the big test. The final exam! We need all our people from Weaver to meet us down the jailhouse. We need them to help save Uncle Bump. We need them to help save us all!”
When I say it, I know it sounds real good. And I wish Mrs. Jacks could see me taking charge of the madness, trying to make a dream come true in a matter of hours while others spend their whole lives.
After Cool Breeze runs off, a few more neighbors turn from the dying flames to listen. To listen to me!
“Delilah,” I yell.
She pushes through the crowd toward me.
“You be my special helper. I want you to get to Bramble lickety-split.”
I’m expecting her to say “Thrills, chills, and charges!” I’m expecting her to turn away, not to help. But Delilah just stands, eyes wide.
“I know you can do it!” I tell her.
Then Mr. Montgomery calls, “C’mon, Delilah!” and he runs beside his daughter all the way down the lane.
Smoke swirls above the empty lot where my house, Uncle Bump’s shed, and my swing used to be. My eyes sting. I swipe under my nose and this time it works. The tears, they stay inside. One by one, my neighbors turn from the flames to listen. To listen to me! And one by one, I send them off through the county to call on our sisters and brothers, our teachers and preachers for help.
Then I jump off the bucket and follow the reverend while the brigade stays behind to finish off the fire. We’re a thundering herd of feet trudging along the dirt lane, off to the jailhouse to make sure Uncle Bump survives the night. The second I turn round, one thing’s clear: the reverend and me are leading a march every bit as powerful as the one in Washington, D.C., that Reverend Walker told us all about.
Our neighbors follow us across the tracks. While we walk, I tell the reverend that I know my family story and I want to share it. The reverend looks at me. His eyes glisten, and I’ve got a feeling he knows my family story too. He wraps his arm round my shoulders, gives me a squeeze. When we turn down Main Street, white folks back up against the nearest buildings, shocked to see us coming through.
As soon as we arrive at the jailhouse, the reverend motions us to circle it. And before the sheriff can figure out what’s what, a human shield surrounds the concrete building.
Hours later, when the sheriff’s tired of yelling, he decides to aim his shotgun at the crowd. But it’s too late to scare us away. That’s because under the bright moon, we see folks from Darwiler, Titus, Hominy, and Jigsaw pouring into town. Young and old, they’re coming to stand beside us.
The reverend and me, we climb onto a boulder beside the jail. From up here, I can see Curtis Bertrand Huddleston rolling down the road on the back of a flatbed truck, proving he really is Cool Breeze after all. A hundred folks from Weaver follow. And there’s Delilah marching in from Bramble, followed by more girls and boys than ever trailed her at the schoolhouse.
A lightbulb hangs from a wire outside the jail. A patch of light falls on the reverend. “Y’all,” he shouts. He waits till everyone hushes. Then he says, “We’re going to spend the night arm in arm like a chain that can’t be broken. Folks coming in from throughout the county, we welcome you to join our circle. The time has come for the Negroes of Thunder Creek County to stand up and fight! Too many of our sisters and brothers have been injured, killed. We can’t let this go on another day. Another hour. Another second. The fate of Bump Dawson is the fate of us all.”
“Amen!” folks shout. “Glory be!”
Then the reverend’s eyes get fixed on something far away. And I see what. My lip wiggles worse than ever. There are four Klansmen dressed in white sheets and pointy hats. They creep closer. One holds a rope noose.
My head gets light. Brother Babcock’s eyes go swollen. Delilah lets out a bloodcurdling scream.
Then a raspy voice in the crowd starts to sing. “Oh freedom!”
The second I hear that voice, I know Mrs. Jacks is here, helping us rise above.
Our voices bond together. They rise up like a force that can fight. “Oh freedom over me!”
When the Klansmen get to the rim of our circle round the jail, the reverend motions for us to part the way. And I can’t imagine what’s going on. Does the reverend want us to let them through? Through to Uncle Bump?
Our voices ring strong as people separate.
But the Klansmen don’t tromp down the clearing to the jail. Instead, they huddle.
I feel I might collapse.
Then the Klansmen turn away and march back down the street, the one on crutches trailing behind.
And I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I start jiggling all over the place and hallelujahing and raising my hands up to the sky, like the Good Lord’s entered my body and soul.
One thing’s clear: our large crowd of Negroes scared the jeepers out of those Klansmen. By parting the way, we let them see just how many of us are here, all in one place, together! We’ve ruined their plans for Uncle Bump. At least for now.
“Bump!” the reverend calls toward the jailhouse window slit.
I imagine Uncle Bump slumped in the corner of a four-by-four-foot cell.
“A thousand folks are here for you,” the reverend shouts.
Then Mrs. Jacks sings, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna to let it shine.” And our voices ring out for hours. There’s hundreds of friends plus hundreds of strangers, but it feels to me we’re all part of one big family.
Once the sheriff gets tired of our singing and leaves, the reverend calls to the crowd from on top of the boulder. “Now I’d like y’all to sit and listen,” he says. “I’m going to ask Addie Ann to tell you folks her family’s story. As you’ll see, it’s not unique. But it’s why we’re here.
To change the course of history. What happened to Addie Ann’s father is part of our common past. And what will become of Bump Dawson is part of the future we share. It’s our job to make sure Bump lives free!”
Then the reverend touches my shoulder. And it’s like tag, I’m it.
Here I am on the boulder, looking out at these people. They’ve come to help my uncle. They’ve come to help themselves. My breath is slow. The fire’s inside me. And all I can do is tell my story.
The first part’s easy. It’s what Mama’s told me time and again, the history I’ve always called my own. “My daddy was Brayburn Pickett,” I say.
“A little louder,” the reverend whispers.
I nod and call up the same voice I used on that bucket, the voice I used to get these folks here in the first place.
“Uncle Bump was just a teenager when his big sister married my father,” I say. “Uncle Bump and my daddy met every morning for coffee at the diner. One day, an extra-pretty lady waltzed into the diner. She came from Hornet, Mississippi. She was visiting a friend who lived in Nashville.
“In case you’re wondering, Nashville is the capital of Tennessee,” I say. “Nashville’s where my parents and Uncle Bump lived. According to Mama, it only took one pretty lady. Then Uncle Bump was fast on the track to the Mississippi Delta.”
All of a sudden, Uncle Bump’s deep laugh tumbles out the jailhouse. It fills my whole heart. It helps me go on. “Uncle Bump got settled in Hornet, Mississippi,” I say. “Then he sent word to my parents in Nashville, Tennessee. Uncle Bump told my parents that Negroes down in Hornet could use my father’s carpentry skill.
“Daddy couldn’t stand to build another pretty home for white folks in Nashville, so lickety-split he packed up the family and set off for a new adventure in the Delta.”
I close my eyes and imagine Daddy driving down the highway, top of the car down, wind flying through his hair, Mama beside him, three-year-old Elias in back. I take a deep breath. “Soon as my father got out of Nashville, he saw the go-on-forever fields. He saw the go-on-forever sky. He fell in love with the Delta. In love forever.”
That part was easy. But now my legs turn froggy, because I’ve got to tell the rest. The part I just heard for the first time. The story I can’t believe is mine.
“Daddy…,” I say. It’s a good thing this crowd is silent, since I don’t have the strength to talk loud as before.
“I used to think Daddy died of pneumonia, but now I know that’s…not true. The truth, it’s ugly…. It’s worse.”
The reverend nods like I should go ahead, keep telling what I know. So I close my eyes and look for the river, feel the river, am the river. Am the water crashing over the rocks on the riverbed, rushing so fast, not stopping, not stopping, while I tell the story. The story Elias told me.
My story.
My story.
My story.
“We moved to Hornet,” I say. All I hear is a nightmare. A nightmare full of colors and smells. “My daddy wanted to build the Negro side of Hornet into a place where real human beings could live happy. From the way I heard it, folks across town got mighty hot when some of our houses looked better than theirs. And Daddy didn’t want to build homes for white folks, no matter how much money they offered. Then…”
I don’t want to tell them, just like Elias didn’t want to tell me. I don’t want the children here to know things like this can happen. But I’ve got no choice. Elias said by telling our history, we might change the future for Uncle Bump—and for us all.
So I draw in a breath. “My daddy,” I say, “he had ideas of his own.” For a minute, I stop and wonder what my life would be like if Daddy had just followed the rules.
I’m tossing that over when the reverend whispers, “Go on, Addie Ann. Go on.”
I take another breath. The river curls in waves. “My daddy didn’t want to depend on white folks to earn money,” I say. “And that, I reckon, was the problem.”
I look out at the people and see their eyes glow in the moonlight. I wish I could snap my fingers and say, “I’m kidding, y’all,” but now I know I’ve got to tell the rest. The whole truth. The most horrible part.
“Daddy turned down an offer to build a grand house for Hornet’s white mayor. That was it. The next night a couple hooded Klansmen on horses trotted up to my family’s house.”
Then I can’t help it: I speed through the story like it’s happening again. “Those men grab my brother, Mama too. Yank them out of the house. Keep a pistol aimed at Daddy. Force him to stay inside.”
Inside me fire rages, through my legs, and round my head, lighting the dark. “The men throw a firebomb into the house. The house bursts into flames. Mama grabs Elias by the wrist, races down the street, away from the sight. But my brother pulls free, runs home.
“‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Elias yells. But no matter how many times he calls, Daddy won’t come on out. Out of his burning home.”
I bury my face in my hands and picture Uncle Bump playing gin rummy at a friend’s, someone bursting in with the news. Uncle Bump running out fast as he could, cheeks covered with tears, muscles itching to swing.
Now the reverend hugs me. “Can you finish?” he asks.
It’s all I can do to nod.
The people wait like they would wait a hundred years.
But a wild rage fills me.
A rage that falls behind words.
That gasps between breaths.
That poisons my tears.
“A couple days later,” I say, “the Hornet Herald published an interview with the mayor of Hornet. The mayor said he hired my father to build him a new home. He said he paid my father for the job in advance. Then he said my father spent all the money but refused to build the house. The mayor said that when he ordered my father into court, my daddy was so full of shame he…”
The truth burns inside me. And I wonder if sometimes it’s better not to know.
I open my mouth to speak but I can’t. My lips are parched. Someone carries a jug of water to the boulder.
I sip the water down, a drip down my throat into my chest. To the river. The river. That one sip is too much. The river spills its banks.
It floods.
Floods.
Floods.
The truth floods out of me. Out my heart. Out my mouth. Out to the people. To the old folks who’ve heard it before. To the children who will never want to hear it again.
“The mayor said Daddy burned himself up in his own home. But my daddy hadn’t ever…hadn’t ever taken the money. It was all a lie.”
There’s gooseflesh over me.
“Mama,” I say, “she was left alone with my brother, only four years old, me on the way, Daddy dead and gone, our home nothing but a pile of rubble. That’s when Uncle Bump, Mama’s brother, moved us from Hornet to Kuckachoo. That lady from the diner never did turn into his wife, so we were the closest family my uncle had. Uncle Bump used whatever money he earned to buy our food and clothes. Though he never went past fifth grade himself, Uncle Bump made sure I got all the way to seventh grade and my brother went all the way to high school.”
When at long last I get to the end of my story, folks break out singing:
“Go down, Moses.
Way down in Egypt’s land.
Tell old Pharaoh,
‘Let my people go.’”
I climb down from the boulder and sprawl out on the ground. No blanket, no pillow, no nothing. I’ve never been so tired in all my life. I stare up at the dark sky and wonder what was the last thing Daddy ever saw. I hope it was something nice. Maybe a photograph of him and Mama at their wedding. Maybe a picture Elias drew.
CHAPTER 25
October 16, 1963, Early Morning
Gray clouds trot across the sky: ugly, uglier, ugliest. I’m stiff all over. I can’t believe I slept here on the ground till morning. And I can’t believe how big our crowd still is, how many folks left their homes, their beds, to fight for Uncle Bump. To fight for our future.
>
Sirens scream through the air. I push myself up, only to see the sheriff’s blue car with red lights fixed on top. It shoots round the bend to us. Another blue car follows.
Reverend Walker climbs onto the back of a flatbed truck parked outside the jail. Seconds later, the sheriff drives up beside the truck, opens his window, and yells, “Get out of my way!”
But the reverend says, “We’ll let you into the jailhouse, Sheriff, on one account.”
“Move!” the sheriff shouts.
“We’ll move if you swear to transport Bump Dawson to the courthouse. Without harm!”
The sheriff jumps out of his car, slams the door, opens the trunk, and pulls out a billy club.
But something about the lot of us Negroes staring back at his little club seems to make him change his mind. “All right,” he shouts. “I swear. Without harm. Now let me through!”
True to his word, Reverend Walker tells the crowd to part an aisle down the center and clear a path to the jailhouse door. Three deputies follow the sheriff into the building. Then Reverend Walker orders us to surround their cars.
A few minutes pass till the sheriff and his deputies lead Uncle Bump out the jail. Uncle Bump’s hands and feet are shackled. He wears a pale blue shirt and pale blue pants. When he gets closer to me, the knot in my belly tightens. Now I can see someone beat the hound out of him. And I have no doubt the sheriff’s knuckles fit the bloody handprint on my uncle’s right cheek.
The sheriff shoves Uncle Bump into the backseat of his car like he’s throwing in a sack of dirty laundry. With so many folks surrounding the car, Uncle Bump doesn’t see me. I want to knock on the window, but then I wouldn’t put it past the sheriff to handcuff me too. So instead, I walk beside the blue car all the way to the courthouse, watching my uncle, wondering if he’ll ever be free again.