The Return of Buddy Bush

by Shelia P. Moses

  First stop, a candy store.

  Everybody in here look like they know I’m from Rehobeth Road. They looking at me funny. Maybe they know Uncle Buddy. As soon as I pay for my candy, I’m going to ask the storekeeper about my uncle.

  “Can I help you, young lady?” the storekeeper asks when he see me looking in the glass case that is filled with candy and bubble gum.

  “Yes, sir, I would like two chocolate drops.”

  “Two chocolate drops it is. What a nice little voice. And just where are you from?”

  “North Carolina, sir.”

  “Don’t know why I asked. Your Southern drawl is a dead giveaway.”

  Oh, Lord, these city folks are a mess. He sounds like he from back of Grandpa’s field and he talking about my accent.

  “Where you from, sir?”

  “South Carolina.”

  He got some nerves. I saw South Carolina on a map at school and accordingly to that map South Carolina is farther south than North Carolina. But I will just let him think he sounds citified.

  “Do you know a man named Goodwin Bush?” I ask.

  He stop dead in his tracks.

  “What you doing asking about Buddy child?”

  He knows my uncle.

  “Well, I read about him in the paper and I just wanted to know if you know him.”

  “Everyone in Harlem know Buddy. And we know what them white folks down home tried to do to him. So don’t you go asking a bunch of folks around here about Buddy unless you want to get yourself in a world of trouble. White folks looking for him and I don’t want no problems in my store.”

  “But I ain’t white, sir.”

  “Don’t make no difference. We don’t talk about Buddy here in Harlem. And don’t you back talk me. Now run along.”

  “Yes, sir.” I pay for my candy and get out of his store.

  This is going to be harder than I thought. But one thing I know for sure now. Uncle Buddy is here in Harlem. If he was not here, why would that man act like that? They are hiding Uncle Buddy from the law.

  Maybe if I walk a little farther, I will ask someone else. Maybe I will run into someone with a big mouth and they will tell me everything I need to know. I’m not getting very far because I have to stop and look in every store window. It is something to see, all right. One store has clothes hanging in the window on big dolls. The prettiest dresses I have ever seen. Well, maybe not as pretty as the dresses that Grandma makes. Her dresses got love in them.

  My Lord, I believe a colored person own this dress store. ’Cause ain’t nothing in there but colored folks.

  Reckon its true that colored folks really own Harlem. I love it here already. A colored woman inside the store who just walked up to the window, she’s smiling at me. I smile back and wave. She looking like she ain’t got much time for children, so I better not ask her about Uncle Buddy. I think I’ll just go in and look at all the pretty clothes.

  I walk inside and before I know it, the woman standing over me. She smells like grandma’s rose garden.

  “Good morning, young lady. Can I help you?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m just looking at the pretty dresses.”

  “That’s just fine, but what are you doing walking the streets alone?”

  “Well, my sister is at work and I thought I would take a walk.”

  “Taking a walk? You must be from the South.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. But how did you know that?”

  “Because, honey, up here folks don’t let their children walk the streets alone day or night.”

  “But why not?”

  “Why not? Child, this ain’t down home. This is the big city. Now you go on home and wait for your sister to get off work.”

  Everyone here is just as bossy as the people down home. I go back on the street.

  That lady ain’t my ma and she don’t know my ma, so I ain’t going home just cause she say so. I’m just going to walk until I get tired. Uncle Buddy probably ain’t found no job that quick, so he might be out here walking the streets too. He could have on a hat and glasses so that people will not know who he is. But I will know him no matter what he is wearing.

  Every store looks different. Filled with everything from candles to plants and furniture. One store here has more stuff than all the stores in Rich Square got put together.

  I’m getting hungry. My chocolate drops wore off so maybe I better head home for something to eat. Then I’ll go out again later to keep on looking for Uncle Buddy.

  It don’t take me long to get back to the apartment. I use the key that BarJean gave me this morning and go through the front door of the building as I pray Miss Sylvine don’t see me. Lord, I’m glad to be back inside. Its almost as hot walking the streets of Harlem as it is working in the fields. Well, not quite.

  I think I will just make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. BarJean sure do keep a lot of food in her pantry. She probably don’t want me to say pantry. Lets see. What word can I use for pantry? Maybe closet will do. I will ask Miss City BarJean when she gets home. Right now I just want to sleep for a minute before lunch.

  I was going to go back out to look for Uncle Buddy again, but when I woke up, BarJean was putting her key in the front door. I guess I was tired after all. I’ll start again tomorrow.

  8

  South of Baltimore

  F or a whole week I get up every day and do the same thing. Walk and look, look and walk. BarJean does the same thing every day too. She gets up and has her coffee, get dressed, and she is out the door to work at the factory. She said when Saturday comes she is going to take me to buy some fabric to make my new school clothes. And she said she is going to get my hair pressed and maybe even let me get my ears pierced. Ma ain’t going to like that. Ma ain’t never had her ears pierced. She said if God wanted us to have a second hole in our ears for earrings he would have put two there, not one! I will worry about Ma when I get back home. While I’m here I’m going to do everything I can to look like a city girl. Ain’t no need to come all the way up here and go home looking like you still a field hand.

  And while I’m getting citified I will keep looking for my uncle.

  But he ain’t nowhere to be found. Nowhere!

  “Good morning, little lady,” a man in a white shirt says as I walk past his shoeshine stand.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  He smiles and keeps on shining the black shoes of a man who is dressed like he on his way to church. He is writing away on a piece of yellow paper.

  “What are you writing, sir?” I ask without thinking first.

  “A novel.”

  “You mean like Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer?”

  “No, like Richard Wright.”

  “Richard Wright. Well, I never heard of him.”

  “Little girl, you should know who Richard Wright is if you know who Mark Twain is,” the shoeshine man says.

  “But everyone read Mark Twain’s book,”

  “That’s real good and they should. But every little black girl in Harlem reads Richard Wright’s books,”

  “Who is Richard Wright?”

  Now I know I said something stupid. The shoeshine man stop shining and the man in his chair stop smiling and look at me. He said:

  “I am Richard Wright,”

  “You mean, you are a real writer? Why sir, I didn’t know there were colored writers!”

  “Well, there are black writers and you should know all about them.”

  “Them. You mean there’s more than one?”

  “Why, sure. There’s Langston Hughes, who lives right across the street. There’s Zora Hurston, who lives a few blocks away, and Dorothy West, too.”

  “Women! Colored women writers?” I can’t believe what I am hearing.

  “Yes, child. And you should know who the black writers are.”

  He is saying black, not colored. I’m not going to ever say colored again.

  “Well, I don’t know who the black writers are. Do you know who Buddy Bus
h is?”

  The shoeshine man stand up fast. “Girl, who are you and where did you come from?” he says.

  “Sir, I’m from down South and I’m looking for Buddy Bush.”

  Mr. Wright don’t seem to know or care who we are talking about, but this shoeshine man definitely knows my uncle. He grabs my arm and pulls me around the side of the building.

  “Child, don’t you know better than to come around here asking about Buddy?”

  “But I have to find him.”

  “Find him for what? Don’t you know the law is looking for him?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the reason I have to find him. I have to tell him that they caught the men who tried to hang him. I have to tell him that it’s okay to come home.”

  “Home! Child, what are you talking about? Harlem is Buddy’s home now. He can’t ever go down South again!”

  “But he has to. Grandma wants him to come home.”

  “Grandma? You mean Miss Babe Jones?” Then he looks at me real hard. “Good God from Zion, you must be Pattie Mae Sheals!”

  The shoeshine man done forgot all about Mr. Wright. How on earth does this man know my name? He is hugging me so tight I can’t breathe.

  “Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Tom. I’m Mr. Charlie and Miss Doleebuck boy.”

  I just look at him. “But I know all of Mr. Charlie’s children,” I say. Then I remember the missing boy that ain’t been south of Baltimore since he left all them years ago.

  “All but me. I don’t go down South for nothing. And I told Buddy to stay away from down there, but he would not listen. A colored man ain’t got no business south of Baltimore. None!”

  He looks sad as Mr. Wright comes around the corner to pay him two quarters.

  “I’ll see you next week, Tom, before I go back to Paris.”

  Paris! I almost fall on the ground. He lives in Paris, France. He just visiting New York. I’m going to ask Mr. Tom about that as soon as I find out where Uncle Buddy is.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Wright. I will see you next time,” Mr. Tom thanks Mr. Wright and turns back to me. “Pattie Mae, go on home,”

  “No, I can’t go home. Not until you tell me where my uncle is.”

  “Look! Go home. Come back tomorrow at the same time. Now, go!”

  I better do as I am told. If Mr. Tom knows Grandma got a telephone, he might call down there and tell her that I am up here looking for Uncle Buddy. If that happens Ma is going to skin me alive.

  I am halfway home when I remember that I did not ask Mr. Tom about Mr. Wright living in Paris. I will have to ask him tomorrow.

  Tonight I don’t say a word to BarJean about running into Mr. Tom. We are eating catfish just like we do every Friday down South and then we are going to bed. I will read some more obituaries until I fall asleep. BarJean works a half day on Saturday so I will be back at the shoeshine stand at ten o’clock in the morning.

  9

  The Gravediggers

  “ G ood morning, Mr. Tom.”

  “Good morning, child. How you feeling this morning?”

  “I’m fine. Did you find my uncle?”

  “Pattie Mae Sheals, what are you doing here, gal?”

  I feel love come all over my body. A love that only Uncle Buddy and Grandpa can make me feel. Uncle Buddy steps from around the building long enough to pull me back there with him.

  “Uncle Buddy!” I crying out as my nose and eyes have a contest for which one can run the most water.

  “Hush, child. Ain’t no need to cry. I’m all right.”

  “But Uncle Buddy, where have you been?”

  “Hiding, child. I’m hiding to stay alive.”

  “Oh Lord, Uncle Buddy, Grandpa is dead.”

  “I know, honey. I know. Harlem ain’t nothing but home away from home for people from down South. I have known Papa was dead ever since the day he died.”

  “Oh, Uncle Buddy, I’m so sorry you couldn’t come to the funeral.”

  “But I was there, my child.”

  “You were? Where?”

  “The gravediggers. When someone dies don’t nobody ever pay attention to the gravediggers. There were three men that were suppose to dig the grave. The Masons got me a uniform and a digging tool and I helped dig the hole for Daddy Braxton’s finally resting place. When the undertaker asked the family to leave the cemetery, they opened the casket one last time so that I could say good-bye to him. It was raining so hard, folks didn’t even notice who was who. Them so-called smart white folks was so sure I was going to try to come in with the pallbearers or the friends of the family that they never thought about the gravediggers. That is who I was that day As soon as the funeral was over, the Masons got me out of town and back up here.”

  “But how did you get home from Harlem for the funeral?”

  “The blue Cadillac, child. I rode with BarJean and Coy as far as Emporia, Virginia. From there a few of the Masons picked me up and I stayed down in the Low Meadows with Bro Smitty. Ain’t no white folks coming down there. They ain’t been down there since the flood of 1940 came and scared the mess out of them.”

  Oh, Lord, we hug and hug.

  We cry and cry.

  “They caught them, Uncle Buddy,” I tell him. “The law caught the white men who tried to kill you.”

  “I know that too, child.”

  “Well, why are you still hiding? We can go home now.”

  “Child, I can’t go back. They ain’t going to send those men to jail and they ain’t going to give me a fair trial because they think I tried to harm that white gal. Pattie Mae, I can’t ever go back.”

  I don’t say anything else. I just stand there and listen to my uncle Buddy tell me how he has been hiding ever since he left down home. How the good colored folks in Harlem have looked out for him. Especially Mr. Tom, who let him stay in his basement all this time.

  “It’s time for you to leave, child. Do not tell BarJean you saw me. She don’t need to know where I am. She know I’m here somewhere and she know I’m all right. Now you go on and don’t come back.”

  “No, Uncle Buddy, no. Please come with me.”

  “Don’t you talk back to me, child. Get out of here.”

  His voice almost scares me. I hug him and walk away. But then I stop and go back to my uncle Buddy.

  “Open your hand, Uncle.”

  He give me a look like he think I am going to put a worm in it like I did the last time I told him to open up.

  I take one of Grandpa’s obituaries from my pocket and put it in his hand.

  “Bye, Uncle Buddy Bye, Mr. Tom.”

  We wave good-bye to each other as Uncle Buddy disappears as fast as he had walked around that corner.

  Lord, I feel ten pounds lighter now I know my uncle really is in Harlem. He really is alive!

  I did not breathe a word about seeing Uncle Buddy to BarJean that afternoon. She was sitting in the kitchen waiting for me when I got back. I lied and told her I had just gone for a short walk.

  She don’t believe me. She ain’t saying a word. Just looking at me. This means she is going to tell Ma as soon as she can get her on the phone. BarJean ain’t much on fussing. She is good on tattling. Watch and see. Finally she is talking.

  “You ready to go shopping?” she asks.

  I say yes faster than I ever said it in my life.

  BarJean changes into her walking shoes and out the door we go.

  Our first stop is the fabric store, just like BarJean promised.

  Oh, Lord, BarJean, I ain’t never seen so much fabric in my life.”

  “Pick five different colors for skirts. Coy said he will buy you some blouses later. And stop saying ain’t in Harlem.”

  I want to scream, ain’t, ain’t, ain’t, but Miss BarJean is really silly about this word mess now and I don’t want to make her mad again. She might change her mind and we will not be here in the store shopping. I know what I will do. I will tell Uncle Buddy how she is acting.

  I pick red, blue, white, brown, and light blu
e fabric for my skirts. BarJean walks over to the counter and gets the thread and she is talking to some black woman who works here.

  “Come over here, Pattie Mae,” BarJean calls to me. “I want to introduce you to Miss Sara.”

  Miss Sara. I’m walking slow. She don’t just work here. This is her store. She own it. The sign out front says SARA’S FABRIC. Harlem sure is something. Wait till I tell Chick-A-Boo.

  We talk to Miss Sara for a long time. Her and BarJean talk about everything under the sun except Uncle Buddy. People don’t even mention his name. But when we leave, she hugs BarJean real tight and whispers something in her ear. You know these grown folks are going to force me to put a mason jar for ease dropping in my pocketbook and carry it everywhere I go.

  “Hi, BarJean,” a voice says from behind us.

  “Hi, Mary,” BarJean says as she turns around and hug this woman who know BarJean and don’t know me.

  BarJean introduce me to Miss Mary as my new sister-in-law. This is the girl Coy is going to marry. She sure is pretty and a Harlem girl. She is all dress up on a Saturday. She must really love Coy, because she just talking about him and that wedding. She got her arms filled with fabric that she say is for her wedding dress.

  “It was nice to meet you, Miss Mary,” I say, to let BarJean know I am sick of listening to grown folks business. We say our good-byes to Miss Sara and Miss Mary, pay for our stuff, and leave.

  “Where we going now, BarJean?” I ask when we get out on the street.

  “To the jewelry store.”

  “The jewelry store. What we going to do there?”

  “I thought you wanted your ears pierced.”

  “Well, I do, but what about Ma?”