“Y’all going somewhere?” Nobody saw her come out of the house. She showed up from nowhere.
Nobody was quick to answer her. I sucked my teeth and Simon inhaled.
“Where y’all going?” she asked again.
“We will be back tomorrow,” Simon answered, without telling her everything.
“Okay! Well, I’ll watch everything until y’all come back home.”
“We won’t be gone that long.”
“Okay,” she answered in a sad tone. “I’ll see y’all when y’all come back.”
When Simon pulled off, Nadine was still standing in the street. It was the first time I’d seen her since I’d come back home from school.
The Halls had never traveled to Jefferson County. The only place they frequented was Petersburg on occasion, and Washington, D.C., they said. A place like Jefferson surely was not a place they even imagined visiting.
When we came to the point where the paved road became dirt, Mrs. Hall sat straight up.
“We really are going to the country. I haven’t been in rural areas since I was a child. Upstate New York has plenty of places with dirt roads. I remember as a child taking a long trip by train to Niagara Falls. We traveled through small cities and all I would see was small shanty houses and lots of farmland.”
“I grew up in a rural area,” chimed in Mr. Hall. “I never liked it. I found the lifestyle boring and too safe for me. That is the reason I joined the service. I had to figure a way out from the South.”
“Do you think most people are like us, Mr. Hall?”
“What are you saying?”
“Well, I wanted to leave, too. I didn’t like the mundane way of living, especially after my papa died.”
“I reckon all of us are searching for something. Living in the country makes it easier for the mind to wander. Every day is the same. Repetition can bring on boredom. And who wants to live a boring life?”
“It’s not like you do so much now,” Mrs. Hall commented.
“I know. But, if I want to do something like take a walk to the corner market or go to a picture show, it is all very convenient. Folk in the country never see picture shows. Some of them have never been anywhere but from home to church. It is an isolated life.”
“Some people enjoy the isolation,” Simon said, and then added, “I wouldn’t mind living in the country again. Robert would have plenty space to run and play. Carrie could can our food. I’d do the farming.”
I cringed at his comment. Amazing how he felt about country living when he was the one who was the first to leave.
“I think it is a place I could visit, but living down here in the brush is something I couldn’t do. I suspect I would be bored stiff. I couldn’t walk to the market,” Mrs. Hall said.
“Most people don’t own a car, so they use a horse and buggy,” Simon volunteered.
“I’m fine with that. Folks ride them in Richmond,” Mrs. Hall said.
Finally Mr. Hall added, “I guess where there is love, I could stay. As long as I am around good people, I possibly could live in the country.”
Everybody, including little Robert, broke out in a chuckle. Going home was not hard. I loved it there at times. The star-filled skies and the fresh air was good for anybody. It was the repetition of work that bored most folk. And knowing most of the men would die from heat strokes and exhaustion made me sad.
Route 460 led us straight through the heart of town. There was a seed and feed store, a post office and a courthouse. Along the James River was a farmer’s market where farmers came to trade goods and services. It was also the place where the tobacco farmers hauled their crops after harvest.
We rode past the Fergusons’, but I was embarrassed to point out Momma’s place of employment. I supposed the Halls knew most of the women were domestic workers. It was mainly why there was so much racial tension. Colored folk did all the things the white farmer felt he was too good to do. It was those memories which inspired me to leave. I knew I would leave even before Mr. Camm walked into our door. I knew I would leave in primary school when Mrs. Miller told us about Washington, D.C., the nation’s capital. Her stories thrilled me. When my brother John left for school, I would be leaving right behind him. Simon had his ideas, and so did I, and living in the country was not one of mine. I had my own plans for my future. I thought playing baseball was his goal. I envisioned me home in the country alone with Robert and the four walls, and him traveling the globe, stopping in occasionally while I became a house slave.
Momma was on her way into the house when we pulled up in the yard. In her hands were a bunch of baby turnip greens she’d harvested from her winter garden, and a few onions.
“Mrs. Mae Lou, let me get those,” Simon said, hopping out of the car. He opened the door and took the greens out of Momma’s arms. She walked over to the car.
“Y’all get on out.”
She saw the Halls. “Y’all come on in.”
Mrs. Hall got out and followed Momma into the house. Simon and Mr. Hall got the bags out of the trunk, and I picked up Robert.
Inside the house was the aroma of food being prepared. The sweet potatoes were boiling on the wood-burning stove and the mixture of scents had my stomach growling for food. Mrs. Hall quickly found a seat in Papa’s high-back chair.
I could sense a bit of discomfort in her. However, she handled it well. Her pale white skin was now pink . . .I suspected it was because she’d never visited the country before. Momma came into the sitting room. “Come on in here, Mrs. Hall. Let’s get this dinner started.”
Mrs. Hall glanced around the room at Mr. Hall who had taken the luggage into the boys’ bedroom, and was sitting comfortably on the davenport with his pipe in his hand.
“Go on, honey. I’ll be right here.”
“Where can I wash my hands?” Mrs. Hall asked, getting up from the chair.
“There’s some warm water on the stove. I put a towel and cake of soap on the bed in the other room. The washbowl is sitting on the vanity.” Mrs. Hall appeared lost as she walked toward the bedroom. I got up and followed her down the hallway.
“Mrs. Hall, you need any help?”
“No, I got it. It’s been years since I’ve done this, but I can do it.” She chuckled before going into the bedroom.
Momma heard us and commented, “It ain’t hard to learn to wash your hands.”
“Momma!”
“I’m kidding, Carrie. Folks from the city don’t know about our ways. We don’t have running water inside. Our water comes from the well.”
“You are right,” Mrs. Hall said, as she entered the kitchen. “I haven’t poured my own water in a long time. I do remember when my daddy put the water pump inside our kitchen. We pumped water straight from the well and we thought it was a miracle. I was a little girl.”
We all chuckled while Mr. Hall and Simon discussed baseball in the sitting room. I had never heard Mr. Hall make so much chatter. We could hear them all the way in the kitchen.
After Mrs. Hall had taken a seat at the table, Momma handed her a paring knife and some Irish potatoes she had been keeping in a sack underneath the house. She said if you kept vegetables in dark, cool places they would last awhile. She canned them, too, except she liked the fresh ones for potato salad.
“I haven’t been around this many people for the holiday in a long time,” Mrs. Hall said, peeling the potatoes like a professional.
“What on earth do you do for the holidays?” Momma asked.
“George and I usually have dinner alone. I usually bake a chicken and we have pumpkin pie for dessert.”
“I’m glad you came down here. My other son is coming home and Ginny will probably come for dinner tomorrow. We like to gather together for the holidays.”
Momma was right. I remembered the holidays. We would have the entire church over to eat. Momma was the best cook around and she knew it. She and all the women would gather in the kitchen and everybody had a task. I even helped with the peeling. Preparing a goo
d meal was one of the things she took pride in and it would be so tasty, people would say that she “put her foot in it.” One of the things she took pride in was preparing a good meal for her guests. And tonight was not any different.
As Momma bounced Robert vigorously on one knee, I couldn’t help wondering how she really felt about a white woman sitting at her kitchen table. Mrs. Ferguson was the only one who’d ever been in Momma’s kitchen. Several times I had witnessed her in the same kitchen chair as Mrs. Hall, drinking coffee, once when Mr. Ferguson drove Momma home in his Model T Ford, and again the day Papa died. Neither of the times did Momma smile, yet this time, it was different. On her first visit, Mrs. Ferguson asked me, “When you grow up are you going to cook like your mother?”
Momma didn’t say a word. I was only coming through the kitchen on my way to get a glass of water. All the times I had reluctantly walked down the dirt road past the blackberry patch with Momma to cook and clean her house, she had never said so much as a word to me. Most of the time our only communication with her was when she gave a directive like “don’t forget to dust under the table; I got company coming.” Momma’s response was always, “Yes, ma’am.” I would cringe. Mrs. Ferguson never even peered my way without batting her lashes and frowning as if she were in pain.
“I don’t think so, ma’am,” I answered her.
“Why not?” she asked, in an insisting tone, and added, “It’s a good living.”
“No, ma’am, not to me.”
“Most colored children love to cook,” Mrs. Ferguson continued as if she were an authority on colored folks.
Momma didn’t mumble a sound; I cringed, bit my bottom lip and inhaled as deeply as I could.
“Chile, go on into the bedroom and do your homework,” Momma said in a serious tone. She could sense my rage.
“I’m finished,” I responded.
She cut her eyes at me, and fear washed over me. “Go on back there and read over your work again,” she instructed.
I tucked my head and went into my room, but not before cutting my eyes across the table in Mrs. Ferguson’s direction, and hoping she would go home. She was a lady I truly despised. Her manner of looking down her nose at me and Momma shattered my nerves—the gall of her.
Mrs. Hall was different. She knew about the challenges of the Negro. Falling in love with Mr. Hall in a time when colored men were being murdered for even looking at a white woman in the face was a controversial decision. Mr. Hall was blessed to be still living. Even in the 1920s, colored men were not supposed to be bothered with white women. They were just trouble, some of the ole-timers would shout. After Momma’s warm welcome, Mrs. Hall was no longer flushed. Her jowls were relaxed, and her shoulders rounded. She was comfortable.
I had gotten a can of pickles from the cupboard and Momma was making a dressing of oil and egg whites. Potato salad was something we usually made in the summer, However, Momma loved to serve it at Thanksgiving.
We had all finished cooking and prepping for the next day when someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” Momma asked, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel.
“Oh, Lord, we don’t need Bobby stopping by here tonight,” she mumbled as she walked to the front door. She gazed out the window. “I don’t recognize this vehicle,” she said. “Lord have mercy.”
The knocks became intense. She cleared her throat. “Who’s out there?”
There was not an answer. Simon went into Momma’s room and came back with the shotgun. Mrs. Hall was red as a beet, and Mr. Hall was sweating like a hog.
No one said a word. The silence had me worried.
Momma opened the door and there stood my brother John, smiling from ear to ear.
“Lord, John, you gonna fool around and get shot.”
He came in. “I know y’all colored folks was scared to death.” His eyes popped out of his head when he noticed Mrs. Hall standing beside her husband.
Chapter 21
Ms. Pearl had been locked up for more than two weeks. Bobby had her locked up at the station and wasn’t letting anyone in to see her. It was to be expected. For years, Bobby’s law was just like his daddy’s. His daddy was a cold, red-necked man who, at every chance he got, put shackles on colored men. Now Bobby had stooped to a new low and was harassing colored women.
“Bobby is beside his self,” Ginny commented between the dressing and turkey on her fork.
“If there is no evidence against Ms. Pearl, then why is she still in jail?” John asked.
“She is probably guilty,” Momma said, as if she had seen her pull the trigger.
“This place is still the same and so are the people,” John said.
Nobody said a word, but I could read the concern on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hall.
“What are you saying, boy?” Ginny asked.
“Colored folks are the judge and jury. They think Ms. Pearl is guilty because of her lifestyle. Folk around here have adopted some of Bobby’s ways. They don’t believe in themselves.”
“If she hadn’t of been so much of a floozy, none of this would have happened.”
“Momma, Ms. Pearl didn’t pull the trigger. She didn’t make no one else pull the trigger. My guess is she is as innocent as the people in this room.”
Momma rolled her eyes at him, and sucked her teeth. Ginny cleared her throat and took a sip of water. “Well, she ain’t no saint.”
“Aunt Ginny, we can’t accuse her of something she didn’t do.”
Mrs. Hall appeared lost and out of tune with the conversation, drifting away at times and then interested and concerned.
“Who is Ms. Pearl?” she finally asked.
“She’s a singer at the club in Jackson Heights,” Simon answered.
“Why is she in jail down here?”
“She is being held for another man’s murder. Bobby is just picking with her, since he can. He claims to have jurisdiction even down here,” Simon said.
“Y’all got to get together and do something about it,” Mrs. Hall said.
“We colored,” Ginny said, raising her voice. “What in hell can we do about all this going on? Ain’t nobody ’round here gonna listen to coloreds complaining.”
“Well, ma’am, something should be done. You can’t hold somebody in jail just because you can. You need to have a legitimate reason. Being colored is not a good reason.”
Momma sucked her teeth. “We don’t need to get involved in Pearl’s mess,” Momma said. “She is a lowdown, dirty snake.”
“Momma, she is not that bad,” John said. “She’s a product of this racist society.”
Mr. Hall shook his head in agreement like he wanted to testify to John’s remarks, but he didn’t mumble a word.
Carl and Mary listened intently to the conversation, and neither of them said a word. Carl squirmed in his seat and seemed moved by all the words being slung across the table. All the talk about the murder appeared to make him uncomfortable. He was rubbing his hands together and his head was lowered. His wife was quiet as a mouse, fumbling with her wedding band. Finally, he spoke up, “Can we talk about something else? I’m tired of the same thing coming up.”
“This is news. It is the only thing the people around here want to talk about,” John replied.
“Did you know the preacher is planning on building a house down the road from us?” Carl asked.
“That’s not news. It is boring in comparison to Ms. Pearl. I’ve been gone from home for some years now, and the only things of interest to the people around here is what happens when somebody dies. We could talk about voting rights and fair treatment for coloreds, but who would be interested? Camm and Willie being murdered is the biggest story around these parts. The last one was when Miss Topsie got raped by the deacon.”
“Now leave Topsie out of this,” Momma said.
“It is the truth, Momma,” John said, refusing to be quiet.
“Even so, leave Topsie out of this. Pearl and Topsie is nothing alike.”
“I was talking about news.”
“Well, you know Topsie loved the ’tention of men, too,” Ginny said.
“She never did anything out of the way with our husbands. The deacon did her wrong.”
I bit my lip. I fought to control my thoughts. Momma had been one of the churchgoing women who had said, Miss Topsie asked for it when the deacon had his way with her. Miss Topsie packed up and moved from Jefferson after they turned their backs and pretended as if it was all her fault. Now Momma seemed to have a different memory of it all. I knew all the time; it was the deacon who was out of place. And he was a man of the church!
The Halls enjoyed the chat, the expressions on their faces changing with each comment. Finally Ginny said, “Well, we know Bobby is wrong. I guess one of us needs to say som’thing to ’em. That boy done made a lot of colored folk suffer.”
Momma cut a cold eye at Ginny. “Ain’t nothing we can do!” she said in a sharp tone.
“There is always something we can do,” John argued.
“What?” Carl asked.
“I am a lawyer. I can go see the sheriff and have a little talk with him.”
“Now, John, leave it alone; you still a colored man, no matter how much education you get,” Momma said.
“We all know how the sheriff is. He is going to continue treating us wrong, arresting us whenever he feels like it, if we don’t say something,” John said with authority. I was proud of his convictions and was enjoying the dialogue thoroughly.
“Pearl is not your family,” Momma said.
“I know, but she is a colored woman.”
Mrs. Hall sat straight up in her seat. “So would you do something if it was a white woman? All women get mistreated.”
Mr. Hall tapped her on the knee to silence her.
“I don’t like wrongdoings, especially to coloreds,” John shot back.
Being outspoken is how John had always been. As a young boy, he’d gotten in a lot of trouble for his tongue. I remembered when Mrs. Ruth, our Sunday School teacher, slapped him right hard in the lips. She wiped the smile off his face. It was embarrassing, and Papa got him, too, when he found out about it. He took a strap to his behind. He learned a lesson, but he still never hesitated to speak his mind. It is the reason we all rejoiced when he said he was going to be a lawyer. You sort of need a quick and deliberate tongue to argue for people. He had not changed.
An Elderberry Fall Page 14