He keeps his eyes on the side door of the sewing factory across Main Street where his date will come out of. I guess she’s an afternoon cleaning lady there, because Uncle Buddy said all the sewing ladies are poor white trash.
Uncle Buddy speaks to everyone that passes, even the white folks who just nod their heads like the cat got their tongue.
I am looking so hard at the people that the time starts to slip away.
One white lady comes by and stops right in front of Uncle Buddy because he has his feet out on the sidewalk just a little bit. Grandpa done told him a thousand times that he ain’t in Harlem and to move off the sidewalk when white folks coming by, to avoid trouble. She doesn’t say excuse me or nothing, just looks at Uncle Buddy like he is a dog in her path. Her hair is back in a bun like she wants everybody to get a good look at her prejudice face. If you don’t notice her face, you can’t miss her ugly orange dress.
Uncle Buddy stands up to let her by.
What is wrong with her? She starts to walk faster, and then, out of nowhere, she let out this loud scream.
“Oh, my goodness!” she yells.
Then she holds her hand to her pale chest like she is having a heart attack.
Uncle Buddy looks around confused as he realizes she is yelling at him.
“Come on, gal,” he yells to me.
I jump out of the car and we go to the back door of the movie house, buy our tickets, and go inside.
“Maybe we should go home, Uncle Buddy. That white lady is mad.”
“We can’t do that, gal. If we do, white folks will think I have done something wrong. Let’s go up in this balcony, see the picture, and then we will go home.”
“But what about your date?”
“I’ll explain to her later.”
It taking forever to get to the balcony, where the screen seems so far away.
“Why do we have to sit up here?” I ask.
“The same reason we had to buy our tickets in the back and eat last month’s ice cream. We have to sit up here for the same reason that lady yelled like I was trying to hurt her. You can’t even look at white folks round here.”
That is the last thing Uncle Buddy says before the movie start. He is so mad that I can feel him breathing hard next to me. Uncle Buddy doesn’t move all night, not even to get me the popcorn he promised. My first picture show just ain’t going well at all. I couldn’t tell a soul what this movie is about. I just want to go home where I feel safe. Back to Rehobeth Road. Back to Jones Property. I am glad to see the words “The End” come across the screen.
“Let’s go, gal,” Uncle Buddy says in a voice I ain’t heard before. A scary voice. A real scary voice.
Holding my hand tight, Uncle Buddy and me walk quietly down the steps, through the lobby, and out the back door to Main Street.
“That’s him, officer.”
The words come out of nowhere.
It is that pale white woman’s voice.
The law, Sheriff Franklin, looking old and feeble, is standing at Mr. Charlie’s car. So are two other lawmen.
Uncle Buddy looks scared for the first time since I’ve known him.
The sheriff is taller than Grandpa and as red as the sunset.
“Boy, we need to talk to you.”
“My name is Goodwin Bush.”
This must be serious because this is the first time I have ever heard Uncle Buddy use his real name.
“Okay, boy, but we still need to talk to you. This lady said she was walking home from the beauty parlor and you made a pass at her. Is that true?”
“No, it ain’t. I was just sitting right over there waiting for my friend to get off work. I don’t know this lady and I sure ain’t tried to harm her.”
“Now, you wouldn’t be calling a lady a liar, would you?”
“I ain’t calling her a liar, but I never touched her.”
“Tell it to the judge, nigger!”
Sheriff Franklin is mad. Maybe he is getting revenge for what happened with Grandpa all those years ago. Maybe he knows Uncle Buddy let the air out of his tires. Whatever—we are in trouble.
Everything starts moving faster than the ants in our front yard. Faster than the red ants. The black ants. The fire ants. How am I going to remember what to tell Grandpa? The lawmen pull my hand out from Uncle Buddy’s hand that I am holding on to so tightly. The silver handcuffs are around both his wrists now and I am alone.
“What about my niece?”
“We will take her home, but she is the least of your concerns, boy.”
Sheriff Franklin leads Uncle Buddy to the backseat of his car and the second lawman leads me to the other car. The third lawman grabs Uncle Buddy’s keys and get behind the wheel of Mr. Charlie’s car to drive it home.
Uncle Buddy does manage to yell, “Take my niece to my daddy’s house.”
I watch as the sheriff drives away with Uncle Buddy and drive in the opposite direction with me and Mr. Charlie’s car. At least they aren’t keeping Mr. Charlie’s car. I cry harder than I did at my cousin June Bug’s funeral as they disappear with Uncle Buddy. All the way home, I picture them beating up my uncle Buddy, like they do in the cowboy pictures. It’s so dark. I can’t even see the cotton.
When we get to the house, I am wet all the way to my panties with tears and sweat. The lawman drives up to Jones Property blowing his horn. When he sees Ma run outside, he gets his white behind out and lets me out of the backseat. He had me locked in like I am a prisoner.
Ma screaming like a crazy person.
“Lord, child, what happen? Where’s Buddy?”
I can’t get a word out. I fall on Ma’s arms like a newborn hungry baby.
Ma turns to the lawman.
“Where is my brother?”
He just looks at her like she is a piece of dirt.
“Jail.”
With that one word, he and the other lawman drive off and leave us standing there.
Weak, Grandpa makes his way on the back porch and so does Grandma. Mr. Charlie, who is still there, follows them onto the porch. Grandpa unlocks his smokehouse door and pulls out his rifle. Miss Doleebuck came over while I was away, and she comes out behind Mr. Charlie.
“Where’s my boy, Pattie Mae?”
“They took him to jail, Grandpa, and he didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“Get your gun, Charlie.”
Mr. Charlie asks no questions. He gets his cane and goes in the trunk of his car. His shotgun is longer than Grandpa’s is.
Grandma and Miss Doleebuck go into their control mood.
Grandma speaks first.
“Put them guns away right now. Braxton Jones, you know you ain’t well and Charlie, you ain’t used a gun since the months before Sunday. Who you going to shoot? The law?”
No one moves. Grandma speaks again.
“Now, Mer, you go over to Mr. Bay’s and give him a quarter to use the phone. Call the law and find out what they charged my boy with.”
“But, Ma Babe.”
“Don’t Ma Babe me, gal! Go on!”
It is like Ma is five again. She is walking across Rehobeth Road to Mr. Bay’s, mad as she can be. I know Ma don’t want to go. She hates asking Mr. Bay for anything. But she will do anything for her Buddy. Grandma looks at me and reaches out for my hand.
“Come in the house, child. This will pass.”
She nods for everyone else to follow her. Mr. Charlie and Grandpa walk slowly behind the women folks. They talk low. The only word I can hear good is “Masons.” The men folks on Rehobeth Road don’t talk much about their organization. I don’t know how you become a member, but I know Grandpa and Mr. Charlie go to meeting once a month and they never let the women folks hear anything about what they are doing.
Don’t let a Mason die! Them Masons come from everywhere to a Mason’s funeral. And they don’t let nobody carry the body of a Mason that ain’t a Mason. I’ve only been to one Masons’ funeral. That was June Bug’s daddy, Uncle Pete, who died the year before June B
ug drowned. The Masons might have been sad, but Aunt Rosie wasn’t. They were divorced and she said, “Peace go with him and joy behind him.”
The grown folks take their places on the front porch. I run to the kitchen to get a mason jar to ease drop.
Ma is back in ten minutes from Mr. Bay’s house and the grown folks’ talk begins as I go to my room with my jar. Yes, we are spending another night on Jones Property. Ma tells them, “Ain’t nothing we can do until Monday morning when the courthouse opens.”
My body will not stay awake, not even to ease drop. Our catfish Friday done turned to a nightmare. I put my jar under the bed. They talk. I sleep.
6
The Queen’s Chair
I’m not sure if anyone is getting any sleep tonight other than Grandma and me. She says the Lord is going to take care of this, and she gets up Saturday morning singing and getting ready to go to town. Grandpa says we should all stay home. But Grandma keeps on dressing and tells me to do the same.
Not even Uncle Buddy’s troubles will stop Grandma from her Saturday ritual because somehow over the years, Grandma has managed to control Mr. Wilson, too. I think going in his store, bossing them white folks around, feels like justice to my grandma. Justice for all the colored folks who don’t have the courage to do what she does every Saturday morning.
Mr. Charlie comes for us at 10:00 just like he always does.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Charlie.”
“Good mornin’, Pattie. Good mornin’, Babe.”
“Mornin’, Charlie,” Grandma says, like it hurts her to talk.
I help Grandma in the front seat of the car and close the door gently. I climb into the back right behind Mr. Charlie, so that we can talk. But he is too upset about Uncle Buddy to talk and he hardly says a word all the way to town.
It’s really not far to Wilson’s Grocery in the heart of Main Street. But it always takes Mr. Charlie about twenty minutes every Saturday morning because he drives, as he puts it, at his own speed.
The slower he drives, the sadder I become as I look out at cotton and the coloreds chopping it even on a Saturday morning. Then I remember what Grandpa told me last year when I was complaining about fieldwork. “Don’t let nothing that you can change worry you.” I know in my twelve-year-old heart that I will soon be leaving Rehobeth Road and the cotton fields forever, so no need to worry. But what about Uncle Buddy? We can’t change what’s happening to him. He’s just sitting in that jail. He don’t belong in no jail.
When we get to Wilson’s Grocery, I open the door to the store for Grandma, and to my surprise, Mr. Wilson has already put a chair in the middle of the floor for Grandma to sit in. Usually, she will pull her own chair away from the table where the white men sit to play chess and talk all day. Mr. Wilson seems to really like Grandma and he lets her come in and rearrange his chairs every week. Uncle Buddy said all them white men are doing is sitting round that table calling us niggers. I told Uncle Buddy that I think Mr. Wilson really like Grandma, but he said Mr. Wilson don’t like nothing black, he just know that her bra is filled with green. Grandma walks over to that chair and sits down like she is a queen. Mr. Charlie comes in to buy some tobacco. He looks at her and shakes his head. “I’ll be back in two hours,” Mr. Charlie announces, biting into a fresh piece of tobacco.
I know he will have Miss Doleebuck with him when he gets back. He rarely drives the two controlling women to town together. He says they talk too much and try to tell him how to drive when they are together. I have taken that ride with him many Saturday mornings and he ain’t lying about them trying to tell him where to turn, how fast to go, and when to stop. It’s a mess. I’m telling you. It’s a mess.
The minute Mr. Charlie walks out the door, Mr. Wilson come over with his first samples of meat for Grandma to pick from. She ain’t about to walk around the store like other customers. Mr. Wilson rolls back the wax paper enough for Grandma to see his prize meat.
“How do you like this piece of fatback, Miss Babe?” he ask, pointing at the biggest piece. She is shopping for meat for her and Ma. Ma tells her every week not to bring her nothing but chicken, but Grandma always add another meat using her bra money for Ma and me.
Grandma studies all three pieces of fatback like they are paintings in the state museum that our class went to last year up in Raleigh.
“I don’t know, Wilson. Let’s see what else you got.” That’s the way Grandma address all white folks, by their last name, with no Mr. or Mrs. She says if white folks can’t call colored folks by their name with a handle on it, she ain’t calling them Mr. or Mrs. And she says she ain’t calling them their first name either, because she don’t want them to think she’s their friend.
Mr. Wilson turns red as a beet and walks back behind the counter where Mrs. Wilson is standing, so he can pick some new fatback. Mrs. Wilson waves and rolls her eyes at the same time. Grandma never even acknowledges that woman. She says, “Mrs. Wilson’s mouth just as good as mine. I don’t understand head and hand movements. If she can’t speak, I can’t speak.”
Mr. Wilson ignores both of them and comes back armed with three new pieces of fatback laid out on wax paper.
I think Grandma just like making that white man walk back and forth.
“Take your pick and I will wrap it up for you.”
Grandma still ain’t sure, but she knows she has less than two hours to buy her goods. Mr. Charlie surely will be back on time with the other controlling woman.
“That first piece you show me will do fine.”
Mr. Wilson goes behind the counter to wrap the fatback. I see him weighing the meat. I look hard because Grandma told me to keep an eye on him to make sure he don’t cheat on the scales. Again, she don’t trust no white folks. When he comes back, he has pork chops, ribs, you name it. But I’ve seen this parade so many times, I just walk over to look at the map on the wall.
Don’t know where Mr. Wilson got this map, but it has been my underground railroad since I was tall enough to stand on my tiptoes and see it. The world outside of Rehobeth Road. I have been trying to leave Rehobeth Road ever since the traveling salesman came with the encyclopedias that has every state in it. I was five or six when the white man in the black car came with the books he was selling in the backseat. He said Ma didn’t have to pay the whole amount that day. He gave the books to her on time. That’s what folks on Rehobeth Road call credit—time. So within minutes we had new red encyclopedias and I started to read about all fifty states. Mainly New York and New Jersey, because that’s where all the folks from Rehobeth Road go when they leave here. New York looks so far away on the map. Farther than in my dreams. Five states away—Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and then New Jersey. I touch the map in the spot that says New York. I usually point it out to Uncle Buddy every Saturday. Everything feels wrong today. Wrong because I usually wait for Uncle Buddy to look at the map with me, so that he can point out all the places on the map that he traveled while working in difference factories up North.
I walk outside and sit on the steps. The sawmill across the road looks so ugly to me. I bet nobody there is going to stick up for my uncle. Now he’s just three doors down, in the jailhouse. Three doors down! I have to see him. My feet feel so heavy as I try to walk down there to get a peep at him. But I walk on. The windows are high and I can’t see inside. I walk around back where the windows are covered with bars. This must be where they are keeping him. I move closer.
“Uncle Buddy.”
No answer.
“Uncle Buddy.”
Two hands appear at the barred window.
“Pattie Mae, is that you?”
“Yes, sir, it’s me. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, gal. Now get away from here.”
“But I want to see you.”
“No! Now go on! Tell everyone I’m okay. Now get!”
My heart feels like snow in July.
“Bye, Uncle Buddy.”
“Bye, baby.”
His hands disappear into
the dark hole behind the bars.
I start to walk away, but then I hear a voice. A voice that ain’t Uncle Buddy. A woman’s voice. But who? I go back to the corner of the jailhouse and peep to see who has come to see Uncle Buddy. I can’t see her face good, but I don’t think I have ever seen her before. This strange lady takes an old wooden soda crate and puts it under the window. She stands on it so she can talk to Uncle Buddy through the bars.
Her voice is soft and citified like Aunt Rosie.
“Is a man named Goodwin Bush in there?”
Uncle Buddy comes back to the window.
“Ain’t nobody in here but me, Nora.”
So that’s Nora. She reaches her hand through the bars and touches Uncle Buddy’s face.
“Buddy, are you all right?”
“I’m fine now, sugar. But you can’t stay here.”
“I know, but I had to come to see you.”
“Now, Nora, you know what they saying about me ain’t true, don’t you?”
“I know and don’t you dare try to explain nothing these country-ass white folks done to you.”
“I will be out of here soon. Don’t worry.”
I can’t see Uncle Buddy well; I can just see his hands touching Miss Nora’s face. She doesn’t say a word as she reaches in the bars farther and touches his face. Uncle Buddy’s hands leave her face and rub her neck. I don’t think I am suppose to see all of this, but my feet are stuck. My eyes are too. His big hands make their way down her neck to her blouse and before I know it Uncle Buddy is rubbing her right tiddie like he is a baby trying to get some milk. I think this feels good to her, because she is making funny faces and some strange noise. I wonder if she going to get worms for messing with Uncle Buddy. Because Uncle Buddy is the one who said boys give girls worms. This is too much. It is definitely time to get back to the store. Now, that’s some real grown folks business.
I walk back to the store so fast after seeing Uncle Buddy. I want to feel sorry for my uncle Buddy, but judging from the noises he and Miss Nora making, he doesn’t sound too sad to me. When I get to the grocery store door, I peep in past the soda machine so that I can see Grandma. She is almost finished with her Saturday ritual. I say nothing about talking to Uncle Buddy. And I shoo ain’t going to tell her I saw Uncle Buddy give that woman the worms. Then the moment arrives that I understand why Mr. Wilson put Grandma’s chair out for her.
Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) Page 5