“Miss Babe,” he says slowly, like he know the question he is about to ask is none of his business. “What’s going on with that Buddy Bush mess?”
“Mess?” Grandma snaps back. She is mad.
Grandma says white folks are always asking coloreds questions, but we can’t ask them anything. “Don’t even know where most of them live unless you they maid,” she says.
“It ain’t no mess! My boy ain’t done nothing wrong.” Grandma turns away from Mr. Wilson and puts her right hand deep into her green and white dress. Down to her bra where the money is. In that sock is more money than I knew one woman could put in her bra.
“How much I owe you today?”
Mr. Wilson knows Grandma is mad.
“That’d be twenty-nine dollars and eighty-two cents.”
She counts out exactly $29.82.
Then Grandma turns to me.
“Count it again, Pattie Mae.”
I count it again.
$29.82
I hand her the money back.
She gives it to Mr. Wilson, who is two steps from getting a Babe Jones cursing.
Then she gives him a “Don’t ask me nothing else about my boy” look, and says, “Good day.”
Grandma don’t like the fact that word has already got around in Rich Square that they have arrested Uncle Buddy. I swear I see smoke coming from under her coattail when she stands up. Coattail is what the women on Rehobeth Road call their dresses. Now, why can’t they just call a dress a dress? She never looks at them white folks as she walks out the door and leaves the queen’s chair in its place. I believe this is what Uncle Buddy meant when he said, “A lady always knows when to leave a room.”
“White folks tell all of colored folks’ business!” Grandma says loud enough for Mr. Wilson to hear as she slams the door in his face.
I want to tell Grandma that I just read that the NAACP is calling coloreds Negroes now. But she ain’t going to listen. She says I’m not old enough to tell her nothing but the time. If she only knew what I just saw back at the jailhouse, maybe I can get some respect around here. I have just seen some real grown folks’ mess. I sure did.
I don’t say a word as we get into Mr. Charlie’s car after Mr. Wilson load our six bags. Four for Grandma and Grandpa and two for Ma and me. Grandma and I climb in and Miss Doleebuck climbs out of the backseat. Miss Doleebuck never rides in the front seat because she says she feels better in the back. That means she doesn’t think Mr. Charlie is a good driver. Mr. Charlie tells Grandpa and me that he doesn’t care where she sits as long as she doesn’t open her mouth. Not one word.
Miss Doleebuck is dressed like she is going to church. If she is going to Jones Property, she dresses the same way. Always in a nice dress with a hat. In the summer, her hats have fresh flowers from her garden on them. In the winter, they have all kinds of berries on them. Her hats are mighty pretty on her long white braids and her tan skin. Uncle Buddy told me she got Indian blood. Grandma found out that he told me that mess and she told him to shut up talking about what kind of blood Miss Doleebuck got.
“Good-bye, Miss Doleebuck,” I yell from the backseat.
“Good-bye, grandbaby,” she yells back as she kisses Grandma like she always does. If these two women see each other ten times a day, they kiss and hug. Just kiss, kiss, hug, and hug.
Mr. Charlie waves to his controlling wife and Miss Doleebuck marches into the store to terrorize poor Mr. Wilson some more.
Grandma hardly murmurs a word all the way home. She is still mad at Mr. Wilson for getting in colored folks’ business and Mr. Charlie knows something has happened. But he ain’t paying one bit of attention to her silence as he singing his favorite song. I join in with him as he sings “Amazing Grace” loud enough not to hear Grandma huffing and puffing. I make up my mind at this moment that as soon as I am old enough I am going to learn to huff and puff, too. Not only that, I am going to get my driver’s license so that I can drive myself to town. I bet Grandpa and Mr. Charlie will think I’m controlling, too, when I have my driver’s license. I look out the window and sing louder.
Just think, when I’m riding to New York I will see lots of cars and highway, not cotton and field workers.
I sing louder and don’t look at Grandma who is trying to give me the “Shut up” look through the rearview mirror. I’m not going to look. I’m not going to look at her. She wants to control me, just like Mr. Charlie and Grandpa were talking about on the front porch last week.
I only look in the front seat long enough to see Mr. Charlie laughing to himself at Grandma in her control mood. The truth is, she is mad and she is worried about Grandpa and Uncle Buddy. She is ready to get home.
“Drive a little faster, Charlie.”
“Now, Babe, you just sit tight. We will be home soon.”
Poor Mr. Charlie speeds up and as soon as we turn on Rehobeth Road, a stray dog is running towards the car. Lord, we miss that poor dog by an inch. Mr. Charlie hits his brakes, causing Grandma to grab the dashboard with one hand and somehow reach into the backseat to hold me down with the other hand.
“Hold on, Babe,” Mr. Charlie sings in the same breath with “How sweet the sound.”
They both singing “Lord, have mercy!” at the same time. I can’t say a word. I’m just glad to be alive.
“Slow this car down, Charlie!” Grandma yells.
I want to scream, “You just told him to drive fast!” But I don’t have to. Mr. Charlie beats me to it.
“Now you want me to slow down. I don’t know why you and Doleebuck don’t get license of your own and stop telling me how to drive.”
All the way home they argue. I close my eyes and think about my train trip. I think about never chopping again, about Grandpa feeling better, and Uncle Buddy coming home.
7
What a Time
When we get home, no one even mentions Uncle Buddy, and I don’t tell a soul that I went by the jailhouse. The thing I know now, that I didn’t know when I left Jones Property this morning, is that grown folks can get worms, too. Whatever worms are!
I’m telling you, ain’t nobody saying a word on Jones Property.
Everyone is waiting for Monday morning to come, like them white folks are going to grow a heart between now and then.
Grandma finally breaks the silence.
“Mer, you and Pattie Mae need to stay here until this mess with Buddy is cleared up. White folks crazy when they mad. They might come by y’all house and try to harm you.”
I hope they burn the whole house down while we here. That way we can stay on Jones Property forever.
“You believe we in danger, Ma Babe?”
“I don’t know. Just stay here till things look better.”
Ma never argues with Grandma. She puts her last biscuit in the pan and sticks it in the oven. Wiping the flour off her hands, Ma looks worried.
Grandma goes about her daily chores as Ma gathers her two grocery bags for her walk home.
“Pattie Mae, stay here with your grandfolks. I will be back soon. I will bring your clothes for church tomorrow. And something for you to wear in the field next week.”
Just what I need, my field clothes.
But staying here is just fine with me. A Saturday night with Grandpa.
As soon as I can’t see Ma anymore, and Grandma goes into the sitting room to dust, I go in to check on Grandpa, but he is taking a nap. Sitting here watching him seem like forever. His light skin is starting to look like the rattlesnake that he killed last year in the strawberry patch. Why does he look so old? Then I just close my eyes and pray, but not aloud.
“Oh, Lord, please help my grandpa. I promised Grandpa I was going to Shaw University someday. He promised me he would come to my graduation. He always keeps his promises, so please let him live until then. Pleeeease. Grandpa is a good man. And Lord, while I’m praying, please, please take care of my uncle Buddy. Amen.”
After I finish begging the Lord, I climb over Grandpa’s weak body and lie
down beside him. The cotton sheets are wet on his side of the bed. It’s June, but not hot enough for all that sweat. I don’t say anything. I just lie there and listen to him breathing.
It’s getting late now and Ma still ain’t back. Grandma’s walking through the house, closing all the windows. With her fly shot, she spraying bug spray in each room until every bug, ant, and candle fly in the house is dead or dying. Hudson sees her coming and he runs under the bed. Surely Grandpa and me will die in our sleep with no way to breathe.
I don’t care. I keep my eyes closed and think about how unbearable life will be on Rehobeth Road if something bad happen to Grandpa. Then I start thinking about us dying together. Grandpa and me in heaven. What a time we would have away from the controlling women.
I fall to sleep and dream about heaven. No snakes, no mean sheriff, no cotton to chop. Uncle Buddy is in heaven with us, not in jail. It is so beautiful.
8
The Amen Corner
Grandma is up praising the Lord this Sunday morning. She cooks and prays. She asks the Lord to heal Grandpa and to bring Uncle Buddy home. She speaks in tongues every time she prays about Uncle Buddy. Ma joins her and they shout all over that kitchen, before and after breakfast.
When Mr. Charlie arrives, Miss Doleebuck doesn’t stay sitting in the car like most Sundays. She comes inside, lays her hat on the table, and grabs Grandma’s hand and they pray again. Then they shout together. One by one, all dressed in black, in the middle of June, the women march out to the car. Grandpa and me follow them in shock. Mr. Charlie loses his patience with the women folks halfway down Rehobeth Road. “Can y’all please wait until we get to church before you do all this carrying on?” Grandma stops shouting long enough to roll her eyes at Mr. Charlie and then shouts louder. I want to laugh so bad I don’t know what to do. I can tell by the carrying on that the women folks are doing that there is going to be some shouting going on in Chapel Hill Baptist Church this morning.
“Amazing Grace,” “Precious Lord,” “Somewhere Around God’s Throne”—all before we reach the church parking lot.
When we get there, the women folks are out of breath and I am scared to get out of the car. I just don’t know what they are going to do next. I look at the tree and the poles and they are all filled with signs. Me and Ma are the only two in the car that can read and today I wish I couldn’t read either. I make the mistake of reading one of the signs aloud. “Look at the signs, Grandpa. They say ‘Free Buddy Bush.’ ”
Right there on the church ground the women shout.
Lord do they shout.
Once inside the church it is chockablock full.
Reverend Wiggins is preaching like he ain’t never preached before. He mentions Uncle Buddy in every breath and the church is on fire with the spirit. All the deacons stomp their feet louder than usual in the amen corner to the right. The deaconesses in the amen corner to the left shout amen and fan each other with the new church fans. Miss Sally faint while Betty Lou sing “Let the Church Say Amen.”
“Go on and preach,” Miss Lucy Bell yells as she grabs her wig so that it won’t come off. Then she dances down the aisle to her own beat. When the choir sing “Take Me to the Water,” she joins their beat and her wig is now flying across the red carpet, under the wooden bench, where I am sitting next to Grandpa.
When it is prayer time, Ma and three other women, including Miss Doleebuck, almost faint at the altar. Brother Boone even takes his green necktie off. Mr. Charlie just nods his head to agree with “the word,” and pats Grandpa on the back every time he thinks he is getting upset. I’m holding Grandpa’s hand tight and I pray this service is over soon.
By two o’clock, the women of the church have shouted more than I have ever seen them carry on before. Surely Sheriff Franklin will hear them a mile away. He is probably ready to release Uncle Buddy now so he can be saved from hell, that everyone here have condemned him to.
Lord, when service is over I am so tired. So is everyone else. I just pray that Sheriff Franklin releases Uncle Buddy by next week’s service. I can’t go through this two Sundays in a row.
9
Pretty Lady
It’s Monday morning, the land is dry, and I have to go back to the cotton fields to chop weeds. Ma tells me that what was going on with Uncle Buddy is grown folks business and no harm is going to come to me.
I wave good-bye to Ma and stand at the end of the path and wait for the truck to pick us up. Jones Property is before the slave house if you coming from the other end of Rehobeth Road near the river, so Randy can see me standing here. He is the official driver for Ole Man Taylor this summer.
The Edwards are already on the back of the truck, all ten of them. Randy’s sisters and brothers. Like me, they don’t have a daddy either. They live in Old Man Taylor’s other house on Rehobeth Road with their ma, Miss Blanche. When I climb on the back of the truck, I notice a new woman with us. She is sitting in the front with Randy. She can’t be his girlfriend. Randy is Miss Blanche’s middle boy, but he ain’t old enough for a girlfriend. I believe he is about sixteen. He shoo ain’t old enough to be driving. But Ole Man Taylor don’t care as long as we get to the field every day. I try to get a good look at her, but that is not going to happen with the Edwards blocking the window like sardines in a can.
I touch my friend Chick-A-Boo, Randy’s youngest sister, on the shoulder. “Who’s the new lady in the inside of the truck?”
Chick-A-Boo is mad about her being in the inside. “She is some city lady named Nora and she thinks she is too light skinned and pretty to sit back here with us. She came back to Rich Square a while ago and according to Ma, she went to work at the sewing factory Saturday morning and they told her she didn’t work there no more. So I guess she going to have to get off her high horse now, working with us in the fields.”
“Nora! That’s Uncle Buddy’s friend.”
“We all know that,” Chick-A-Boo snaps.
“That’s the reason she got fired.”
I’m not about to tell Chick-A-Boo that I saw Uncle Buddy give Miss Nora worms, because she is still fussing about Miss Nora riding in the front with Randy. I didn’t get a good look at her face on Saturday because I was so busy looking at Uncle Buddy’s hand on her tiddies.
Finally I said, “Don’t worry. When she finishes chopping and pulling weeds, she will be black like the rest of us.” I try to assure Chick-A-Boo. But no one is as black as Chick-A-Boo, who we called “Skillet.” Now, Uncle Buddy calls her “Pretty Lady.”
Uncle Buddy says it must be a dead cat on the line, because Chick-A-Boo is the only dark Edward. On Rehobeth Road “dead cat on the line” means you don’t have the same daddy that your sisters and brothers do. Ma told Uncle Buddy he don’t know who that girl daddy is and he best stop talking to me about Miss Blanche’s business. And she says it don’t matter what color you are if you that pretty. As a matter of fact, she said it don’t ever matter to God what color you are, just to the crazy folks around here. And everybody says Chick-A-Boo is the prettiest girl on Rehobeth Road. Maybe in all of Rich Square. Right now she’s just being jealous. So I’m not going to pay her any attention while she talks about Miss Nora. She know better than to talk about folks anyway. When she does, I tell her she sounds like Sylvia. A nasty two-faced little gossip. I tell her that Grandpa says, “Never worry about the bone, just the dog that’s carrying it.”
When the truck turns onto the dirt path, all I can see is cotton plants with weeds that don’t suppose to be in them, all mixed in together, waiting for us to chop out. Our hoes lie at the end of field where Randy left them last Thursday, before the big rain came.
When the truck stops, I jump off first, trying to get a better look at Miss Nora. Everyone runs to the field, trying to get the row that has less weeds and grass on it. I don’t budge. I want to see the city lady. I saw that mess she was doing with Uncle Buddy, but never did see her face. I wonder where her worms are. What is she like, the one Uncle Buddy likes enough to take to the
picture show? Why would she give up the city life to come back to Rich Square? I will ask her sooner or later. What about the movie theaters and all the stores I see on Grandpa’s TV? Don’t she want to go to the Chinese restaurant on Saturday nights and the Savoy? I hear that they dance all night there.
When she steps out of the truck, I want to laugh. But Grandma and Ma would skin me alive for laughing at anyone. I want to laugh because I had never seen anyone dressed up going to chop cotton before. Miss Nora has on a pair of pretty blue pants with little splits on the side. Her blouse is red with white flowers on it. Her shoes are a dead giveaway that she hasn’t been in a field in a long time, if ever. They look almost as good as Ma’s Sunday go to meeting shoes, just lower heels.
I move closer, so I can speak to this city lady.
“Hey, Miss Nora, my name is Pattie Mae.”
“Hi, Pattie Mae. How are you?”
“Kind of sad about my uncle Buddy, but I’m okay.”
“Me too, but he’s going to be all right. You must be Mer’s girl.”
She pauses. “And Buddy’s niece.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Your Uncle Buddy told me all about you, and you look just like Mer when she was a young girl.”
“You know my ma, too?”
“Yes, Lord. She was the smartest thing at Creecy School. I used to cheat off of her paper every day.”
Miss Nora laughs at her own self.
I laugh too because everyone is always talking about how smart Ma was in school and how they all used to cheat off of her papers. One day Uncle Buddy was copying Ma’s work so hard that Ma said he wrote her name down instead of his own. He got ten licks for cheating and Ma got one lick for not telling the teacher.
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