And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  The stranger said, “Good evenin’, gentlemen. I’m lookin’ for a young colored boy name of Mose Washington. Wondered if any of ya’ll might know him?”

  The men looked at each other, then shook their heads and went back to their food.

  “The boy would have a coondog with him, a fine little Walker female.”

  All of the men looked up. One of the younger men asked, “Does him an’ that dog run with that Crawford boy?”

  The old man shrugged. “I haven’t seen them lately. They might.”

  The man who asked the question put down his plate and stood up. He wasn’t much more than a boy himself. “Young boy . . . acts polite? Dog knows what he’s thinkin’ without that boy sayin’ nothin’?”

  The men in the circle were nodding.

  The old gentleman smiled. “I ’magine that would be them.”

  “I know that dog, an’ I know them boys. Them two been right in amongst all this here work—us diggin’ folks outta all this here wreckage an’ all. Folks here ’bouts done taken to callin’ ’em Salt an’ Pepper.”

  “Hmm. It’s not like him to get in the way of folks workin’.”

  “No-no, I don’t mean it like that,” said the young man. Tears seemed to be a part of his life these days, and they came while he spoke. “That little Walker hound found two babies this mornin’ . . . twins . . . an’ them young boys dug ’em out. Folks said them little ones was near to dyin’ . . . said them three saved they lives.”

  “That’s real fine then.”

  “Uh . . . uncle?” the man hesitated. “I been ’round that little colored boy for the better part of two days now, an’ . . . uh . . . an’ I ain’t heard him talk yet.”

  The old man considered that, then asked, “Do you know where they are right now?”

  The man smiled for the first time in three days. “No, suh, I don’t know where them boys is at, but I betcha I know somebody what does.”

  “And who might that be?” asked the man.

  The man pointed over the old stranger’s shoulder. “Why, I reckon it’d be that dog comin’ yonder.”

  The boy wore a man’s cast-off hunting coat that fit him like a sleeping bag; the rubber galoshes came to his knees.

  Pap bent over him and touched his arm. “Boy?”

  The boy opened his eyes and stared at the fire first, then rolled onto his back and looked up at the man. His expression was bland, his voice even. “Pap?”

  “That’s right, boy.”

  “I was dreamin’ you came an’ got me.” The boy didn’t move. “This ain’t a dream, is it?”

  “This ain’t a dream, son. I’m right here.”

  The boy took his time getting to his knees. He was afraid to move too quickly—Pap might disappear. “I’m wantin’ you to take us home, Pap . . . back to our home.”

  “That’s why I’m here, son.”

  The boy looked smaller than when he left the Delta. He knelt in the mud, making no effort to move toward the man. “Momma’s dead.”

  Pap nodded. “They told me.”

  From somewhere in the camp, a woman’s pain-filled cry told the night another loved one had received “some bad news.” The man watched as the boy looked in the direction of the heart-piercing sound.

  His eyes came back to the man, and he said, “That’s what folks do when they find out somebody’s dead.” He looked at the ground and began to shudder. “It happens a whole lot.”

  The man said, “I understand, boy.”

  The boy sat back on his heels and hung his head. The wailing continued, and he moved his head slowly back and forth. “It’s been bad here.”

  There was nothing the man could say to help.

  The child’s arms hung limp at his side; his shoulders sagged. “It’s been real bad.” He took a breath and looked up at the man, his eyes shiny with tears.

  The man knelt in the mud and reached out to rest his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Words were useless, but he said, “I know, son, I know. But I’m here now.”

  The boy took the man’s arm and wrapped both of his around it. “Are you gonna take us home?”

  “God willin’, son, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

  The shuddering was getting worse. “An’ we ain’t ever gonna . . .” His body jerked as he struggled for breath. “. . . have to leave again?”

  “Not ever again, son, not ever.”

  The child’s hands climbed the man’s arm, tugging on it until he could get his arms around the old man’s neck. The forlorn little figure pulled himself as close as he could get and held on. Quiet sobs racked his body; a mewing sound came in concert with the tremors that passed through his body and added itself to the wailing from the nearby tent. The man held the muddy child close and patted his back.

  When he recovered to the point where he could almost talk, the child put his mouth against the man’s ear and managed to whisper, “I was brave . . . just . . . like you said.” Another torrent of tears followed, and he pressed his face to the man’s chest to muffle his sobs. The man gathered him up and held him close.

  The sky was turning pink in the east, and men were up and moving. The old man sat on a small stack of firewood, rocking gently and humming a soft hymn. The little boy wearing the man’s coat was curled against his chest.

  The dog stood and stretched, then walked over and nosed the boy awake. Mose’s eyes sprung open and he jerked up. When he realized where he was, he took a deep breath and sagged against the old man’s arm. “I was scared maybe I dreamed it.”

  “If it’s a dream, boy, we both in it.” Pap smiled and said, “I reckon we ought to go see can we find us a cup o’ coffee.”

  “Yessuh, I know where it’s at.” Mose climbed out of the man’s lap. “The coffee ain’t always hot, but they do the best they can.” He pointed at the white boy and spoke to the dog. “Wake him up, so he can meet Pap.”

  The coffee was good, and hot.

  For breakfast they sat on a tree trunk and ate sausage patties wrapped in white bread. Word got around about the hound and the two boys, and people stopped by to visit and offer the dog their meager leftovers. Lady wagged her tail at the offerings, and Harley thanked the folks. Mose sat next to Pap and sipped at his coffee.

  During a lull in the visiting, Mose spoke without looking up. “I guess me an’ Lady better not go home just yet.”

  “Oh?”

  Mose traced the rim of the tin cup with a mud-flaked finger. “No, sir. They ain’t got another dog like Lady here, an’ she might find some more people. I reckon we best stay a few more days.”

  Pap nodded. “That’s the choice a man would make, boy, an’ I’m proud of you.”

  Mose was saying, “Yessuh,” while Harley was saying, “Yonder comes Mr. Gilmer.”

  Gilmer stepped off the mare and ground hitched her at the end of the tree trunk. As he approached, the three on the log stood up, and he said, “Morning, gentlemen.”

  Harley and Mose said their good mornings; Pap took his hat off and smiled at the man. “Good mornin’ to you, Cap’n Gilmer.”

  Gilmer hesitated for the briefest moment then stepped closer and peered at Pap. He compared what he saw in the old man to Mose’s upturned face, and said, “It surprises me that I didn’t see it sooner.”

  The two boys were looking from one man to the other, mystified, when Gilmer added, “He’s a fine man, Preacher. Your grandson?”

  “My great-grandson, Cap’n,” said Pap. “It’s a God-given pleasure to see you again.”

  Tough times and fatigue tend to bring emotions closer to the surface. Gilmer put his hand on Mose’s shoulder and spoke quietly. “I came on him a week or so ago in a situation that was not unlike the circumstances of my first meeting with you. You’ll be pleased to know that he . . .” He had to stop and clear his throat before finishing. “. . . that he is cut from your cloth.”

  Mose and Harley had no reason to cry, but they almost did.

  “Thank you, Cap’n,” said Pap. He
turned to Mose. “Cap’n Gilmer had an occasion to come by an’ visit Old Major Parker some time back—be ’bout forty years ago now. He was kind enough to pull me out of a tight spot.”

  It rained on and off all that week. Pap helped out around the food lines; the dog found a young married couple on Tuesday and a small child the next day. On Thursday and Friday she came up empty-handed. Saturday morning Pap, Mose, and Lady got on the train to go home. Mr. Gilmer had a word with the conductor, and Lady rode in the passenger car with Pap and Mose.

  The head porter on the Hattiesburg-to-Jackson train was a slender black man with white hair and a deep voice. When they got to Jackson, he led them through the big depot telling black folks to “Step outta the way, there,” and white folks to “Move aside, please.” Preacher and Mose were embarrassed by the extra attention; Lady was growing accustomed to it. Their escort told the head porter on the Yellow Dog about what Lady and the boy had been doing down there in Purvis, and Lady climbed up in the passenger car just like everybody else.

  It was after dark when they got home to Cat Lake. Pap left Mose and Lady on the porch of the cabin and went to bed. When he got up Sunday morning, they were still there, listening to the sun come up and looking at their lake.

  Pap brought two cups of coffee to the porch, and they sat in their rocking chairs while Mose told Pap about the tornado. When he finished, the boy asked, “You reckon that’s what hell’s like, Pap?”

  The old man thought for a minute then said, “Some, I reckon, ’cept for the noise an’ all. When the Bible talks ’bout ‘the outer darkness,’ I think it means a place where there’s nothin’ but emptiness. Folks who’re spendin’ their time on earth wantin’ God to stay away from ’em are already choosin’ hell on earth. It makes sense to me that when those folks get to hell they gonna be where they wanted to be while they were here . . . out in the darkness, all by theyselves . . . forever.”

  They stayed home from church to give the boy time to get reacquainted with the place. Pap walked out on the porch after Sunday dinner and threw a handful of crumbs under the trees for the birds. The three—Pap, Mose, and Lady—sat on the front porch of the cabin to watch the lake and listen to the birds, and Pap got Mose caught up on what had happened while he was gone. Two of the cats, the momma and a young tom, acted like they resented having the dog back. The momma cat marched out and plopped down in the middle of the yard so the birds couldn’t congregate there; the mockingbirds perched in the nearest pecan tree and complained; the redbirds took their business elsewhere. The dog pretended to be asleep.

  Mose told Preacher how he happened to meet Mr. Gilmer, and Preacher told the boy how Gilmer’s Grove got its name.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The commissary sat on the north side of the road, centered between Gilmer’s Grove and the Cat Lake bridge. A man could sit on the porch of the store and look south across the road at the Parkers’ big white house.

  “That ol’ commissary was practically brand-new back then,” said Pap. “Ol’ Major Parker built it pretty soon after The Surrender. The Major had a feeble, old white man name of Percy runnin’ the place, an’ all of us traded over there an’ settled up after our crops came in.

  “I walked over there just ’fore noon on a day pretty as this here to get somethin’— cornmeal or whatnot. Anyways, I got my business done an’ came out the front door right when the Major’s daughter was comin’ across the road from they house. Cap’n Gilmer had come out here to visit with the Major, an’ he was comin’ along a little piece behind Miss Sarah.

  “There was one of them sorry Yankee carpetbaggers, a white feller, been hangin’ around there, drinkin’ from a jug an’ tormentin’ folks.” Pap worked his mouth and spit into the yard, just missing the momma cat. The old man was pretty careful of his manners, but talking about Yankees put a bad taste in his mouth. “When Miss Sarah stepped up on the porch, he reached an’ took ahold of her arm. She was tryin’ to git free, an’ I was standin’ right there . . . when he didn’t turn loose, I drew back an’ laid him low with my fist.”

  He paused to remove his glasses and took out his bandana. He cleaned the glasses and shook his head slowly. “Well . . . things happened right quick like after that.”

  He fixed the glasses in place and took his time stowing the kerchief. “That feller come off the floor yellin’ an’ cussin’, reachin’ for his gun an’ sayin’ what he was gonna do to me . . . callin’ me a nigger an’ all . . . an’ next thing you know, Cap’n Gilmer was on the porch. The Cap’n stood right there between me an’ that white man an’ said, just as nice as you please, ‘You may reach for your pistol, sir.’

  “Well, they ain’t no man in his right mind wants another man to go to hell, but seems like some folks won’t let theyselves be turned away.” A fish splashed near the lake’s bank, but Preacher didn’t hear it. He was looking across the lake, remembering the day a white man stepped between him and death. “That fool Yankee was grinnin’ ’cause he already had his hand on his gun . . . an’ I reckon he thought he had the bulge on a man with one arm. He went to unlimber that shooter, an’ soon’s he twitched, Cap’n Gilmer shucked that Navy Colt. Mmm-mm . . . I believe the thing I recollect most is the ratchetin’ sound of that pistol’s hammer comin’ back.” He paused for a moment, listening to the forty-year-old memory, then shook his head and sighed. “The Cap’n blowed that no-good Yankee carpetbagger right through that porch railin’, an’ clear to kingdom come.”

  Pap stayed quiet for a long time, and Mose finally asked, “An’ ya’ll didn’t git in no trouble?”

  “Could’ve, but didn’t.” Pap almost smiled. “Cap’n Gilmer sent a man to tell, an’ a whole troop of Yankee horse soldiers came that next day an’ found that carpetbagger’s body danglin’ from a rope in one of them oaks up by the store. Had a note pinned to his coattail sayin’, ‘He laid his hand on a lady an’ threatened a brave man.’ ”

  Mose was wide-eyed. “How’d they come to let ya’ll off?”

  “Cap’n Gilmer was visitin’ at the big house ’cause he was in the war with Ol’ Major Parker. When the Yankees rode up, the Cap’n stepped out in the yard an’ talked for a while with that bluebelly officer. After a bit that officer spoke up nice as you please, sayin’, ‘Sir, it sounds like you did what any good man would do.’ That Yankee shook Cap’n Gilmer’s hand like a regular gentleman an’ told those horse soldiers to leave the body where it was at . . . said it might remind menfolk that they was called to be respectful to womenfolk.” He shrugged. “I reckon it worked, ’cause any trashy folks comin’ ’round after that kept shut.”

  Mose was looking across the lake at the trees in the grove. “An’ that’s why they calls it Gilmer’s Grove.”

  Preacher nodded and smiled. “Ol’ Major Parker started in callin’ it Gilmer’s Grove right off, an’ they been callin’ it that ever since. Every now an’ again, when I ride by there, I thank the good Lord for what Cap’n Gilmer did for me. From now on, I reckon those trees’ll remind me to thank Him for what he did for you.”

  Mose was frowning, thinking. “It don’t seem likely that the same white man’d pull me an’ you both out of a tight spot—I mean, what with him not knowin’ us an’ all.”

  “If I was you,” said Preacher, “I’d think some on that . . . a boy an’ his great-granddaddy, forty years apart an’ spread out by two hundred miles, an’ the same white man steps in an’ saves their bacon.”

  “God done it?”

  Pap smiled. “Sho’ as He made little green apples.”

  “Reckon how come?”

  “If I was you, I reckon I’d do me some prayin’, an’ I’d ask myself that same question. I figure the answer’s gonna end up bein’ mighty important.”

  Mose took the man at his word.

  An hour later they were still on the porch, rocking and watching the sun sprinkle itself on the lake. An occasional fish would make a splash in the water. The momma cat was curled up by the dog; the tom was in Mose’s lap. The b
irds came and went, pecking in the dirt under the pecan trees.

  Pap was dozing off when Mose said, “For the eyes of the Lord run to an’ fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward Him.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “That’s what I needs to be thinkin’ about. I needs to make sure my heart is perfect . . . God’ll do what needs to be done after that. Does that sound right?”

  “You sho’ can’t go wrong if you lookin’ to make yo’ heart perfect, but it don’t take you to why He chose to single me an’ you out.”

  The boy shook his head and sighed. “It don’t make any sense that He’d be doin’ it for somethin’ special.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “’Cause ain’t nothin’ ever happened out here. Ain’t nobody out here but me an’ you.”

  The boy had been spending too much time around folks who didn’t use their words properly, but this wasn’t a good time to start turning him back. Preacher said, “Folks are still alive ’cause of you.”

  Mose picked at a loose thread on his overalls. “Lady done that.”

  “Lady’s a good dog . . . but mostly ’cause of you. An’ she didn’t tell those two white boys down at Purvis ’bout Jesus.”

  Mose watched his fingers fool with the thread while he asked, “Whatta you think?”

  “God wants me to know Him an’ make Him known—an’ He wants the same from you. I’m nigh eighty years old, an’ sittin’ on this porch an’ lookin’ back, I can’t think of but one reason why He’d keep me around here this long . . . an’ it’s to take care of you. I believe God let Cap’n Gilmer step in ’cause He’s tellin’ us that you’re next. He’s got somethin’ special lined up He wants you to do —maybe He’s got somebody He wants you to look out for.”