A Yellow Watermelon

by Ted M. Dunagan

  He picked up one of the eggs, caressed it, and said, “Lawd a-mercy, dese sho be some beautiful eggs. I think I gonna scramble me up a mess of ’em tonight. No need to wait for morning.”

  Jake went into the tar paper shack and returned with an empty coffee can. He carefully removed the eggs from the basket, handling them like jewels as he placed them in the can. “I know yo’ momma be looking for her basket back,” he said. “I sho does ’preciate de eggs, Mister Ted.”

  He did seem appreciative, but Jake just wasn’t his buoyant self. His smile faded too quickly and he seemed dejected despite the fresh eggs. We sat in silence for a few moments, then I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Jake, you feeling bad?” I asked.

  “Naw, I feels fine. It’s just that I believes we got us a problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?”

  “I had some more visitors late yesterday, after you left.”

  “Who?”

  “Does you know a family of black folks who lives about three miles down de road towards Coffeeville?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Dey say dey chops and picks cotton for yo’ Uncle Curvin.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know them. They got a boy who looks about my age.”

  “Dat’s dem. De boy’s name is Poudlum.”

  “Poudlum? What kind of a name is that?”

  “It just a nickname. I don’t know where it come from. His real name is Oleander. De family name is Robinson. Dey owns forty acres of land which been in de family since after the Civil War—when some lucky black folks got forty acres and a mule.”

  “Why did they come see you?”

  “Dey heard I was here and dey just looking for advice and comfort.”

  “Then why do we have a problem?” I asked.

  “I walked on home wid ’em last night, had supper wid ’em, and dey told me why yo’ preacher was spouting all that hateful stuff in church Sunday.”

  “Jake, how could they know why Brother Benny was saying all that stuff?”

  “Dey say he was put up to it by dis fella who owns everything around here—the fields, the timberland, Miz Miss Lena’s store, and even dis here sawmill. I believe dey said his name wuz Creel, and—”

  “Old Man Cliff Creel?” I interrupted.

  “Yeah, dat’s what dey called him.”

  “Why would he want the preacher to say all that?”

  “’Cause he wants all de white folks to get stirred up and help him run dem off dey land.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because of de timber on it. Of the forty acres, only about ten acres farmland. De rest is virgin timber. I walked around and looked some. Dey is some huge hardwood and cedar trees, some of ’em over two hundred years old. I figures dat timber is worth a lot of money.”

  “So, Old Man Cliff Creel wants their land so he can cut down the trees for lumber?”

  “Dat’s what de Robinson family thinks, Mister Ted, and I tends to agree wid ’em. Dey say Mr. Creel has been trying to buy de land for several years.”

  “Why don’t they just sell it to him?”

  “Well, he ain’t offering to buy no more. But dey got no other place to go, and dey wants to stay on the land. ’Pears he intends to drive ’em off.”

  “Tell them to just stay then.”

  “It ain’t dat easy. Besides dat stuff the preacher be saying, dey’s a heap of bad things been happening to ’em.”

  “Like what?”

  “Dis spring, just before time to break up de ground for de crops, dey found dey mule dead one morning. Dey say he was a good mule, fairly young wid nothing wrong with him. Dey ’spects somebody might’ve poisoned him.”

  “Good Lord! Why would somebody want to poison a mule?”

  “So dey couldn’t get de crops in the ground.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “Dey took what money dey had, borrowed a few more dollars from Mr. Creel, and bought another mule. Dey got de crops in all right, but ain’t been able to pay him back, so last week he come and took dey milk cow away. All dem children, and dey ain’t got no milk.”

  “I don’t see how he could do that?”

  “He trick ’em. Dey thought dey had until dey cotton crop come in to pay, but he had a paper dey signed that dey would give up the cow if the money hadn’t been paid back by last week.”

  I thought about what a mean and selfish person Old Man Cliff Creel was and wished I could figure out someway to stop his unkind ways. The only thing I could think of at the moment was to take the Robinson family some milk, but I resolved to ponder on it more.

  “Jake, what do you think is going to happen to ’em?”

  “Dey might be all right. Dey gon’ be picking cotton fo’ yo’ Uncle Curvin to pick up a little money, den, once dey get der own cotton crop to de gin, dey should be able to pay de taxes on dey land.”

  “They have to pay taxes on their land?”

  “Oh, yes, sir—got to pay dem taxes.”

  “What happens if they don’t?”

  “Den de county will sell de land on the courthouse steps to de highest bidder, and I ’spects Mr. Creel would be waiting wid his big fat wallet.”

  Jake helped me go through the scrap lumber pile until we found two thin strips of hardwood suitable to make bows so Fred and I could shoot our arrows. Then I said good-bye to him while he was spooning lard into his skillet to scramble himself some eggs. I came through the woods, arrived at the store, laid my basket and wood strips down and went inside. I took a NuGrape soda from the drink box, and asked Miss Lena for one of the big coconut cookies from the jar sitting on the counter.

  “That’s a nickel for the drink and a penny for the cookie,” she said.

  When I handed her the money she asked, “You’re not spending your momma’s egg money, are you?”

  “No, ma’am. See here, I got her money,” I answered, holding out my hand to show her I still had twenty cents. Back outside, realizing I had too much to carry, I eliminated one item by eating the cookie. Then I looped my left arm through the handle of the egg basket, grabbed the wood strips, and with my drink in my right hand, started toward home.

  When I rounded the corner from Center Point Road onto Friendship Road, I stopped and set everything down onto the hard-baked clay road while I drained the NuGrape. It wasn’t as big as a Nehi, but it was my favorite—a carbonated grape drink. I decided to hide the empty bottle because it was worth a penny. I noticed a pile of leaves in the ditch so I just pitched the bottle into the middle of the pile. The moment the bottle hit the leaves that coachwhip came bursting out of the ditch, up on its tail, coming straight toward me. I remained frozen for a split second, every tiny hair on my body standing straight up. I broke out of my frozen state of fear when it reached the center of the road. I raced down that road on my bare feet with every ounce of energy I could muster. Somewhere along the way that snake must have given up, for when I reached Merle and Earl Hicks’ house, I glanced over my shoulder and it was gone. My daddy was sitting with the Hicks on their front porch. Evidently he had stopped to talk with them after work. He could tell by looking at me that something had happened and came rushing out into the road and scooped me up into his arms. There were stories about rabid foxes being about at that particular time. He asked me if I was being chased by one.

  “No, sir. It was a snake. A coachwhip,” I gasped.

  He promptly found a big stick and walked with me back to the pile of leaves and told me to toss a rock into it. I did and immediately got behind him.

  As soon as my rock hit the leaf pile that snake came tearing out again. My daddy went at it with his stick and I was amazed to see the snake turn around and hide in the leaves. That didn’t save it, though, because Daddy rousted it out and beat it to death with his stick. Then he lifted the long, limp body on his stick and toss
ed it into the middle of the road. That’s when he told me the snake was like a lot of people I would meet in my life. He said that when a bully came at you to stand your ground and the bully would turn and run. However, he added, it was always a good idea to have a big stick.

  We walked back to Miss Lena’s store where Daddy bought me another soda and a big cookie.

  I loved him for killing the snake, for teaching me the lesson about bullies, but most of all for buying me another NuGrape and cookie.

  When we walked out of the store there was my brother Ned with his sack of cornmeal. Daddy relieved him of it and we all walked on down Friendship Road toward home.

  That night for supper we had the buttermilk which my mother had churned that day, along with cornbread. The buttermilk had a sharp fresh taste and little hunks of butter floating in it. I had watched my mother mix the newly ground meal with buttermilk and two eggs before she put it into a black skillet and slid it into the wood stove. It came out of the oven brown and crunchy, a warm and welcome companion to the cool buttermilk.

  I predicted correctly that we would be picking and shelling green peas and butter beans soon. On Tuesday morning, right after breakfast, my mother herded Ned, Fred, and me into her garden. We filled basket after basket. When the picking was all done we moved to the front porch where the shelling began.

  Even though we hated the work that went with it, my mother’s garden was a wonderful place that produced much of our food. It was completely organic. She fertilized it with horse manure and inspected each plant every day, crushing any worm or bug that had dared invade.

  Toward the end of each February, the onions, English peas, and potatoes would be planted. By the end of April we would be eating a big pot of those tender early peas cooked with red new potatoes with dumplings. Then the summer garden, which we were enjoying now, would be planted. Later in the year, she would put in the fall garden of turnips, mustard greens and collards, cabbage, and more onions.

  But today, after shelling peas and beans for hours, nobody was happy about anything in the garden, especially Fred. He had been fidgeting and complaining for an hour. “My hands are raw. I can’t shell anymore,” he said.

  “All right,” Momma said. “You and Ted go play. Me and Ned will finish shelling the rest. Y’all take all these hulls and feed them to the cow before you wander off.”

  While we were throwing the hulls over the fence I was puzzled to see Fred stuff a handful into his pocket. Then he said, “Come on, grab the log truck, and let’s go.

  “But what about making the bows? I brought some hardwood strips from—”

  “Forget the bows, we’re going to haul some logs.”

  “But why?”

  I could not believe what came out of his mouth when he answered, saying, “I caught us a toy mule.”

  “What? But you said there was no such thing.”

  “I changed my mind, now come on.”

  In lower Alabama there is a type of turtle which lives on dry land, never going near water, and it eats plants instead of fish. It also burrows a slanted hole into the ground as its den; therefore, it’s called a “gopher” turtle.

  When we arrived at our playground in the woods, there was a gopher tied to a tree. Fred had drilled a hole into the rear overhang of its shell and run a piece of cord through it. The turtle started hissing and sucked its head into its shell when we knelt on the ground in front of it.

  Fred put the pea hulls on the ground in front of the turtle and said, “Now, let’s move away from it a bit.”

  After a few minutes its head slowly snaked out of its shell and began munching on the pea hulls. After it had eaten Fred took the cord loose from the tree and attached it to one of the play logs we had cut. Then he took a stick and began tapping on the gopher’s shell, and to my amazement it began dragging the little log up the hill toward our toy log truck. I could hardly believe it, we had probably the only toy mule in the whole wide world.

  We spent the entire afternoon imitating the grown loggers we knew and admired, playfully performing the only occupation we knew to aspire to.

  It was almost dark when we released our toy mule and followed it as it shuffled back to its den. As it disappeared into the ground I asked Fred, “What if we want to use him again?”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’ll just put some pea hulls in front of his hole and when he gets hungry I’ll catch him again.”

  The next three days passed uneventfully, then on Friday night not long after I had fallen asleep, I was awakened by angry voices. Ned and Fred remained sound asleep but I slid out of bed and put on my jeans. I couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, but their tone was definitely angry.

  I quietly opened the wooden shutter which served as a window, lifted myself through and silently dropped to the ground in the rear of the house next to the rain barrel.

  I scooted underneath the house and started crawling toward the front side. Despite the bright moonlight, it was pitch black under the house, causing me to crawl blindly. About halfway, my hands landed on something soft and warm. I jerked back and bumped my head on the floor above. My fear disappeared when I heard Old Bill whine and thump his tail on the ground. “Quiet, boy,” I whispered as I patted him and crawled around him and continued toward the front side of the house.

  The voices were becoming clearer now. I heard my father say, “Are you real sure about that, S. T.?”

  He was talking to S. T. Brooks who worked with him at the sawmill. I saw his old truck parked in the yard as I slid down onto my belly and peeked out. I recognized two other men, Elvin Hodge and Garrett Findley, who were also sawmill workers. The four of them were gathered around the hood of the truck.

  Things got quiet for a moment and when I strained my eyes I saw why. They were drinking whiskey. Silently they passed the bottle from one to the other.

  When the bottle had made its round I heard Mr. Brooks say, “I tell you, J. D., it’s a fact. They gonna close the mill down in about three weeks and ain’t none of us gonna have a job.”

  Elvin Hodge said, “I think he’s right. They ain’t been one load of logs delivered to the mill this week. There’s about a three-week supply on the yard. Once they’re gone, I think we’re gone.”

  The secret was out! They knew the mill was closing. I watched silently while the bottle made another round.

  Garrett Findley was the last one to take a long pull from the bottle. When he lowered it from his mouth he said, “The mill is definitely gonna close. What really galls me is that nigger Jake is gonna still have a job for six weeks after it closes. That job could have gone to one of us.”

  “How do you know that?” Mr. Brooks quickly asked.

  “I overheard Blossom discussing it with Jake. Telling him it would take about that long to get the lumber hauled away, the mill broken down and the parts hauled away.”

  “That just ain’t right. Gimme that bottle,” Mr. Brooks said. “What do the rest of y’all think?”

  My father didn’t speak, just took the bottle, drank and passed it on to Elvin Hodge, who took a long drink and said, “I bet if we go over to the mill and roust that nigger out of his shack, run him on out of here, then one of us would have that job.”

  “That’s a damn good idea,” Mr. Brooks said. “Y’all load up and let’s take a ride over to the sawmill.”

  I was horrified as I watched the four of them pile into the truck. I heard the engine roar to life and saw the lights come on and the truck start moving away.

  I had to go warn Jake!

  7

  Milk and Butter

  Warning Jake was wishful thinking, but I tried. I pushed Old Bill aside and hit the trail through the woods on the run, feeling the tree limbs on each side brushing me as I raced along. I came out at the top of the little hill and knew I was too late as I saw the taillights of the truck disappear over the crest
of the big hill.

  Suddenly I realized there was nothing I could do except go back home, and the moon wasn’t shining so bright on the trail through the woods. I chose the road, but ran hard all the way. Back at the window to our room, I had to sit still until my breathing was normal. Then I crawled back through the window, heard my brothers’ steady breathing, quietly slid into bed, and eventually dropped off into a troubled sleep. Everything seemed normal the next morning. I had heard my father when he left for work and nobody seemed disturbed around the breakfast table.

  I left home early. Besides my paper route, I had a lot to do that day. I arrived at the row of mail boxes on Center Point Road before the mail rider, and while waiting for his arrival I shaded my face from the morning sun with my hand and looked hard toward the sawmill. Everything sounded and looked normal. The big saw blade screamed in protest as a log was fed into it. I could see men moving logs around and stacking lumber. Then I spotted Jake. He was sliding a stack of slabs down the ramp toward the fire. I watched them fall off the end of the ramp, float through the air, then hit the fire spewing sparks and flaming chunks of wood into the air. When I looked back up Jake had disappeared, gone for another load. I couldn’t imagine what had happened last night, but he seemed okay.

  I was going to reverse my route today, go east first and then west because I knew the Robinsons lived west toward Coffeeville. I spotted a dust cloud up the road and knew my papers would be here shortly.

  Mrs. Blossom went through the same ritual as last week, except I didn’t get a fried chicken leg. While I was packaging up the pay envelopes she said, “There was some kind of commotion down at the mill last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure. A truck drove in there during the middle of the night and we heard a lot of loud talking.”

  “Did Mr. Blossom go down there?”

  “Lord, no, child. That man’s scared of his own shadow. Whoever it was went away after a little while. Mr. Blossom came back up to the house after the mill started up this morning and said everything was fine. I’ll just be so proud when— Well, I know you got your papers to sell, so you run along now, and don’t lose your money.”