A Yellow Watermelon

by Ted M. Dunagan

  “I’ll be there, on the front row. Before you go, here’s a donation. Wouldn’t look right if I put this in the collection plate.”

  Old Man Creel also stood, dug deep into his pocket, came out with a big roll of money, and handed it to the preacher. Then he reached under the table, pulled a fresh bottle from a cardboard box and said, “Take this along with you too—just for medicinal purposes, of course.”

  That’s when my luck ran out. It hadn’t been my day for dogs. I saw a big mean-looking red bulldog come around the corner of the house. He had a huge head and strong square jaws, with a big stocky body. His nose was up in the air, sniffing. I knew right away that this dog was no bully and no coward. He was looking straight at the spot where I lay hidden, then he started trotting toward me with a menacing growl deep in his throat. I started crawfishing backwards as fast as I could without giving myself away. I wanted desperately to stand and run, but I knew I would be seen.

  That dog hit the fence snarling and snapping. I knew I was in bad trouble if he got through.

  As I was turning myself around on my belly so I could crawl forward, I heard Brother Benny say, “Looks like your dog has scared hisself up a rabbit, Mr. Creel.”

  “That ain’t no rabbit. He wouldn’t be acting like that. I’m going to get my shotgun and see what the hell’s on the other side of that fence.”

  When I heard him say that, and heard that dog ripping at the wire with his big jaws, I figured I was a goner. But I just kept crawling and crawling until I was finally back into the woods where I could stand up and run. Snatching up my bag, I exited the woods and hit the road running as hard as I could, my feet kicking up puffs of dust behind me. I didn’t stop until I got to Miss Lena’s store.

  I sat on the front steps for a while, catching my breath and counting my blessings, before going inside to purchase a much-needed Nehi.

  I hid the empty bottle in the woods on the way to the sawmill. Empty soda bottles were money in the bank to me. I had about fifteen hidden near the store, each one worth a penny. I knew they were there if I needed money. Anxious for my rendezvous with Jake, not only to find out what happened last night, but also to tell him about the conversation I had just overheard, I hurried out of the woods straight toward his shack. There he was, sitting on his bench, whittling on a piece of wood. Looking up, he saw me, smiled real big and waved me over toward his bench.

  I noticed he was brewing coffee in a big empty can. “What happened to your coffee pot?” I asked.

  “It got busted up last night. Gots to get me a new one..”

  “They didn’t harm you last night, did they?”

  “Naw. Only thing got harmed was my coffee pot. How you know about anything happening last night?”

  After I told him my story he said, “I appreciate you trying to look out for me, but don’t you worry cause old Jake been in some tight spots before, and I done learned how to look out for myself.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Oh, they just come driving down here all liquored-up yelling for me. When dey couldn’t find me dey busted my coffee pot, yelled a few threats, den dey just went on off home.”

  “How come they couldn’t find you?”

  “’Cause I have learned to anticipate what folks might do and to be prepared if dey do what I anticipate.”

  When he saw me looking at him questioningly, he went on, “I done loosened some boards on de back of de shack in case I don’t want to come out of de front. So when I heard ’em coming I just slid out my back door and hid in yo’ favorite place until dey left.”

  “Where?”

  “Why, dey sawdust pile. I just burrowed myself down in it until nothin was showing ’cept my eyeballs.”

  We both laughed for a while, then I told him, “I’m proud nothing bad happened to you, especially since my daddy was one of them.”

  “You can still be proud of yo’ daddy, ’cause he done come by and apologized to me dis morning. He say dey been drinking, done figured out de sawmill gon’ close by de decrease in de flow of logs coming in, and some of dem done overheard Mr. Blossom talking ’bout it. Some of dem be upset ’cause I gon’ have a job after it closes and dey ain’t. Once I told ’em Mr. Blossom only pay me five dollars a week, dey say none of ’em want de job nohow.”

  I was glad to hear that about my father, but I didn’t understand why Jake was getting paid so little, so I asked, “How come you only get paid five dollars a week? That ain’t even half what the other men get paid. You do the same work they do.”

  “You tells me the answer to dat question.”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I asked you.”

  “I thinks you really don’t know de answer, Mister Ted. I thinks dat ’cause you is innocent, so I gonna tell you. It be ’cause dey knows I has to take whatever job comes my way, no matter what de pay. So since some folks know dat I have no choice, den dey takes advantage of me.”

  “How come they can get away with that?”

  “’Cause of folks like dat preacher and Mr. Creel making folks believe dat all black folks is lazy, shiftless, and dishonest. Dey wants to make folks believe dat just ’cause of de color of a person’s skin, dat dey all be de same.”

  “That ain’t right.”

  “Lawd, I wish you wuz a grown man. I believes you is enlightened.”

  “I need me a good stick, Jake.”

  “What you talking about?”

  I told him the story about the coachwhip and the lesson my father had taught me about bullies and cowards.

  “Dat’s a good lesson, but sometimes you might need more dan a good stick.”

  I tended to agree with him after the near encounter with Old Man Creel’s dog, but that would come later. I had so much to tell him, so I started at the beginning and told him about the milk and butter I had taken to the Robinsons’ where I had been accosted by Buster.

  “You is a charitable child, and yes, a good stick would’ve come in handy. I knows old Buster, and you is right about him.”

  I had thought about it for a while and decided to keep mine and Poudlum’s secret, at least for the time being. At first I was suspicious that he had made the story up just to get me to come play with him, but that was before I had overheard the backyard conversation. Now I believed Poudlum; but I wanted to see the moonshine still before I even thought about talking to Jake about it.

  “That’s not all, Jake. Listen to this.” I proceeded to tell him about sneaking up behind Old Man Creel’s house and the conversation I had overheard between him and Brother Benny. “So you see, Jake, you were right about why the preacher said what he did in church and who put him up to it.”

  “Yeah, and it sound like he gonna be spouting out more poison come tomorrow.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” I said, then I told him about that big mean red dog.

  “Lawd, have mercy,” he said. “De angels wuz looking after you today. I seen dat dog through de fence. Ifen he got a-holt of you, he would’ve torn you to pieces. Now, dat’s an example of when you would need something more dan a good stick.”

  “Like what? I ain’t got no gun. Couldn’t walk around with it even if I did.”

  “Yo’ momma got any dried hot peppers?”

  I thought about the big bunch of dried hot red peppers hanging by a string on the wall behind her stove. I remembered seeing her snatch one from the bunch and crumble it into a pot of soup or chili. “Yeah, she’s got a lot of them.”

  “Get yo’ self one of dem little empty tin snuff cans. Plenty of ’em laying around on de ground up by de store. Take some of dem hot peppers and mash ’em up real fine. After mashing ’em up, don’t touch yo’ eyes or yo’ privates until you wash yo’ hands real good wid soap and water. Fill dat snuff can up wid de hot pepper and put it in yo’ newspaper bag. Den, if any dog dat you can’t handle wid a stick come after you, you use de pepp
er on ’em.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “Say dat big dog had a gotten through de fence, den just fo’ he gets to you, you toss de pepper in his mouth and face.”

  “That would stop him?”

  “Sho would. He would start choking, snorting, whining, and scratching at his eyes.”

  “How you know all that?”

  “Trust me, child. I been chased by some real bad dogs. In the meantime, let’s find you a good temporary stick.”

  We rummaged around in the scrap pile until Jake found a stout piece of hickory about as long as I was tall. “Dis’ll do until I can make you a proper stick.”

  I knew it was time to go. I had three papers left. “Do you want a paper, Jake,” I asked.

  “Sho do. Gotta see what’s going on in de world,” He said as he fished a nickel out and flipped it toward me. I caught it and said, “You don’t have to pay. I’ve made plenty of money today.”

  “Oh, no. You has shared wid me and I gonna share wid you. I think one reason we understands each other so good is that you is just about as po’ as I is.”

  As I entered the woods I could hear the music of Jake’s guitar and him start singing, “Got dem old sawmill blues . . .”

  9

  The Still

  On the way home, just past the Earl and Merle Hicks place, I turned down toward my Grandfather Murphy’s house. He was my mother’s daddy and the oldest person I knew. Everybody said he was close to ninety years old, but even he didn’t know his exact age. His name was William Murphy, but everybody called him Pa Will. He had a dark complexion and brown eyes, like my mother and Ned. Momma said his hair used to be black as coal, just like hers. Now it was white as mine. My mother also said he was one-fourth Creek Indian, but he wouldn’t own up to it. Like most other old folks, he spent a lot of time rocking and dipping snuff, which is what he was doing when I walked up to the edge of the porch and said, “Hey, Pa Will. How you feeling?”

  “I’m tolerable, sonny boy.”

  “I brought you a Grit paper,” I said, handing a copy up to him.

  He took the paper and started fumbling around in his pockets looking for his eyeglasses. Once he found them he put them on, looked down at me and asked, “What you doing with that stick?”

  “Just taking it along with me in case I run up on a snake or a mean dog.”

  “Smart boy,” he said, seemingly to himself, while he unfolded the newspaper on his lap.

  About that time my step-grandmother, Ernestine, known as Ma Tine, came out onto the porch.

  “Hey, sugar boy,” she said.

  “Hey, Ma Tine.”

  She was a lot younger than my grandfather and for some reason my mother didn’t like her, but she had always been real good to me.

  “You want something to eat, hon?”

  “No, ma’am, I just stopped by to bring Pa Will a paper. I got to be getting on home.”

  “Well, say hey to your momma and them.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will,” I said. Having paid my respects, I backed away from the porch and waved good-bye. I walked back up to Friendship Road and turned toward home.

  I had only taken a few steps when I heard Fred yelling from behind me. “Hey, wait up,” he called.

  As he jogged toward me I could see the bag of marbles tied to his belt, swaying and jumping. I figured that not a kid within five miles had a marble left after today. In his hands, cupped against his chest, he carried several maypops.

  “Where’d you get them maypops,” I asked.

  “Found ’em growing ’side the road a ways back. You want one?”

  “Heck yeah,” I answered, helping myself to two while his hands were tied up.

  “Hey! I said one.”

  Maypops grew on a vine with white and purple flowers producing a wrinkled round fruit about the size of a peach. They turned yellow when they were ripe and had a tangy sweet meat inside the hulls. No one planted them. They just grew in the fields and beside the roads.

  As we walked and munched Fred asked, “You sell all your papers?”

  “All but two. Took one to Pa Will and I saved one for Momma. You win a lot of marbles?’

  “About thirty.”

  “You ought to quit shooting marbles.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause ain’t no money in it.”

  “Yeah there is.”

  “How? All you do is win marbles.”

  “Yeah, but then I sell ’em back,” he said, reaching into his pocket to jingle his money.

  “And then next Saturday you go win them back again?”

  “You got it. Hey, Uncle Curvin came to the house after you left this morning. We start picking cotton on Monday morning.”

  “He say I could pick?”

  “Yeah. We start on one side of the field. He said he had them Robinson niggers lined up to start on the other side.”

  Then tomorrow had to be the day to find out where the still was, I thought. Otherwise I would have to wait another week because everyone, including Poudlum, would be tied up picking cotton until then.

  Fred couldn’t devise a way to get out of going to church the next morning, but he did the next best thing by coming up with a way for us to pass the time. Just before we went in he handed me a stubby pencil, then he quickly flashed a stack of tic-tac-toe diagrams he had drawn and then cut up into individual squares. “Let’s go get a seat on the end of a pew, and save a little room between us. I’ll slip a paper on the pew between us and we’ll just play slow and easy so no one catches us.”

  We played the game for the whole hour. Before I knew it that whiskey-drinking preacher was starting the dismissal prayer. The entire service had been a blur to me.

  I did remember that he had gotten the poisonous comments directed at the Robinsons into the sermon, but I was over that preacher. From now on, I would place no credence to anything he had to say, and maybe even expose him for what he was, along with Old Man Creel.

  Now I was dreading going out the front door where he would be standing around talking to everyone. Fred saved me again. He tugged at my shirt sleeve and whispered, “Just hold back and let everybody get in front of us.”

  Once that happened, he slipped through the open window and disappeared. I did the same and dropped to the ground below. From there we circled around the crowd and waited for everyone on the back of Uncle Curtis’s truck.

  After cousin Robert drove us home, we had dinner and were free for the rest of the day. I was attempting to think up some kind of story about where I was going for the afternoon when Fred announced he was going to meet Quincy Woodard at Miss Lena’s store; then they were going swimming at the cypress hole in the Satilfa Creek, and I was invited to come along. To get to the swimming hole you had to walk east on Center Point Road, cross the Mill Creek, then continue on for another half mile. It was a long walk. That was the excuse I used after we got to the store. I told Fred and Quincy, “I ain’t going—it’s too far to walk.”

  “Then what’re you gonna do?” Fred asked.

  “I’ll probably just go visit Pa Will for a while, then go on back home.” Here I was, lying again, I thought.

  Fred studied me for a moment. I could tell he knew I was up to something, but he didn’t push. “All right then, I’ll see you back at the house.” Once they were out of sight I started west, staying off the road, traveling through the edge of the woods all the way to the road leading to the Robinsons’ house. Even then, I stuck to the woods, circling the cotton field until I came out at the back of the cotton house.

  A cotton house is a small structure, usually ten feet by ten feet, made out of clap boards with a tin roof, used to store picked cotton until time to take it to the gin. Poudlum was sitting on the ground, his back leaning against the small house, munching on a raw ear of sweet corn.

 
Not wanting to frighten him, I called out softly, “Hey, Poudlum.”

  He looked up and said, “I was scared you wouldn’t come, but you is right on time.”

  I slid down next to him and asked, “Y’all got much cotton in your house?”

  “’Most a bale. You wants to let’s jump in it some?”

  Diving, jumping and falling into a huge pile of loose cotton was almost as much fun as sliding down the sawdust pile. It had been a whole year since I had done it, and I was sorely tempted. “Yeah, but what if somebody sees us?”

  “Nobody to see us.”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “Dey all gone over to de river catfishing.”

  “How did you get out of going?”

  “Told ’em it was too far to walk.”

  “We think alike, Poudlum.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind, let’s go jump in that cotton.”

  We romped, tussled, and frolicked until we lay breathless on the soft fluffy cotton. When we had rested a bit, I asked, “How long will it take us to get to that still?”

  “Take a good half hour.”

  “How do we go?”

  “Through de woods till we reach de Mill Creek, den just go straight down until it runs into de Satilfa.”

  It was true that if you went east on Center Point Road you would cross both streams, which were flowing south, but from there they both took sharp turns to the west and eventually merged. The Satilfa continued on to empty into the Tombigbee River.

  “Let’s get moving,” I said. As we walked through the big stand of timber, I remembered what Jake had said about how many magnificent trees were here. I wondered why the Robinsons didn’t sell some of them.

  When we reached the stream Poudlum said, “Now, all we gots to do is wade down de creek a ways.”

  The creekbed made for easy walking because it had a soft sandy bottom and the deepest it ever got was mid-calf. The treetops formed a canopy so it seemed as if we were wading through a tunnel in the forest.