Stacey looked around the table. “Altogether, how much money do we have?”
We all counted our money and laid it on the table. Each of us had only enough for bus fare and a few personal items. Dee put in the remaining household money she had kept that was needed for the week. “Doesn’t even amount to twenty dollars,” said Man, thumping the pitiful pile of money. “Not nearly enough to get us home. Gas at about fifteen, eighteen cents a gallon, we’ll need eighty to a hundred dollars to get us down there and back and take care of us while we’re there. Few dollars for emergency too.”
We were all silent, studying on the figure.
I broke the silence. “So, how do we get it?”
“Too bad it’s Saturday morning already,” said Dee. Stacey looked at her and she went on. “If it weren’t Saturday, we could go to the safe deposit box at the bank and cash in the bonds.”
Stacey’s eyes stayed on her. “You’d want to do that?” The bonds, war bonds, were their savings, their total savings. All their other savings had been depleted by the layoffs. They had bought the bonds during the war. Each week money had been deducted from both their salaries and that money had gone toward the war bonds and the nation’s war drive. The bonds were not destined to mature for many years, and if they were cashed in now, there would be a severe penalty, but still they could have gotten something on them. But that option wasn’t available to them. Banks were not open on Saturday. Banks closed late on Friday and would be closed until Monday morning. Stacey repeated, “You’d do that?”
Dee’s eyes met his. “Yes.”
Elbows on the table, Christopher-John leaned forward. “Anybody we could borrow money from so you don’t have to cash in the bonds?”
“Anybody close enough we could ask for money is counting pennies just like we are,” said Stacey, then smiled. “Fact, some folks are trying to borrow money from me.”
“What about borrowing money from the church?” suggested Little Man.
“Church hasn’t paid the pastor in more than a month,” Dee informed us.
We all pondered this in silence. Then I took a deep breath and ventured, “What if we tried borrowing money from somebody not close to us?”
Stacey turned to me. “What do you mean, Cassie?”
I knew Stacey was not going to like what I was about to say. None of them would. “I mean . . . what about asking the Kondowskis for a loan?”
Little Man exploded. “Beg a loan of a white man? No way, Cassie!”
I gave him a hard look. “You’d go to the bank for a loan, and who do you think owns the bank? White folks.”
“But that’s not personal,” reasoned Man. “The Kondowskis are people we have to see all the time.”
“We do a lot of business down at Roman’s. Everybody in this house does, and the Kondowskis know that. They’re decent people. Not one of them has ever been out of line with me, always treated me fair. They’re at the store every weekday morning and Saturdays by six o’clock. We could get the money and be out of here first thing.”
Christopher-John frowned. “You think they’d really loan it to us?”
“Can’t find out unless we ask.”
Christopher-John turned to Stacey for a decision. “What do you think, Stacey?”
Stacey looked around the table at each of us. “I’m like Man. I don’t like it. But thing is, it might be the only way we can get the money before Monday.”
“But, Stacey,” objected Little Man, “the thought of going begging—”
Stacey stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Won’t be begging. Dee and I’ll put up the bonds. Dee can go to the bank on Monday and cash them in.”
“Or I could put my salary up as collateral,” I volunteered.
Stacey shook his head. “You might not be able to work there for a while if Mama needs you. Best thing we can do is use the bonds as collateral.” He looked at Dee. “You sure, Dee?” Dee nodded without a word.
“If you use the bonds,” I said, “we’ll pay our part back to you.” Christopher-John and Man nodded agreement. We would ask the Kondowskis for a loan of one hundred dollars.
Clayton Chester, still reluctant, said, “And what if they don’t loan us the money?”
“Then we’ll just have to wait until Monday and pray Mama’s all right,” Stacey said.
Dee got up. “In the meantime, I’ll start cooking. Good thing I bought those two chickens for Sunday dinner. I’ll start cutting them up and get them fried so you’ll have food for the trip. All of you best go get some sleep.”
I took my coffee cup over to the sink. “I’ll help you. The boys can sleep.”
“You need your rest too,” said Dee.
“With three other drivers, I figure I can sleep in the car without ever having to take the wheel.”
Dee seemed relieved at the help. “All right,” she said, then put on her teacher’s face as she calculated all that needed to be done. “First, we need to do the chicken, cook some hard-boiled eggs, make some ham sandwiches and maybe some sausage sandwiches. I bought two loaves of light bread today, so we can make quite a few. I’ll make a pound cake so you can have something sweet. Bought some apples and bananas. You can take those too. We’ll need to make a jug of Kool-Aid and some coffee—”
“We’ll get it done, Dee,” I said.
“Need us to help?” offered Christopher-John. Little Man echoed his willingness to help as well.
“No!” Dee adamantly exclaimed, and I backed her up, almost simultaneously, then we both laughed, breaking the tension of the night. “Too many folks in my kitchen! Last thing I need is a bunch of men in here trying to cook my food. I thank you all very much, but we’ll do better without you. Go get some sleep.”
Stacey went over to Dee. “Call me at five. That’ll give me time to wash up and get packed before Cassie and I go down to Roman’s.” He glanced at me for approval of the time and I nodded. Then he folded Dee into his arms. “Thank you, baby,” he said. They held each other close, then Stacey pulled away and, saying nothing more, went off to their bedroom.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
They called themselves the Roman brothers, but in truth their given names were Stanislaus and Leo Kondowski. They had come to this country from Poland in the early 1920s along with their father, mother, and other family members. The two brothers and the family had worked hard and soon set up a little grocery store on Dorr Street. The two sons called the store Roman’s in honor of their father, Roman Kondowski. Originally, the family had lived in the neighborhood, right next to their store, but as colored people began to move into the neighborhood, they, like other white people on the block, moved out. But they kept the store where it was and it grew, expanding to a larger building. The store was a focal point in the neighborhood, and its customers, both colored and white, came from many blocks around to buy goods from their store. Unlike other businesses on the block, the store was set back from the street, and even had a parking lot in front of it. They did good business.
Always aware of customer demands and the variety of foods wanted by its varied customers, they stocked everything from Polish bratwurst and sauerkraut to chit’lings, tripe, hog heads, pig feet, cow and pork brains, and the like demanded by colored folks coming up from the South. They also kept a pulse on the changing neighborhood, and in a city where the movie theater on the next block was still basically segregated just like the upscale theaters downtown, the Roman brothers had taken it upon themselves to integrate their grocery staff. When they hired me as a cashier, such a position in white-owned stores always had been held by white workers. There had been a few grumblings by a handful of white customers when I first began the job, but the Roman brothers had stood firm. Those customers who didn’t like it could choose to go elsewhere, they said, and I had kept the job.
“So, a hundred dollars, that’s it?” asked Leo Kondowsk
i when Stacey and I presented our situation to the brothers. “That’s enough to get you home to your mama, all the way down to Mississippi? You sure it’s enough?”
“It’ll get us there and back,” Stacey said. “And, like we said, we’ll pay you back on Monday. My wife will bring you the money. We have bonds.”
“War bonds?” questioned Stanislaus, then looked at his brother and both shook their heads. Both Kondowskis were gray-haired and looked to be in their fifties, but Stanislaus was the elder. “No, no, you lose too much money you cash them in now,” Stanislaus said. “You keep the bonds. You pay us over time.”
“Well, we thank you for that offer, Mr. Kondowski,” Stacey said, “but we’d rather pay you back soon as we can with the bonds. We’ll sign a note to that.”
Leo Kondowski waved away the suggestion. “No need for a note. You’re good people and your word’s good enough.”
“We appreciate your trust, but we want to do this the business way,” Stacey insisted. “We’ll sign a note—”
“All right then, if you insist. We’ll make you a loan, but like we said, not against the bonds.” Stanislaus glanced at Leo, who concurred. “We’ll call it an unsecured loan.”
Stacey started to object, but Leo cut him off. “Not totally unsecured,” he said. “It’s secured by the kind of people you are. We admire your family, all of you. You and your wife buying that big house, making a home for your sister and for your brothers. Miss Cassie here going to school and your brothers fighting in the war, your whole family pulling together, just like we did to get this store, that’s a fine thing. You’re hardworking, all of you, and we’d be pleased to help you out so you can go see about your mama. Anybody raise such a family must be a fine lady.”
“She is,” I said. Stacey was silent.
Leo looked at his brother, then back to us. “So, shall we make out the note?”
Stacey looked at me, considering, and conceded. “We’ll repay you as soon as we can and we’ll pay interest, same as the bank. “
Stanislaus smiled. “If that makes you feel better. Leo, get a pen.”
I told the Kondowskis that most likely I would be staying awhile in Mississippi to help Mama after she was out of the hospital. They said my job would be waiting for me whenever I returned. They also said they would be praying for our safe journey and for Mama. As Stacey and I left the store, I glanced back at the Kondowskis. They were still standing in the doorway. They waved good-bye.
An hour later, Stacey, Dee, Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and I formed a circle, held hands, and had family prayer. By eight o’clock, the car was fully packed and we were on the road, on a trip that would take us from the relative freedom of the North into the land of the Deep South.
GOING SOUTH
(1947)
I had taken the trip back to Mississippi twice before, once on the train and once with Stacey and Dee driving the two-lane Dixie Highway through southern Ohio and across the bridge that spanned the Ohio River, the Mason-Dixon Line that marked the end of our northern freedom. Once we crossed that bridge, everything changed. Once we crossed that bridge, we were in Kentucky. We were in the South, and there was no more pretense to equality.
Signs were everywhere.
White. Colored.
The signs were over water fountains. The signs were on restroom doors. The signs were in motel windows. They were in restaurant windows. They were everywhere.
Whites Only. Colored Not Allowed.
We didn’t have to see the signs. We knew they were there. Even if there were no signs on display, they were imprinted in all our thinking. They were signs that had been there all our lives. When Dee and I had prepared all the food for the trip, it had been as if we were packing for a picnic. But of course that wasn’t the case. We had packed all this food because once we crossed out of Ohio into the South we could not stop in restaurants along the way, even if we had had the money or the time. We couldn’t stop at any of the motels or hotels either. We ate our cold food, knowing it was as good as or better than any served in the restaurants. We kept the signs in our heads, ate our food, and were thankful for it.
Now, rolling through the border state of Kentucky, we took great care to attract as little attention as possible as we drove through the small towns that stretched along the highway. We stopped only in the big cities for gas. We stopped in Lexington, and farther south we planned to stop in Nashville or Memphis and prayed that everything would be fine with the car. We did not want contact with white people any more than necessary. We kept to the speed limit. We obeyed every traffic sign. Once in hard-line Tennessee, we grew even more cautious. We all watched for the police, who could be hidden at any intersection, at any bushy turn of the highway, or in response to the call of any white person who had seen us with our northern plates riding through.
And then we entered Mississippi.
We were now in the Deep South and there was no state more menacing, more terrifying to black people than Mississippi. In each town we were wary of white men gathered on porches, standing in groups on the street, wary of their stares at four Negroes riding in a brand-new Mercury with northern plates. We were wary if they stared too long, if they pointed toward us, if they appeared ready to approach us. We held our breath and moved cautiously, slowly, on, obeying fifteen-mile-an-hour town speed limits, stopping at every red light, breaking no rules, and all the time as we drove, as we worried about being too noticeable, we worried about Mama. It didn’t seem real that she was sick, that she had had a stroke, that she was in a hospital, that she possibly could die. We didn’t want to think about it and none of us talked about it, but all of us knew we had to get through these small towns and down the road again toward home. Only once out of a town did we breathe normally again. Close to home, we drove through the town of Strawberry, its streets deserted in the predawn hours. We were glad of that; we did not want to be seen. We were in Mississippi, our birthplace, but it was now like being in a foreign land.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Morning was dawning as we drove up the driveway. Papa’s truck was parked in front of the barn. As expected, Papa and Big Ma were up. They said Mama was holding her own. They had spent all day Saturday at the hospital in Jackson, but already this morning, the chores were done and Big Ma had breakfast waiting for us. As tired as we were, we enjoyed the smoked ham, the grits and biscuits and eggs, as well as molasses, everything washed down with the cows’ morning milk. While we ate, Papa and Big Ma told us just what happened the night Mama had the stroke. It had only happened Friday evening and now it was Sunday morning, but time seemed to be passing so fast that Friday seemed long ago. As soon as we finished eating, Papa got up from the table. “You all get some sleep,” he said. “I’m going to wash up and go on into Jackson. Y’all come later. Hospital got strict hours. Can’t see your mama ’til visiting time anyway.”
“When you go, Papa,” Stacey said, “we’re all going with you.” He didn’t ask Christopher-John, Man, and me how we felt about that; he already knew. We all wanted to be with Papa, and we all wanted to see Mama, no matter how tired we were.
Papa shrugged. “Up to you.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Jackson was the capital of Mississippi. It was the heart of the state. Like every facility in Jackson, like every facility in Mississippi run by the government, run by white folks, the hospital was segregated. All medical personnel were white. We entered through a separate entrance, sat in a separate waiting room, and when we were finally allowed to see Mama, we entered a separate area for colored patients. Only two visitors at a time were allowed to see a patient. Papa went up first alone. When he returned, he told us, “I talked to your mama and I think she understood what I said. She didn’t open her eyes, but when I told her all of you are here, I could see her eyelids try to move. She hasn’t said a word, but I know she heard me.”
Stacey and I went up next. Mama was hospitalized in a big room, a ward, with several other patients. When we entered the ward, we were directed to the far end of the room, next to the windows, and I was glad Mama was near the light, near where she could feel the sunshine.
Mama was asleep. She looked peaceful, but so pale, so frail. Both Stacey and I called to her, but she did not respond. We leaned past the tubes connected to her, kissed her cheek, squeezed her hand, then sat side by side, waiting for her to waken. During the time we sat there, Stacey reached out for my hand and then we softly prayed to give Mama strength, to bring her back to herself, to the Mama we knew, and to give all of us strength to help her.
We sat there for more than half an hour, but then, knowing how worried Christopher-John and Clayton Chester were waiting downstairs, we left so that they could come up. We went back and forth that way for as long as the hospital allowed us to stay. Right before we left the hospital, Mama opened her eyes. She didn’t say anything, but she opened her eyes and she smiled.
That was enough.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
There was no staying at the hospital beyond the Sunday visiting hours, so we headed home in the late afternoon. Besides, there were chores to be done and we didn’t want Big Ma tending to the animals alone. But when we got home we found Little Willie Wiggins already there and the chores done. Little Willie had seen to them. “’Ey, you scounds!” he hollered, coming from the barn as we drove up. He put the feeding bucket he was carrying on the ground and hurried toward us. Stacey was out of the car first, and the two old friends greeted each other with a warm hug. Christopher-John, Man, and I followed with hugs of our own.
“Things must be mighty good for y’all up north!” praised Little Willie in his good-natured way. “See you done got yourself a new car, Stacey. She’s a beauty!” Little Willie stepped back a moment, admiring the Mercury, then turned serious. “How’s Miz Logan?”
All the Days Past, All the Days to Come Page 8