I turned from the stove and looked at Big Ma. “I haven’t met the right man yet, Big Ma.”
“What about that Moe Turner?”
“Friends, Big Ma, friends. That’s all we are.”
“Well, ain’t nothin’ wrong with marrying a friend. Love can come out of that. Child, there’s all kinds of love, love that’ll surprise you, love that’ll sneak up on you when you ain’t watchin’. Now, your grandpa and me, when we first met, I figured he was a nice man, but it was his best friend, Mitchell, that plumb swept my head. Oh, that man, he was big and strong and good-looking, wasn’t afraid of nothing, and folks was always wantin’ t’ be round him and I was one of them. My heart was always racing when I was with that man, and I felt so proud when I married him. When he got kilt, it was your grandpa took care of me. Mitchell done asked him to. I was carrying Mitchell’s and my child, your Uncle Mitchell, when Mitchell died, and I was far ’way from my people’s home. Only person I had round me in my life was your Grandpa Paul-Edward.
“Paul-Edward, he was a quiet man, smart, smart man, stayed mostly to hisself and that was mainly ’cause he looked white ’mongst black folks, but he knowed how to get things done. Got this land, and, in time, he got me too. He wasn’t nothing like my Mitchell, but I loved him. I loved him so. He was good to me. He become my life.”
Big Ma nodded at memories and finished wrapping the biscuits in silence. I didn’t disturb her from her memories; after several minutes, she said, “Cassie?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“God got a way of bringin’ the right man into your life to give you the happiness and the joy and everything else He wants us to have in this life. Man who love you, Cassie, make love to you and give you babies, ain’t nothin’ like it. Time come that man to enter your life, don’t you turn your back on him. Not even if that man’s Moe Turner.”
I met Big Ma’s eyes, and let it be.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The boys left before midnight on Wednesday. They wanted to get through as much of Mississippi as they could while it was still dark, before people were out and moving about and taking note of them. We received word from Dee’s brother Ola that they had made it back safely. He drove down from Jackson to let us know. Mama, Papa, Big Ma, and I were all thankful to hear the news, but Mama, no longer having to worry about the safety of her sons, became restless about her confinement. Although she was able to be up a few hours during the day, the doctor had ordered her to get plenty of bed rest for several weeks, which she begrudgingly did.
I had been shown by the nurses how to administer the exercises for Mama’s arm, but after a couple of weeks of bed rest and exercises Mama still could not fully use her right hand for writing, and she very much wanted to write. Mama loved writing. She was frustrated and grew increasingly more irritable. “Turn off that radio,” she ordered from her bed. She was sitting with a book on her lap, and several books lay next to her. “That noise bothers me. Sometimes I wish Stacey had never brought that thing into this house.”
We all understood that much of Mama’s frustration came from the fact that until she was fully recovered, she could not work. Since Mama had lost her job as a teacher at Great Faith, she had taught students needing extra help in their studies. After the boys left home, she had used their room as a classroom, and sometimes the room had been filled with students on a Saturday morning or after school. She also went throughout the community working with young people who weren’t able to go to school, children who were disabled in some way or whose parents couldn’t spare them from the family workload in their homes. She taught adults too, anyone wanting to learn. Sometimes people paid Mama; most people didn’t. They had no money to pay her. But Mama didn’t mind that. She just wanted to teach.
I sucked in my breath and went over and turned off the radio. “Mama, when Stacey bought this radio he just wanted us to be in the twentieth century and know what was going on in the world.”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I think I know enough.”
“As I recall, Mama, you and Papa and Big Ma used to sit here every evening and listen to the war news. You were happy to have the radio then.”
“And you know why that was. Your brothers were over there fighting in that war. But there were times I didn’t want to hear any of it. I was walking around scared most of the time. Now there’s news coming in from all over, United States and all around the world, and it hardly ever is any good news. I don’t need to hear it. Just the sound of it wears on my nerves.”
I went back to oiling the furniture. “That’s because you’ve been so sick, Mama. I figure having a stroke kind of makes things wear on your nerves.”
“And you know about strokes and nerves?”
“No, ma’am, I just figure it makes sense.”
“Oh, well, I thought maybe you were heading into the medical field now. It’s obvious you don’t want to teach.”
“Obvious?”
“You were graduated with the courses you needed to teach, yet you’re working in a grocery store. Our first college graduate in this family and you’re working at a grocery store.”
“Mama,” I said in exasperation, “I’ll have a teaching job in the fall. I’ll put this college degree to use soon enough, not that I want to teach.” Mama looked disappointed. I tried to explain. “You love teaching, Mama. You’ve got a passion for it, something I don’t have. Only reason I got the teaching degree was because everybody said that was the best thing and I’d always have a job if I were a teacher. I couldn’t figure anything else. Maybe I’ll teach a couple of years, but it’s not really what I want.” I could feel Mama’s disapproval. I finished oiling the furniture, and with the mopping already done, picked up the mop bucket and headed for the dining room door. “Anything else you want me to do for you, Mama?”
“Yes,” Mama said. “I want you to go empty that bucket, rinse out that mop, then come back in here and write a speech for me.”
“Ma’am?”
“The speech I was working on when I had the stroke, it still needs to be done.”
“Mama, I don’t know anything about writing any speeches!”
“Then I’ll teach you. That speech to the Women’s League is next month. I plan to give it, but I can’t write it. You can. I’ll give you my ideas, you put them on paper.”
“Now, Mama, writing a speech wasn’t what I meant when I asked if you needed me to do anything.”
“Course it wasn’t. But that’s what I want from you, Cassie, and that’s what I need. So come sit down at my desk and use your brain. That’s one of your many blessings, Cassie, your brain. I want my speech.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
During the next weeks Mama taught me the basics of good speech writing, and she was a hard taskmaster. She did not want a good speech, she wanted a superb speech, and she wanted it done her way. I got a little tired of all her demands and attention to details, all the changes she wanted made, but finally I managed to finish the speech. Mama read it and told me it was good, but it could be better. She instructed me as to the strong points and weak points of the speech and then told me to rewrite it. I did. She awkwardly edited it with her left hand, using a brutal pen, and told me to make more changes. When we both were exhausted with the speech and with each other, the speech was what Mama wanted. Not only was it good, it was better than good. Mama said that she would be proud to give it, and, for me, that made all the weeks of writing worthwhile. By the time the speech was finished, it was nearing the time for me to head back to Ohio. Mama was much better and able to be up and doing more things for herself. The only physical sign that she had had a stroke was in her hand, but we were all confident that soon she would have full use of it.
“I’m really looking forward to making this speech,” Mama told me.
“I wish I could stay for it, but I need to get back to work
.”
“I understand.” Mama smiled. “And come September, that teaching job’s waiting.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
A few days before I was to leave, Papa and I walked the land. It was reminiscent of the many times we had walked the fields and the meadows and the forest. We walked up the hillside where Grandpa Paul-Edward’s gravesite lay. Papa and I sat some while on the bench in our enclosed family cemetery and said a prayer of gratitude for those who had meant so much but were now gone. We looked out over the land from the hillside, then walked down to the pond nestled among the high pines of the forest. We sat on a log fallen so many years ago and talked of many things. Papa wanted to know my dreams, my plans for the future. Like Mama, he was concerned about me. “Your mama told me you’re not too eager to teach,” he said. “You don’t teach, what you plan on doing?”
I sighed. “Tell you the truth, Papa, I don’t rightly know. There was a time when I was twelve or so I wanted to be like Mr. Jamison—”
“A lawyer?”
“Yes, sir. Thought about being a lawyer like him. Seems there were so many things he could do because he knew the law.”
Papa nodded in agreement. “But don’t forget, things he was able to do wasn’t just because of the law.”
“I know that, Papa, and I’m not forgetting he could do things I couldn’t begin to do because he’s white. But I’m also not forgetting that his knowing the law, even the law that’s set against us, helped us out sometimes.”
“You decide that’s what you want, you know getting to be a lawyer won’t be easy. Now, you know I want you to follow whatever you want to do, but for a colored person it’ll be a hard road.”
“What road isn’t hard for us?”
Papa acknowledged that fact. “Well, you pray on it, Cassie girl. You got the whole world ahead of you and I’m not doubting you can do anything you set your mind to do. You come from folks who done just that. You want to be a lawyer, then that’s what you’ll be.” Papa put his arm around me. “But lawyer or not, there’s another side of life and I want you to know about that too. So, you tell me, Cassie girl, who’s courting my baby girl now?”
“Nobody in particular.”
Papa frowned. “That a fact?” He pulled back to study me. “Just how old are you now?”
“Oh, Papa!” I laughed. “You know how old I am!”
“Time you started thinking about getting married, don’t you think?”
“Nobody to marry,” I said.
“Well, you tell me then, what’s the matter with them boys up north? Can’t they see a gold mine living in their midst? Young man marries my daughter will marry himself a prize.”
“I don’t know about all that.”
“Well, I do,” said Papa, getting up from the log. “Just make sure when that special young man finds you that he appreciates you, that he loves you, that he honors you, and that you trust him. That’s important. You hear what I’m saying to you? Make sure you can trust him,” Papa repeated.
“I will,” I promised.
Three days later I said good-bye to Mama and Big Ma, and Papa took me to Jackson, where I boarded a segregated train and headed back to Toledo. The boys had sent money for my train fare. As the train sped north, I had plenty of time to think about what Mama and Papa and Big Ma had said. I needed to decide on a course for myself. I needed to figure out what I was going to do with my life. One thing I did not need to think on was that I wanted someone special to share my life, to love me. But no matter what anyone said, I knew that someone was not Moe Turner.
CALIFORNIA, HERE WE COME!
(1947)
“I’ve made up my mind,” said Stacey. “I’m going to California.”
That was all it took. Dee had already accepted his decision, and Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and I had just been waiting for him to say it. It was now July. The layoffs had continued into the spring and summer and other work was slow. I had the teaching job for the fall, but I was not looking forward to it. We had paid off our loan to the Kondowski brothers, so now, with all the bills paid, we pooled the money from our various part-time jobs. We figured we had enough to make the trip and leave money for Dee to take care of the girls and the house for at least three weeks. We hoped to have jobs in California by then. Once the decision was made, we left one week later. That week gave us time to take care of all business at hand, and that included my giving notice to the Kondowskis. They said they were sorry to see me leave, and I believe they were.
Moe wanted to go with us, but in the end he decided against it. “I’ve got that little janitoring job, and it pays my way,” he said. “Out there in California, I might not even find that. It’s too much of a gamble, especially with Morris coming.”
Stacey tried to persuade him. “There’s more distance between California and Mississippi than Ohio and Mississippi. Could be it’ll be safer for you out there.”
“And, besides,” I said, “Morris might like California.”
“Well, they haven’t found me after all this time, I figure I’ll be safe enough. Are you planning on staying there, Cassie?”
“Maybe. Depends on Stacey.”
Moe smiled. “Well, then, maybe I’ll come then, me and Morris too.”
Before we left, news came from home that Troy Aames had died. We worried even more for Moe.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
We still couldn’t convince Moe to go with us, so we left without him. Clayton Chester had researched the routes, and the four of us had studied the maps. We would be traveling through Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada to Oakland, California. We were all looking forward to it. We figured at least four days to cross the country and that included a stopover in Muncie, Indiana, and Chicago to see family there. Saying good-bye to Dee and the girls and Moe was hard, but we were excited about the adventure, and with food and water and a cooler of lemonade, we headed out. Before noon we were in Muncie, visiting with Aunt Callie’s son Percy and his family. They too had migrated north during the war. We ate lunch with them, then in the late afternoon headed on to Chicago, where we spent the night with more family who had migrated north from down home. The next morning before daybreak we were on the road again, laden with even more food provided by our Chicago family. We figured to cross Iowa and be in Nebraska before nightfall.
Things didn’t work out the way we planned.
Midway through Iowa we ran into car trouble. Stacey, Christopher-John, and Man all looked under the hood of the new Mercury and agreed what was wrong. The alternator was busted and needed to be replaced. Problem was that although we carried a spare tire and fluids needed for the car, we would have to go to a mechanic to replace the alternator. We stood by the side of the road thumbing for help. A truck finally stopped and Stacey got a ride into the next town, a small town. When he returned in a tow truck, he said, “Looks like we’ll have to spend the night, wait ’til morning before the car’s fixed. Tow driver works for the only gas station in town, and the mechanic shop’s already closed for the day.”
“So, what do we do ’til then?” I asked as the tow driver hitched the tow to the Mercury. “Where do we stay?”
“Been thinking on that. Maybe we can find a motel. We planned enough for an emergency.”
“Not for a motel,” said Christopher-John. He looked at Man, who had done all the budgeting for the trip. “What do you think?”
“We can manage it,” said Man, “depending on the price of a room.”
“Just one room?” asked Christopher-John. “What about Cassie?”
“All I want to do is stretch out,” I said, “and I can do that on the floor.”
“I don’t think you have to do that, Cassie,” Stacey said. “You can have the bed; rest of us can sleep on the floor. We’ve sure done it before or slept on the ground.” Both Man and Christo
pher-John nodded at that. “When the man gets finished hooking up the car, I’ll ask him about a place.”
Stacey rode in the truck cab with the tow driver. The rest of us stayed in the hooked-up Mercury. Once we were at the gas station the driver unhitched the car. Christopher-John, Man, and I started to get out, but Stacey motioned us to stay inside. As Stacey paid for the tow, the white driver said, “Now, they’ll take a look at your car in the morning, but far’s a room, you probably won’t find one here. We’ve only got one motor court, but you probably won’t get a room there.”
“All full?” asked Stacey.
The driver glanced over at Christopher-John, Man, and me in the car. “It’s right across the street there,” he said, looking back at Stacey. “You can go on over and check for yourselves. They don’t have rooms, you can spend the night here in your car.” He folded the bills Stacey had given him and slipped them into his pocket. “See you in the morning. We open at six.” With that, the driver got back into his tow truck and left.
Stacey leaned inside the car. “Well, what you want to do? Shall we try it?”
We all looked at each other, and I said, “Well, it is Iowa, not Mississippi.”
“Yeah,” Little Man pessimistically agreed, “but we all know it’s still the United States.”
Christopher-John opened his door. “Let’s walk on down.”
At the motor court a sign flashed “ROOMS AVAILABLE.” At the office door the manager said, “Sorry, all full up. No rooms available,” then shut the door.
We spent the night in the Mercury.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
We wasted practically a whole day in Iowa. We held on to our patience and our tempers. The mechanics did not have an alternator for the Mercury, but they ordered one from a shop in another town. We ate the food Dee and our Chicago family had packed and counted the minutes and the hours. Finally, late afternoon, the alternator was delivered and in place and we were on our way again. As soon as the speed limit allowed, we were out of Iowa and into Nebraska. We had no trouble in Nebraska. Maybe that was because we didn’t stop except for one fill-up. From Nebraska we headed into Wyoming. We drove through the night. We all had been looking forward to Wyoming, for we were eager to see the West, the mighty frontier West, and the Great Rocky Mountains. Soon after we crossed into Wyoming, we stopped by the side of the road to sleep. We did not want to miss the first sight of the mountains, so we took a few hours and waited until the sun rose to continue. It was worth the wait.
All the Days Past, All the Days to Come Page 11