“Sissy—” I said, unable to stop my own tears from welling up.
She put out her hand to stop me from saying more. “My Clarence, he ain’t gone no place. Me and him we gonna get married, he come back Christmas. Me and this here baby, we gonna wait for him and he come back, we gonna be us a family. We gonna be us a family and we gonna be just fine. Just fine.”
Ma Batie took hold of her by the shoulders again. “Ain’t you heard what we been sayin’? Sissy, you gonna hafta accept this, girl! That boy, he gone! He gone!”
“I know, Ma, that’s what y’all said,” Sissy replied quietly. “You s’pect me to cry ’bout it? Well, I got no cause to cry ’bout what y’all say. I know the truth.” She placed her hand on her stomach again, smiled, and then turned and went out the back door, across the porch and into the yard.
Both Ma Batie and Mrs. Noble started after her, but Harris reached for his crutch and spoke for the first time. “I get her,” he said, pulling himself up “I get her.” Leaning heavily against the crutch, he limped onto the porch and followed Sissy across the yard and into the woods.
No longer able to see them, Papa, Stacey, Ma Batie, Mrs. Noble, and I stood staring across the yard after them anyway. Then Ma Batie shook her head and sank into a chair and put her hands to her head. “Lord, what’s gonna come of that child now?” she wailed. “What gonna come of her?”
A short while later we heard Sissy scream Clarence’s name, and her scream was like a knife that rent the afternoon asunder.
I had hardly slept since Memphis. That first night back at home I did sleep, but the sleep was hard. There were dreams, so many dreams. There were dreams of Clarence and dreams of Moe. Jeremy was in those dreams, and so was Solomon Bradley. I couldn’t keep them all straight. They faded in and out, popping up in places where they shouldn’t have been. It was Moe who was dead and not Clarence. It was Solomon who was in love with me, not Moe. It was Jeremy who was the soldier. I couldn’t make sense of it.
There was music in the dream, the music of George Gershwin. There was Clarence’s coffin laid out in an all-night wake, and Sissy was screaming and crying, and I was there floating in the arms of Solomon Bradley, holding him tight as “Love Is Here to Stay” played across my mind. It didn’t make sense, but it seemed so real.
Then Clarence walked across my dreams all tall and soldier-handsome, and I wanted to shout, to tell everybody that everything was all right, and that Clarence was alive. But then I saw Moe laid out in a coffin, and the dream turned sour. When one dream became too difficult, I forced myself to wake and shake it off, but then I dozed off again and the dreams came back. They would not go away, and all night long, in every dream, Sissy kept screaming on and on.
It started raining on Wednesday. It rained throughout the all-night wake at Great Faith, and on Thursday morning, when we buried Clarence in the Great Faith graveyard, it was raining still. It rained all the day. After the burial folks for the most part sat with Clarence’s family at their home trying to comfort them, but there seemed to be no comfort now. As the day drew toward night folks went home to tend to chores. Animals had to be fed and locked up for the night. Supper had to be eaten and bodies rested for another day. After all, life went on, or so it was said.
After the chores and supper, after Oliver, Cousin Hugh, and Cousin Sylvie headed back to Jackson, the boys and I with Mama and Papa and Big Ma sat before the fire, not yet wanting to part, despite the weariness of the last days. In the morning Stacey would be returning to Jackson, too, but I wasn’t yet ready to go. Papa would take me back in the truck on Sunday. With the kerosene lamps and the fire our only light, with the rain pounding down hard on the tin roof, we listened to the latest news on the radio, listened to it and thought of Clarence and the days ahead. The news wasn’t good. On this day, while we had buried Clarence, Germany and Italy had declared war on us too. On this day it was reported that the government was proposing to lower the age of young men being drafted to fight from twenty-one to eighteen. There seemed to be no question now that Stacey would have to go fight.
“War last another year and a half,” said Little Man, “and I’ll likely be going too. Heard on the radio about maybe being able to volunteer at sixteen.”
“Hush up that talk!” ordered Big Ma.
“But I’ll be sixteen then—”
“You won’t be going,” Mama said absently, her eyes on Stacey.
“But I want to go! I want to fight those Germans!”
Mama turned now. “There’s nothing we can do to keep Stacey here, but we won’t be letting you go, you nor Christopher-John, not until we have to.” There was finality in her voice.
“Pray to the good Lord, this war don’t be goin’ on that long,” said Big Ma. “Couldn’t stand for ’em t’ go take these boys like they done took Kevin and Mitchell and Hammer. I done lost two of my boys to they war. Couldn’t stand t’ lose these boys here.”
I looked around suddenly, fearfully. It hadn’t occurred to me that Christopher-John and Little Man would ever have to go fight. I had worried about Stacey but not them. Now the very thought of them going made me tremble. Christopher-John was sitting next to me. Impulsively I placed my hand over his. He looked at me, understood, and managed a smile. Then he looked at Stacey, and his eyes were so intense, I thought he was going to cry. He didn’t. Maybe, despite what he was feeling, he was figuring he was too old for crying. I didn’t figure I was; but I refused to cry, for I feared if I started up again, I would cry forever.
Papa looked around at us, got up and slowly stirred the fire. He put a new log on, too, then he turned and looked long upon us once again. Then, in his strong, calming way, he said, “Seeing that Stacey’s leaving for Jackson come morning, I think it’s time we prayed.”
“Yes, Lord,” agreed Big Ma.
Mama rose as if in a dream and went to Papa. She hugged him, took his hand with her own, and reached out for Stacey. Stacey got up and went to them. Big Ma stood as well, and so did Christopher-John, Little Man, and me. We formed a circle, and we held each other’s hands. Then we bowed our heads and prayed. Each of us prayed in turn, Papa, Mama, Big Ma, the boys, and me. We prayed for the days ahead. We prayed for all those we loved. We prayed for Clarence’s family and for Moe and his family. We prayed for our family too. As we said our amens there was a knock on the door.
“Now, who could that be this time of night?” questioned Big Ma, dabbing at her eyes.
Papa looked at her, touched her shoulder gently, and went to the door. When he opened it, Jeremy Simms was standing in the doorway. His hair was plastered down from the rain, the jacket he wore looked soaked, his face was badly swollen, and his lower lip was busted. Jeremy apologized. “I . . . I know it’s late,” he said, “but I seen ya light—”
“Come in,” Papa said, “out of the rain.”
“No, sir . . . I thank ya, but I just wanted to talk to Stacey a minute . . . that be all right.”
Papa looked back into the room at Stacey. Stacey looked at him, too, then he crossed the room and went out onto the porch with Jeremy. “How you doing?” we heard Stacey ask as they left the porch.
“Oh, I’m all right, I s’pose,” Jeremy answered, though he didn’t sound all right. His words were somewhat mumbled.
Papa closed the door behind them and came back to the fire. As soon as he was seated, I got up and headed for the door.
“Cassie, where’re you going?” Mama asked. “Jeremy didn’t say anything about wanting to talk to you.”
“But I want to talk to him. Please, Mama.”
Mama glanced at Papa, who nodded, and I went out too. Christopher-John and Little Man followed me. The rain had let up now, and there was only a drizzle. Stacey and Jeremy had walked down the lawn and now stood near the road. I stepped off the porch and went as far as the magnolia tree. Christopher-John and Little Man stayed on the porch. Stacey glanced back at us but didn’t admonish us to leave. Jeremy glanced back, too, but he seemed not to mind our being there. �
��I . . . I was right sorry to hear ’bout Clarence,” he said.
Stacey looked off into the night. “Yeah . . . ”
“Heard it was a real hard funeral. Folks faintin’ and screamin’ and all . . .”
“Well, that was to be expected, I s’pose. Who’d’ve thought Clarence would’ve just up and died like that?”
“Yeah . . . yeah.”
They both gazed into the night.
Finally Stacey turned back. “Thought you were in Strawberry.”
“Yeah, I was. Come back tonight to try and see my ma. Pa . . . Pa, he wouldn’t let me, though.”
“I’m sorry,” said Stacey. “I’m sorry ’bout this whole mess.”
“You got no cause. Wasn’t never your fault.”
“But I asked you—”
“That don’t matter none. I ain’t had to do it. Wouldn’t’ve done it I ain’t wanted to. ’Sides, it was what was right, and I ain’t sorry.”
“But you losing everything because of it.”
Jeremy shrugged. “I don’t know. Me and my family, you know we done had a parting of the ways long time ago. Onliest one I’m feeling sorry ’bout is my ma. Wanted to see her ’fore I go, wanted to see her real bad . . . . I’ll be writin’ her, though, lettin’ her know where I am.”
Stacey nodded. “Where you heading?”
“Army. Figure to join up. What with us at war with Germany and Italy, too, now, figure they need even me.” He attempted a smile and grimaced from the pain.
Stacey took note of his pain, but he shared the smile.
“You gonna join up?” asked Jeremy.
“Figure to wait till they call me.”
Jeremy nodded as if he understood why.
“When you leaving?”
“Soon as I can. Going up to Jackson on the bus.”
“Sheriff not holding you?”
“Naw. He said he got no choice but to believe what I was saying, that I ain’t know’d Moe was on the truck. Said it was too hard not to believe me. ’Sides, only folks in the jail are Negroes and he said he couldn’t stand to put me in ’side of them.” He glanced at Stacey as if checking whether or not he should have spoken that truth, but Stacey understood it as well as Jeremy. “Sheriff, he the one brought me down here. I been stayin’ at his house.”
“That a fact?”
“He said he ain’t wantin’ me goin’ off without seein’ Ma. He even gone and talked t’ Pa, but ya know how Pa is . . . .”
“Yeah . . . I know.”
Jeremy sighed, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, and looked out into the night before speaking again. “How’s Moe?” he said, turning back. “He all right?”
“He’s safe.”
“Good . . . good.” He did not ask more. Now he turned to leave. “I best go.”
Christopher-John and Little Man came from the porch and down the lawn. Jeremy glanced back at all of us. “Want y’all to know I ain’t never gonna forget them days we used to spend fishin’ down there on the Rosa Lee and layin’ back on the banks of the Caroline. Gonna think ’bout y’all whenever I be thinkin’ on home ’cause . . . ’cause them was good days, spite of everything. They sure was . . . .”
“We’re not going to forget those days either,” promised Christopher-John in a soft, sad voice.
“Naw, we not,” agreed Little Man, and there was no questioning that.
Jeremy nodded and extended his hand to Stacey. Stacey took it, and it seemed a lasting handshake. “Look, Jeremy,” Stacey said as Jeremy turned away once more, “I can take you to Strawberry—Jackson for that matter. Willie and I, we going back to Jackson in the morning.”
“I thank ya, but no need. Sheriff Dobbs, he waitin’ for me up front of Jefferson Davis School. He gonna take me back to his house for the night, and I . . . I figure after all the trouble it be best I jus’ go on take the bus up.”
“You’re most likely right. But leastways let me take you on up to the school. This rain could start pouring again.”
“Kinda like t’ walk, Stacey. Army take me, gonna be a long time ’fore I go to walkin’ these roads again. Be good to walk ’em one last time. Hope you understand.”
Stacey did understand. He gripped Jeremy’s hand once more, and this time the handshake was like an embrace. “You take care of yourself, Jeremy . . . .”
“You do the same . . . .”
“We’ll be thinking on you and all you done.”
Jeremy smiled. “You ever play that ole wind pipe I made, you think of me, hear?”
Stacey smiled too. “Yeah . . . I’ll do that.”
Jeremy backed away. He held up his hand in farewell, and looking again up the slope, he called, “Cassie! Christopher-John! Man! Y’all be good, now!”
I wanted to cry but refused to do so. I wanted to run down and hug him, too, but something kept me from it, that same something that had always stood between us. Instead I took a few steps toward him, stopped, and said softly, “You take care of yourself, Jeremy.” My voice betrayed me. It cracked with the tears I was feeling, and I cleared my throat to go on. “Jeremy . . . don’t . . . don’t you go getting yourself killed!”
He managed a grin, despite the busted lip. “Gonna try not to, Cassie,” he promised just as softly, and there were tears in his voice too. “Gonna sure try not to.” He backed away, then stopped. He took one more long look at us, and he said, “See ya in the Army, Stacey.”
Stacey nodded. “Yeah . . . see ya there . . . .”
Then Jeremy held up his hand in a final farewell, turned, and walked away into the misty night. As he headed up the road he looked such a lonely figure, but then, again, he always had. We hadn’t always understood Jeremy Simms, and I had often wondered if he even understood himself. He had made us uncomfortable with his presence and his offer of friendship, and we had hated him for his betrayal; yet now his leaving tugged at my heart. I whisked away an errant falling tear. So much had changed. Clarence was dead. Moe was gone, and now Jeremy was leaving. I didn’t know much of anything about this war we were in. I didn’t know much of anything about Japan or why they’d attacked us. For that matter, I didn’t know that much more about Germany or Italy either. All I knew was that people who had always been a part of my life, people I loved—and that included Jeremy Simms—were leaving, and some were not coming back. All I knew was that my brother soon would be leaving, too, and that I was fearful of what was to come.
We watched Jeremy pass the cotton fields, watched him pass the old oak, watched him until the road changed its course, rose and wound away. We watched until there was no more of him. For some time the four of us just stood there staring up the deserted road. Then we shared our feelings in one glance, returned to the house, and went inside.
Later, as I lay in the comfort of the feathered bed beside Big Ma, I awakened to the fluted sounds of an awkward music. I glanced out and saw nothing, but I knew Stacey was out there. I knew he was out there playing that wind pipe.
I rose from the bed. Opening the door, I went onto the wet porch and just stood there in my long cotton nightgown, staring across the blackened lawn. The music played on. Then, as suddenly as it had awakened me from my sleep, the music stopped, and soon Stacey came walking from the forest and across the road and up the damp grass, a box in his hand.
“Cassie?” he said. “What’re you doing up?”
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yeah . . . yeah, I’m fine.” He stepped onto the porch and looked down at the box.
“You were playing it,” I said.
He smiled. “You can call it that?”
“You don’t think he’s coming back, do you?”
“What?”
“Jeremy. You think he’s gone for good.”
Stacey shook his head, sighed, and looked out into the night. “I can’t say.” Then he looked again at me. “Hope I didn’t wake anyone else.”
“You see I’m the only one came out.”
“Yeah . . . yeah . . .�
�� He looked long at me, then, doing something he very seldom did, he folded me into his arms and hugged me. After a moment he let me go and moved toward his room. At the door he turned. “You go on back inside now and go to sleep,” he said.
“You still leaving in the morning?”
“Have to. I got a job to go to . . . I think.” He reached for the knob. “Night, Cassie.”
“Good night,” I said and went back down the porch. I opened the door to my room, took one more look out at the rainy night, out at the misty road, then at my brother. He smiled at me, went inside, and took the box with him. I went inside too and lay down beside Big Ma, and I slept.
The night passed.
The morning came.
Stacey left.
We did not see Jeremy Simms again.
Mildred D. Taylor
has written two previous novels about the Logans: the Newbery Medal-winning Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and the Coretta Scott King Award-winning Let the Circle Be Unbroken. Both novels were National Book Award nominees and American Library Association Notable Books. Cassie Logan is also featured in two short books, Song of the Trees, a New York Times Outstanding Book of the Year, and The Friendship, winner of the Boston Globe/Horn Book Award. Ms. Taylor received the Christopher Award for The Gold Cadillac. In 1988 she was honored by the Children’s Book Council “for a body of work that has examined significant social issues and presented them in outstanding books for young readers.”
Mildred D. Taylor was born in Jackson, Mississippi, and grew up in Toledo, Ohio. She was graduated from the University of Toledo and spent two years in Ethiopia with the Peace Corps. Returning to the United States, Ms. Taylor entered the University of Colorado’s School of Journalism, from which she received her Master of Arts degree. She now lives in Colorado.
Click here for more titles by this author
Books by MILDRED D. TAYLOR
The Road to Memphis Page 26
