Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “—like some folks—”

  “Jake, I think—”

  “Most niggers I know can’t get them no kinda car at all, let alone no Packard. White folks can’t hardly buy nothin’ neither. Just wondering how come you so lucky.”

  Stacey and I looked at each other, then back to Uncle Hammer, who after a solemn appraisal of Mr. Willis, said: “Luck, Mr. Willis, ain’t had a thing to do with it.”

  Mr. Page Ellis cleared his throat and Mr. Tom Bee looked uneasily toward the church. “Wonder how come that boy ain’t rung that bell yet,” he mumbled, seeming to forget that Joe was out riding with Papa.

  “Jake, we’d better join Grandpa in church,” Mr. Randall said. “Bell’s gonna ring any minute now.”

  Jake Willis waited a moment before agreeing, then, with sudden consternation, looked around the circle. “Hey . . . I sho’ hope I ain’t said nothin’ out of place or anything. I sho’ didn’t mean no offense. . . .”

  The Ford came onto the church grounds and the men gratefully turned their attention to its arrival.

  “Hey, Hammer, that’s one fine car all right,” hollered Joe, jumping out. “Sho’ is! One fine car—gots to ring that bell now!” With that, he dashed for the belfry and the men began to disperse.

  “Come on, Cassie, Stacey,” Papa called as Uncle Hammer joined him, Christopher-John, and Little Man on the other side of the car. “We’d better get on into the church.”

  Stacey and I followed them, passing Mr. Jesse Randall and Jake Willis. As we passed, Mr. Randall said, “You ain’t from ’round here so you don’t know, but man, don’t you go messin’ with Hammer Logan. That nigger’s crazy!”

  Jake Willis glanced over at Uncle Hammer, who had by now reached the church steps. The lips pulled back over the gold teeth and he grinned widely.

  “Ya don’t say!” was all he said.

  * * *

  Reverend Gabson was in splendid form. I listened attentively for his first hour, as he recounted the birth of the baby Jesus, my favorite sermon—and his too, for it mattered not to him what time of year he preached it. But then when the wise men and the shepherds had paid their visit and Mary, Joseph, and the baby had fled into Egypt, my attention began to wane. Reverend Gabson began to expound on the theory that too many of us were like King Herod, suspicious and jealous of someone who wasn’t even thinking about us, and that we should be loving our neighbors instead of sitting around worrying about what they were doing.

  I knew that now he had hit on the real meat of his sermon, he would preach on for another good hour. Unfortunately, because he preached here only every other Sunday, dividing his time between Great Faith and New Hope in Strawberry, he seemed to think he would be remiss in dismissing the congregation after only one hour. At least in winter his long sermons were easier to take; in the heat and sweat of summer, the long hours in the small church were hell itself. Now as he droned on, I attempted to fight off the drowsiness which was quickly slipping over me. I pinched myself, I bit my lips, I even went so far as to dig my nails into my arms. Nothing helped. Reverend Gabson’s sermons were just made for sleeping.

  Big Ma woke me with a sharp nudge and, after a disapproving glance, leaned over and shook Christopher-John, sitting beside me snoring blissfully. At her touch he awoke, looked around shamefaced, then folded his plump hands and gazed with great earnestness at Reverend Gabson. Little Man, sitting between Mama and Papa, was wide awake, his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes on a spider crawling up the pew in front of us. Stacey, who never fell asleep in church, sat beside Uncle Hammer paying strict attention like the adult person he thought he was. With Big Ma’s attention once again on the preacher, I looked around the church. Half the children were dozing. At the back of the church sat Jake Willis with the Randall family. He wasn’t smiling now. His eyes were directed on Reverend Gabson, but there was something in his look that made me think he was paying less attention to the sermon than I.

  “Girl, turn ’round,” Big Ma said.

  I started to obey, then noticed another stranger. He was sitting in the very last pew, two rows behind the Randalls. He wasn’t from around here—I knew that—and I couldn’t remember ever having seen him before, yet there was something about the square-jawed cut of his face that seemed very familiar.

  “Cassie!”

  I turned quickly and went back to the business of trying to stay awake. By the time Reverend Gabson opened the doors of the church and welcomed all visitors to stand, the stranger was gone. But when we were finally dismissed and left the church, I spied him standing beside a car parked near Uncle Hammer’s. He watched as the people came out, then, seeming to recognize someone, pushed his way through the crowd. He stood outside the small group which had gathered to say hello to Uncle Hammer. I thought that perhaps he knew Uncle Hammer too and was waiting to speak to him, but then he said: “Mary Louise, how’d you like to turn ’round and take a look at a genuine grown Delta boy?”

  I looked from the man to Mama, who was turning in surprise. She stood for a moment, stunned, then ventured quizzically, “Buddy? Buddy, is that you?”

  “Who else?” said the man, laughing.

  “Bud! Oh, good Lord, Bud! I don’t believe it! David!” Mama tugged excitedly at Papa, whose back was to her. “David, this here’s Bud!” And with that, she threw her arms around the man and began to both laugh and cry at once.

  “Who’s Bud?” I whispered to Stacey.

  Stacey stared at the man. “The way Mama’s carrying on, I s’pose he must be some kind of kin or something.”

  “So this is Bud!” Papa said, shaking the man’s hand when Mama let him go.

  “And you’re David—”

  “Sure have heard enough ’bout you!” Papa laughed.

  “And I bet wasn’t none of it good.”

  “Now I wouldn’t say that,” Papa protested.

  “Lord, just look at you,” Mama said with a shake of her head, as if unable to believe that the man was actually there. “You sure are a sight for sore eyes. Mama, you remember me talking about my sister Lottie’s boy?”

  “Now how you think I’m gonna forget somethin’ like that?” demanded Big Ma. “Come here, boy, and give me a hug. You one of mine too.”

  The man laughed as he embraced Big Ma. Then Mama introduced him to Uncle Hammer and the boys and me. He was Cousin Bud Rankin. Now I knew why he had seemed so familiar. His picture hung on the wall above Mama’s roll-top desk. Cousin Bud was introduced to the others standing near, then as people began to head for home and Sunday supper, Big Ma asked him how he knew where we were.

  “Well, I managed to find my way to your place and there was a man there—”

  “Mr. Morrison,” said Big Ma.

  “Yes, ma’am . . . huge fellow. Well, he told me y’all was here and I come on down.”

  It was decided that Mama would ride back with Cousin Bud. Little Man and Christopher-John chose to go with them as well. The rest of us climbed into Uncle Hammer’s car. Papa pulled out first, followed by Cousin Bud. As I glanced back at Cousin Bud’s car, I noticed Jake Willis standing off to the side staring after us. Despite what Reverend Gabson had said about being suspicious about folks, I found myself wondering about Jake Willis. I couldn’t help it. I just didn’t like the looks of that man.

  * * *

  Cousin Bud was a handsome man with a winsome smile and a pleasant way about him. He was Mama’s nephew, even though he was three years older than Mama. The son of Mama’s oldest sister, Cousin Bud had grown up with Mama and had been like a brother to her. Throughout dinner the two talked practically nonstop, laughing and joking, reminiscing about their childhood, and when dinner was over and we all sat in front of the fire, they began their storytelling in earnest. Soon all the adults joined in, telling stories of long ago, stories about themselves, about people the boys and I knew well, and about people whom we would never know except through stories. We laughed a lot, remembered a lot, and enjoyed the day.

  Then as nigh
t came and the hour grew late, Mama asked Cousin Bud to sing. He hesitated at first, saying he hadn’t sung for quite a while, but when Mama insisted, the music slipped from him like water from a well, rising in sweet, smooth sounds to our ears. He sang several festive songs I hadn’t heard before, followed by several more songs in which we all joined. Then, at Big Ma’s request, he sang:

  Lord God A-Mighty,

  stand by me.

  Lord God A-Mighty,

  stand by me.

  There’ll be a time

  when trouble comes;

  There’ll be a time

  when I’m all alone;

  There’ll be a time

  when no one’s near,

  None of my family,

  no one dear.

  There’ll be a time

  when I’m sick and frail,

  Treated like dirt

  and thrown in jail;

  There’ll be a time

  when I’m in deep despair,

  Lost all hope,

  no longer care.

  And I ask myself,

  how can I go on?

  Lord God A-Mighty,

  stand by me.

  When Cousin Bud finished, no one stirred. He had sung the words with such depth, such feeling, that we were all awed to silence. Finally, Big Ma wiped her eyes and thanked him. “My Paul Edward loved that song, sho’ did. I thanks ya for it.”

  Mama smiled proudly at Cousin Bud. “You’ve still got it, Bud. That voice’ll charm anybody.”

  “Don’t I wish,” Cousin Bud laughed.

  “It’s mighty fine, all right,” Papa said. “Mighty fine.”

  “Used to get him into a whole lot of trouble too, that voice of his,” Mama said. “Once he got to courting age, every time I turned around he was busy wooing some girl, singing to her. And wouldn’t just be wooing one or two, but more like five and six at a time. Then when the girls would find out about each other, they’d get mad at him and me too. They figured I knew about all the others and should’ve told them. Some of them even wanted to fight about the thing—me, not him!”

  “But you always won,” laughed Cousin Bud.

  Little Man looked up, surprised. “Mama used to fight?”

  “She ain’t told ya?” exclaimed Cousin Bud. “Well, look right here.” He pointed to a thin line running from his hairline down his forehead to his eyebrow. “That there was put on me by your mama when she was ’bout eight years old. Took the biggest stick she could lay her little hands on and hauled off and hit me with it.”

  Mama smiled girlishly. “Well, you made me mad.”

  All of us laughed.

  “Sho’ did do it,” chuckled Cousin Bud, remembering. He fixed his eyes on the boys and me. “Let me tell y’all, there ain’t nothin’ in this world worse than having a sassy aunt younger than you are. When she couldn’t have her way, she’d say: ’But I’m your aunt and you hafta do what I say!’ Then I’d say: ‘That ain’t nothin’! I’m older and bigger too!’ Then we’d go to it—”

  “And we’d both end up with a whipping,” interjected Mama. “Sister Lottie or Papa, one would wear us out.”

  “Sho’ would,” agreed Cousin Bud. Then the smile left his face. “You been home since Mama died?”

  Mama shook her head. “Not since Papa passed. With him and Sister Lottie both gone, I didn’t much want to go back.”

  Cousin Bud nodded, indicating he felt the same. “Ain’t wanted to go back myself. Fact is, this my first trip back down here since Mama died.”

  Uncle Hammer got up and put another log on the fire. “Jus’ what brings you back now, Bud?”

  “Well . . . my wife. She’s visiting here.”

  “She’s here?” Mama questioned. “Well, why didn’t you bring her with you?”

  Suddenly Cousin Bud looked uneasy. “Well . . . she jus’ wanted to come see her folks this trip. She come before me and went on down to McComb. I . . . I come to get her.”

  “I thought you married a Northern girl.”

  Cousin Bud fidgeted in his chair. “Did . . . but we didn’t stay together.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know . . . you never wrote me that.”

  “Things just didn’t work out.”

  “Things happen that way sometime.”

  “Me and Lydia—that’s my wife now—we got married a few years after I got to New York. Got us a daughter fifteen. Name’s Suzella. I told you in my letters.”

  “You didn’t tell me much else,” Mama teased. Then she smiled, pleased for him. “Well, I sure would like to meet Lydia—Suzella too. Try to get Lydia to come back this way, will you?”

  Cousin Bud turned to Mama, his look strange. Then he shook his head. “Mary . . . I gotta tell you something.”

  Mama looked at him in silence, her head tilted, waiting.

  “Course you ain’t gonna wanna hear it.”

  “What is it, Bud?”

  He rubbed his hands together nervously and stared into the fire.

  Mama reached toward him. “Bud?”

  He turned suddenly to face her. “She’s white, Mary. Lydia, my wife . . . I married a white woman. She left me and I come to get her back. I—”

  Mama’s reach stopped in midair. Cousin Bud looked slowly around the room. No one spoke.

  I knew that by his words, Cousin Bud had separated himself from the rest of us. From their faces I could tell that the boys knew it too, for white people were part of another world, distant strangers who ruled our lives and were better left alone. When they entered our lives, they were to be treated courteously, but with aloofness, and sent away as quickly as possible. Besides, for a black man to even look at a white woman was dangerous. A year and a half ago Mr. John Henry Berry had been burned to death, killed for supposedly flirting with a white woman, and his uncle, Mr. Samuel Berry, who tried to defend him and his brother, had lain like a charred log until he had died a few months ago. A white woman was foreign, dangerous, and here Cousin Bud had gone off and married one.

  Cousin Bud shrugged and smiled somewhat lopsidedly. “I told you, you wouldn’t wanna hear it.”

  Again there was silence. Then Uncle Hammer slowly stood, his chair scraping noisily against the wood floor. He stared down at Cousin Bud. “You’re a fool,” he said.

  “Hammer—” Big Ma protested.

  “Coming down here running after some confounded white woman—”

  “Hammer, Bud’s Mary’s kin,” Papa said quietly. “Leave it be.”

  Uncle Hammer’s eyes met Papa’s, then glanced again at Cousin Bud, who looked away, not saying anything at all. Uncle Hammer kept his eyes on him a moment longer, his look contemptuous, then crossed to the side door and went out.

  “Children, I think you’d best go to bed now,” Mama said.

  Mr. Morrison stood. “Guess I’d better turn in myself.”

  He left and the boys and I went off to our rooms. Soon after, I heard Papa go outside to join Uncle Hammer, and right after that Big Ma came in to bed. Mama was left to talk to Cousin Bud alone.

  * * *

  “How you s’pose he coulda done it?” I asked Stacey the next morning as we did the morning chores. “How you s’pose he could’ve gone off and married a white woman?”

  “Maybe he loved her,” suggested Christopher-John.

  Stacey whirled around. “Boy, you get that outa your head right now! Can’t love anybody white and don’t you never try! The man’s just a fool like Uncle Hammer said.”

  Christopher-John, startled by Stacey’s attack, dropped one of the eggs he held. He looked down at the broken egg, then back up at Stacey, his eyes growing big. Christopher-John did not like to rouse anyone’s anger and especially not Stacey’s. Both he and Little Man idolized Stacey, and to incur his anger was a hurting thing. “I—I didn’t mean nothin’,” he mumbled weakly. “I jus’ thought . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “You’d better clean that up,” I said when Stacey, without a word of consolation, only glanced at the egg and continued
milking the cow, Nadine.

  Obediently Christopher-John carefully put the good egg he still held into the egg basket, and taking the shovel, scooped up the broken egg and took it off to the hogs’ slop. When he returned, he went quietly back to work, but Little Man said: “One thing I know. Uncle Hammer sure ’nough’s mad. He so mad Papa told him to jus’ hush.”

  I looked up. “When he tell him that?”

  “On the back porch when they was washing up this morning. Papa said: ‘He’s Mary’s kin and you gotta respect that.’”

  “What Uncle Hammer say?”

  “Said: ‘Ain’t gotta respect no fool.’”

  “What’d Papa say to that?”

  “Said: ‘Then respect Mary.’ Then Uncle Hammer, he nodded and didn’t say nothing else.”

  I turned to Stacey. “What you think? You think there’ll be trouble between Uncle Hammer and Cousin Bud?”

  Stacey continued to milk. “What I think is Cousin Bud best stay outa Uncle Hammer’s way or—” He reached for another bucket and didn’t finish.

  “Or what?”

  He turned slightly to look at me. “Or leave. Now that’s what he oughta do. He oughtn’t’ve come here in the first place.”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have come, but Cousin Bud was here now and Mama tried to make him feel welcome. At breakfast she talked with him about old times and nothing was said about last night. Papa, Big Ma, and Mr. Morrison also joined the talk, but Uncle Hammer said nothing at all; and despite the constant chatter his silence made the breakfast tense, and I for one was glad when it was over. After breakfast while Little Man and I did the dishes, Cousin Bud remained sipping one last cup of coffee and talking with Mama. Little Man and I worked quietly, listening with avid curiosity.

  “You know, Mary, maybe it’d be better if I went on and left today.”

  “I thought you were planning on staying until Wednesday.”

  “Was. But you know Hammer don’t like me being here.” “Don’t you mind Hammer.”

  “I understand why he feels ’bout me like he do . . . that’s why I’d better get on outa here.”

  Mama sighed. “It’s been so long, Bud. Wait at least until tomorrow.”