Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “Boy, I thought you went to bed!”

  “I’m goin’ in a minute. I jus’ wanted to give you this,” he said, and extended the knife toward me.

  I studied him suspiciously. “What make ya wanna give it to me?”

  “Jus’ do, that’s all. Well, you said you wanted it. You still do?”

  “Yeah, I want it.”

  “Well, take it then.”

  I took the knife and held it gingerly, not quite believing it was mine. “Stacey—”

  “You best not let Mama see you with it. You know how she feel ’bout knives.”

  I nodded. As I did, Stacey bent and kissed my forehead. “Boy, you all right? You feeling feverish or somethin’?”

  Stacey walked back to his room and turned at the door. “I’m fine, Cassie. Now you jus’ be careful with that knife, you hear?”

  I nodded again.

  “Now go on back in and pull the latch.”

  “You sure you all right?”

  “I’m sure. Go on now,” he said and watched me until I closed the door.

  I slipped the latch, then heard Stacey’s door close. Clutching the penknife in my hand, I went back to the pallet, where I had a few minutes to examine the knife before I heard Big Ma coming and had to put it under my pillow. I just couldn’t get over the fact that Stacey had actually given the knife to me. I tossed and turned for a while, wondering why he had, and finally decided that if this was a new kind of phase Stacey was going through, I hoped it would last for a while.

  * * *

  In the morning we found the note. Written in Stacey’s sprawling, awkward hand, it said:

  Dear Mama

  I know yall aint gonna understand this but I gotta go. I found me a job pay $8 a week. Problem is I gotta leave here to get it. Mr Morrison I know he take good care of things. Dont nobody worry about me now. Ill be just fine.

  Your Son

  Stacey

  I love all of yall.

  10

  The words, the note, were like a shotgun blast. Silence settled over the dimly lit kitchen and a terrible fear welled within me as we stood in our nightgowns, Mama, Big Ma, Suzella, and I, staring with disbelief at the piece of paper Mama held as if we could change what it said. It was the kind of nauseous, terrifying fear which had come when Papa had been shot and the men had come to lynch T.J. Now here it was again, coming without warning, enveloping my whole being and shattering the peace of the Sunday morning.

  “Mama, most likely he just outside somewheres.”

  “Mos’ likely,” Big Ma agreed, not willing to believe it either. “That child, he can’t be gone.”

  Her face looking drained under the light of the lamp, Mama glanced from Big Ma to me, and I could see she did not believe either of us. “Cassie, do you know anything?” Her voice was an urgent demand. “Did Stacey say anything at all to you about leaving?”

  I shook my head and looked away; I did not want her to see my fear.

  “What about you, Suzella? Anything?”

  Suzella tried desperately to think of something, but finally she too said there was nothing.

  The door to the boys’ room opened and Christopher-John and Little Man stepped out, blinking into the light. “Mornin’,” they said. Mama spoke to them, then quietly told them about Stacey.

  “Gone?” questioned Christopher-John, not understanding. “Where? Out to the pasture with the cows?”

  “No. He’s gone to find work. He’s left home, and we don’t know where he is.”

  “Don’t know!” exclaimed Little Man. “Whaddaya mean ya don’t know?”

  Christopher-John’s eyes were round with fear, but he tried to comfort Mama. “Ah, Mama, we find him. Stacey, he be ’round this place somewheres. Don’t ya worry now.”

  Mama’s eyes were soft on him and for a moment I thought she was going to cry. But then, as if she were afraid to let her feelings out, her face grew suddenly stern and the look of tears disappeared. “Cassie, go get Mr. Morrison. Quick now! The rest of us better get dressed. We’ve got a lot of looking to do.”

  I dashed out into the gray dawn, across the lawn, and through the garden. “Mr. Morrison!” I yelled as I ran. “Mr. Morrison!”

  Mr. Morrison’s door opened and he stepped out, already dressed.

  “Mr. Morrison!”

  “What is it, Cassie?”

  I reached the porch and flung my arms around him. “It’s Stacey, Mr. Morrison! He’s gone!”

  * * *

  Mama decided that the first person to whom she wanted to talk was Moe Turner. If anyone knew anything about Stacey’s leaving, he would. Having begged to go with her, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I climbed into the wagon and the four of us headed toward Smellings Creek, while Mr. Morrison, riding Lady, went up the road toward Great Faith to see if families along the way knew anything that might help us. Big Ma and Suzella stayed behind to attend to the morning chores; then they would go on to the church to wait for the rest of us.

  At the Turners’, Moe’s father shook his head despondently. “I was jus’ ’bout to come see you, Miz Logan. I been searchin’ ’round here all mornin’ . . . Moe, he gone off too.”

  Mama’s lips parted slightly and for a moment she seemed unable to speak. “Then they’re together.”

  “Mos’ likely so.” Mr. Turner glanced around at his other children, bewilderment and fear on their faces. “That boy, he always talkin’ ’bout leavin’ . . . makin’ money. Always dreamin’ . . . I ’spect I got to the place I jus’ ain’t paid much ’tention. Seems it was all I could do jus’ to get them crops in and feed these here younguns.” He wiped at his eyes beginning to tear, and swallowed. “’Spect I shoulda listened more. Sho’ shoulda.”

  “Brother Turner, do you have any idea where Moe could’ve gone?”

  Mr. Turner bowed his head, then looked back sorrowfully at Mama. “No, ma’am, Miz Logan. Ain’t got no idea. No idea at all.”

  Mr. Turner said that he would start checking around the Smellings Creek area for word about Stacey and Moe, and we climbed back into the wagon and headed for Soldiers Road. Passing the Granger Road, we crossed to the Hopkins place, where Mama questioned Clarence. But Clarence knew nothing. From Clarence’s we went directly to Great Faith, where a crowd was waiting as we pulled onto the grounds. The services forgotten, everyone gathered around the wagon in frenzied excitement, offering advice and consolation as Mama and Mr. Morrison tried to decide what to do next.

  “You talk to Little Willie?” Mama asked Mr. Morrison. “He could know something.”

  “Yes’m, he sho’ did,” Little Willie spoke up, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. “But Miz Logan, Moe and Stacey, they ain’t said a thing to me ’bout this.”

  “You’re sure? I mean, maybe there’s something they said a while back about going? Anything, Little Willie.”

  Little Willie thought a moment and, after a glance at the Shorters, shook his head. “Miz Logan, tell you the truth, we all talked sometimes ’bout goin’ away gettin’ a job. Once Moe said something or ’nother ’bout the cane fields, but that’s ’bout all.”

  “I say what we oughta do here,” put in Mr. Lanier, “is get ourselves out to everyplace ’round here—white folks’ places too—and get to asking ’bout them boys. See if anybody done seen ’em.”

  “Can’t believe them younguns done gone off alone,” Mrs. Lanier lamented. “Nothin’ but babies.”

  Mr. Wiggins looked over at Mr. Lanier. “We better split up then, ’cause we go all through here, that’s a lotta folks to cover. Me and my family, we’ll take the Harrison plantation, then head on down toward Smellings Creek.”

  “Good idea,” said Reverend Gabson. “Better take more’n your family with ya, though. Get another group and we go on up the road toward Strawberry. Another one go on back over to the Montier place and help out the Turners.”

  “Don’t you worry now, sugar,” Mrs. Wiggins said to Mama. “We gonna have them boys back here ’fore night-fell.”r />
  Mama acknowledged her with a grateful smile. “Well, if you all will check around here, then Mr. Morrison and I’ll check in Strawberry.”

  “Strawberry!” exclaimed Mrs. Lee Annie. “Lord, child, you ain’t thinkin’ them younguns done gone that far!”

  “I think,” Mama softly said, “that maybe they could’ve gone even farther than that.”

  More plans for the search were made, then before everyone departed all heads bowed in prayer and Reverend Gabson, for once keeping it short, beseeched God to lead us to Stacey and Moe. Everyone said, “Amen,” and the search began.

  * * *

  Dusk settled and still Stacey had not come home. People returned from their appointed search routes, read the emptiness of the faces around them, and stayed, crowding the rooms and talking in low voices, waiting for the good news which could send them home. The Turners arrived, but they had no news either, and by the time the wagon rolled into the yard with only Mama and Mr. Morrison in it, we all recognized that there was to be no good news. Not this night.

  “Mary, child, y’all ain’t found out nothin’?” Big Ma said.

  “Nothin’ at all?” questioned Mr. Turner.

  Weary and discouraged, Mama looked out at all the people waiting to hear. She put an arm around Little Man. “There were men recruiting for the cane fields yesterday in Strawberry. Truck left out of there first thing this morning. . . . We think maybe Stacey and Moe were on it.”

  “Lordy!” cried Mr. Tom Bee. “Them younguns gone to the cane fields, then they be lucky to get back here at all.”

  “Hush your mouth, Tom Bee!” ordered Mrs. Lee Annie. “You wanna upset these younguns more’n they already is?”

  I felt the day’s fear slipping into a new terror. “Mama, what we gonna do now?”

  She turned to look at me. “I sent a telegram to your papa,” she said. “When he gets here, we’ll know.”

  In the middle of the night I heard Little Man and Christopher-John sobbing loudly and Mama trying to comfort them. I lay very still on my pallet, my eyes dry. I refused to cry. Crying would be like admitting Stacey was really gone, and he couldn’t be gone . . . not far, not for long. He just couldn’t.

  * * *

  When Papa came, he held Mama to him, then the rest of us, before shaking Mr. Morrison’s hand and greeting Suzella. Looking tired from his long journey, he settled down to read the note and listen to all that we knew about Stacey’s leaving.

  “Most likely, if he working cane,” said Mr. Morrison, “he in Louisiana somewheres.”

  Papa nodded. “But the thing is, we can’t be sure. They got cane here, some of these other states too.”

  “But Louisiana, they the ones got them big cane plantations,” Mr. Morrison contended. “That’s where they be needing the most choppers.”

  “You say nobody could tell you where that truck was headed?”

  “From what we could gather,” Mama said, looking exhausted from so little sleep, “the cane people never really said. Just said the pay was eight dollars a week and for anyone who wanted the work to be in front of the Mercantile on Sunday morning or at the Wallace store. Evidently the truck came right down through here.”

  Papa ran the flat of his hand over his head and was very quiet. When he spoke again, he said, “I called Hammer. Soon’s he get here, we’ll go looking. Take the main road outa here and ask ’long the way if folks know anything ’bout transport trucks to the cane plantations.”

  “Ya know,” Mr. Morrison said, “I shoulda seen it comin’. Him so worried ’bout the crops and all.”

  “Don’t go blamin’ yourself now. It surely ain’t your fault.”

  Mr. Morrison nodded. “That boy . . . ya know he mean an awful lot to me too.”

  “I know,” Papa said.

  “You gonna bring Stacey on back, ain’tcha, Papa?” said a confident Christopher-John. “Ain’tcha?”

  “I’m gonna try, son. I’m gonna try.”

  Uncle Hammer arrived that same evening, and without taking time to rest he and Papa climbed into the Ford and left again. We watched as the car sped away, the autumn sunset casting a pale glow upon it. We watched and waited.

  * * *

  “Cassie . . . where you going?”

  I didn’t answer Christopher-John as I plunged into the forest.

  “Wait up, Cassie!” he hollered, following with Little Man.

  I ran faster, past the gray-bark sweet gums and the wintery-smelling pines, past the stately black oaks and the nutladen hickories. Near the pond, I stopped and flung my arms around a massive pine, needing its comfort. I felt the rough of its bark against my skin and I wanted to wail out my sorrow to it, but hearing Christopher-John and Little Man, I tore away from the tree, and ran on. By the time Christopher-John and Little Man reached me, I was sitting on the bank of the pond. They looked at me in silence and collapsed beside me.

  For a while we all were quiet, then Little Man said, “Why’d he go, huh? That’s what I wanna know.” He took a pebble and threw it angrily into the pond. “How come Stacey jus’ gone off like he done and ain’t even said goodbye or nothin’? He got tired being with us or what? Huh? Don’t he care?”

  I felt the same anger, but feeling it my duty as the eldest now to try and comfort him, I said, “He cares. He jus’ thought he was doing what he had to do . . . I guess.”

  “Sure he did,” confirmed Christopher-John. “Stacey, he probably figured he had to go. That it was the best thing.”

  “Well, why didn’t he take us with him then?”

  “Boy, he probably had a hard enough time jus’ to get outa here himself,” I explained irritably. “How you ’spect him to be worrying ’bout you too?”

  Little Man looked away, hurt. “I wouldn’t’ve been no trouble.”

  I felt his pain. “I know.”

  We heard someone coming from the east and looked out over the pond, waiting. After several moments, Jeremy Simms appeared. He waved and when he reached the pond, settled beside us. He had heard about Stacey.

  “He’ll be back, ya know. He’ll be all right too.” He caught the misgivings in our eyes and chastised us gently for our poor faith. “Y’all ain’t give up, have ya? Why, Stacey, he gone all the way to Louisiana by hisself over two years ago now and he was a lot younger then. Y’all forgotten that?”

  It took us a moment, but we finally said we hadn’t.

  “Then don’t,” he ordered, leaning back on his elbows. “Stacey, he can take care of hisself all right.”

  With Jeremy we did not have to talk when we had no more words to say, and now as he grew quiet, we grew quiet as well. Around us the world of green trees reaching toward blue skies sang a sad song in the soft breeze, sharing our loneliness. Forgotten for the moment was the work waiting for us, as tree boughs fanned above us and birds, silhouetted like dark messengers against the sky, called out to invite us to go with them. I thought of the everyday times Stacey had sat here with us watching the same trees and the same sky, and as the birds flew away taking their messages with them, I wondered if he ever would again.

  * * *

  A week after Stacey left school started, and for the first time we walked the red road without him. Suzella had received a letter from Cousin Bud saying that she would have to stay awhile longer, and she enrolled the first day at Great Faith as a tenth grader. But by the end of the day it had become painfully clear to her teacher that Suzella’s educational level was much too advanced for the class, and she was skipped to the eleventh-twelfth-grade class under the instruction of Mr. Wellever himself. In addition to her promotion Suzella had her New York lessons to keep up with, and she juggled her study time between lessons from Great Faith and lessons sent from St. Anne’s, which Mama helped her with.

  Being in the sixth grade this year, I found myself in Mrs. Mabel Thompson’s class. Mrs. Thompson seemed satisfactory enough; I felt nothing for her one way or the other.

  Little Man was fortunate enough to have Miss Rosella Sayers, a
young teacher from Jackson, but poor Christopher-John, now in the fourth grade, had fallen into the hands of Miss Daisy Crocker. I greatly sympathized with him, but as in everything else, Christopher-John tried to see the bright side in having to face such a shrew each morning. “Maybe she done changed,” he said hopefully on the first day of school. However, when classes were over he was noticeably quiet.

  “Well?” I asked him.

  He shrugged dejectedly and admitted, “She still the same.”

  No doubt she was. Certainly little else seemed to be. Without Stacey, nothing much was the same.

  * * *

  The days passed, with each day growing longer than the day before. Every day Little Man and Christopher-John stared out the window watching the road, waiting for Stacey, who never came. Every day on the way to school, we listened anxiously for any sound on the road—a car, a wagon, footsteps—that might bring news of, him. In the mornings I awoke with the dread of Stacey’s absence hanging in the air, and throughout each day I was consumed with the hope of seeing him walking in that loping gait of his past the old oak and the cotton fields, and up the drive. But then each night I went to bed feeling helpless once again, and angry. Angry at the cane people for coming to Strawberry waving their eight-dollar offer under the noses of needy boys, and angry at Stacey for leaving us. Through one week we waited, then two. In the middle of the third week, Papa and Uncle Hammer returned.

  Stacey wasn’t with them.

  “How many places you go to?” Mama questioned as we sat at the kitchen table. “Wasn’t there anyone who could tell you something?”

  Papa put down his coffee. Unshaven, eyes bloodshot, both he and Uncle Hammer looked exhausted. “Seems there’s men that just make a business of getting workers for the cane fields. They ain’t hired by the plantation owners. They just get the workers, bring ’em to the plantations, get their money, and go on. Usually most of ’em don’t take boys young as Stacey and Moe.”

  “Well, you talked to some of them, didn’t you?”