Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “All right, Bud,” she said, and the two of them went out.

  When Mama returned alone, Suzella seemed not at all surprised to learn that Cousin Bud was waiting to talk to her down by the pond. She simply nodded, put on her coat, and went out. Then Mama told us why Cousin Bud had come. He and Suzella’s mother were getting a divorce and Cousin Bud was here to take Suzella home.

  Christopher-John, Little Man, and I stared at Mama and said nothing. Suzella had come to mean a lot to Christopher-John and Little Man, and at that moment I realized she had come to mean a lot to me too. Since Stacey had gone, I hadn’t even thought about her leaving.

  “When they goin’?” Big Ma quietly asked.

  “Bud wanted to leave tonight because of Hammer being here, but I talked him into staying until tomorrow. I figure Suzella’ll need at least that much time to pack and say goodbye to folks.”

  Outside we heard a car pull into the drive and Christopher-John said, “Papa and them’s back.”

  Big Ma got up and walked slowly across the room. “’Spect I’d best get them dresses Suzella done washed and iron ’em up for her ’fore I start supper.” She stopped at the dining room door and looked around. “Lord, I’m gonna sho’ miss that child . . . sho is. . . .” Then she turned and went into the kitchen.

  A short while later, Suzella was packing. “You know, I don’t really want to go,” she said as she pulled her dresses from the chiffonier. “This seems more like home now than New York.” She looked around the room and was thoughtful.

  I folded a sweater for her and carefully placed it in the suitcase. “I’m sorry ’bout your folks. ’bout them gettin’ a divorce and all.”

  Suzella shook her head. “I’m not, not really. I knew it was coming.”

  “Which one you gonna stay with?”

  She didn’t look at me. “My mother.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She glanced at me, her look somewhat guilty, and continued to pack. “It’ll be easier for me, Cassie, if I stay with my mother.”

  “I guess.” I shrugged. “You wantin’ to be white so bad.”

  “Cassie . . . please don’t start that.”

  I sighed. “I wish you could stay.”

  “Thought you couldn’t wait for me to leave,” she laughed.

  “Well . . . you kinda grew on me.”

  “You kind of grew on me too. All of you. I only wish . . .” She didn’t finish.

  “What?”

  Noisily she wrapped a shoe in newspaper to cover the cracking of her voice. “That Stacey had gotten back before I left.” She stopped and met my eyes. “When he comes back again, give him a big hug for me and tell him . . . tell him I really missed him.”

  I handed her the other shoe. “I promise,” I said, looking away. Then, feeling a new loneliness at the thought of her leaving too, I went around the bed and hugged her tightly, something I had thought I would never do. When everything was packed, we joined Christopher-John and Little Man sitting on the front porch.

  “Suzella, ain’t there no way you can stay?” said Christopher-John.

  “You heard Mama,” I said sullenly. “She can’t stay.”

  “I know,” he admitted.

  “But I wish I could.”

  Little Man looked around at her. “We gonna miss you, Suzella,” he said and quickly looked away again.

  Suzella bit her lower lip and wiped at her eyes. Then she stooped down between them and put an arm around each one. “I’ll be back though,” she promised. “Stacey and I, we’ll both be back.”

  Christopher-John rubbed the back of his hand across his nose and nodded to the road. “Truck coming,” he announced in a husky voice.

  A few moments later a truck turned into the driveway. Mr. Tate Sutton and Charlie Simms got out. Jeremy was with them. Christopher-John hopped up immediately and ran inside. “Papa, there’s some white men out here,” he said. By the time Mr. Sutton, Mr. Simms, and Jeremy got to the steps, Papa and Uncle Hammer were on the porch; Christopher-John slipped back out behind them. Jeremy nodded at us, and Mr. Sutton said, “David. Hammer.”

  Papa and Uncle Hammer nodded their greeting; an awkward silence followed. Then Mr. Sutton, who obviously had been elected to do the talking, spoke up. “I s’pose y’all done heard the union’s getting started up again.”

  “Union?” Papa said, as if he had never heard the word.

  Mr. Sutton nodded. “That’s right. One Morris Wheeler got started.”

  Papa was silent, feigning ignorance. Uncle Hammer stood several feet behind him, leaning against the house, allowing Papa to do the talking.

  “One got ended when Morris Wheeler got burnt out. . . . They say he’s back, by the way. You had heard that, hadn’t you?”

  “I can’t say that I have.”

  “You jus’ don’t know nothin’, now, do you?” said Mr. Simms, a sour look on his face.

  Jeremy shot his father a disapproving glance. Mr. Sutton rushed on, not giving Papa time to answer. “Well, we come now ’cause we know things only gonna get worse. Can’t figure on nothin’ much gettin’ better after what happened over at the Walker place yesterday—”

  “Maybe he don’t know ’bout that neither,” interrupted Mr. Simms with a sarcastic snarl.

  Mr. Sutton looked irritably over his shoulder at Mr. Simms, then returned his attention to Papa. “The Walkers putting twelve of their families off the land—white and colored.”

  “Mostly white—”

  “Say they can’t make no money with a quarter of the land fallow. Say the families have to go ’fore the week’s out. We figure the Walkers can do that, then so can Mr. Granger, Mr. Montier, Mr. Harrison, anybody. So some of us been talkin’ and we figure it’s time to get the union back on its feet.” He paused, looking embarrassed. “Come too ’cause we figure maybe Mr. Wheeler was right ’bout colored farmers . . . ’bout colored farmers being a part of it.”

  “I see,” Papa said.

  “Hope you do,” said Mr. Sutton. “You get the colored in this thing and we can get to moving with it. Do some standing up for ourselves. Keep this kinda thing from happening to the rest of us.”

  Papa stood in silence; Mr. Sutton and Mr. Simms and Jeremy waited. Then Papa said, “I ’spect y’all wanna get the union goin’, then you best talk to the folks sharecropping on plantation land.”

  “We figures to do that,” said Mr. Sutton. “But we also figured Mr. Wheeler mos’ likely started with you, best we do the same.”

  Papa did not confirm having ever spoken to Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Sutton did not press him about it, but he did try to get Papa to commit himself to talking to other black farmers in the community. Papa, however, committed himself to nothing, including ever having even heard of the union. Finally Mr. Sutton gave up and started away. “We gonna have us a meeting come another week,” he said in a parting attempt to gain Papa’s alliance. “You remember that.”

  “Come on, Tate,” Mr. Simms ordered brusquely. “I never did like the idea of beggin’ no nigger—”

  Mr. Sutton shook his head and walked back to the car, with Mr. Simms following. Jeremy turned to go with them, then stopped and looked back at us. “Any word?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No word.”

  Jeremy’s lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but he left without speaking again, probably not even realizing his eyes had said it all.

  Uncle Hammer and Papa watched the truck pull away, then went back into the house. A few minutes later Cousin Bud came out and said that if Suzella still wanted to say good-bye to Mrs. Lee Annie, we had better get started. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I decided to go with them.

  At Mrs. Lee Annie’s, Russell said, “You know, I was kinda planning on trying to get you to talk to me a little bit.” He teased a smile from Suzella. “’Fraid I don’t have no chocolates though.”

  “You don’t need any.”

  “You encouraging me then?”

  Suzella seemed embarrassed. “Whe
re’s Wordell? I was hoping I’d get a chance to see him.”

  “No telling. But I’ll tell him you said good-bye.”

  “I didn’t really get to know him.”

  “Few people do.”

  “But I like him.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “By the way, Cassie,” Russell said, turning my way, “tell your folks that if they decide to go on into Strawberry with Mama Lee next week, then we’d be obliged to go with them. Cousin Page won’t let us take the wagon. Cousin Leora say she’ll be going and I’ll be going. Y’all don’t go, then tell your papa I’ll be speaking to him ’bout borrowing the wagon.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Well, here we is,” announced Mrs. Lee Annie proudly as she stepped back from her cabinets, where she had been searching the last several minutes. She had a jar in each hand. “Got some pickled beets for ya and some crackling. Wants ya to have some of these here pickled cucumbers, onions, and tomato preserves too, ya liked ’em so much.”

  Suzella smiled and shook her head, speechless. Russell nudged her. “Ain’t she something?”

  “Oh, yes,” Suzella agreed, looking into his eyes. “Something mighty fine.”

  For a moment their eyes were fixed on each other. Then Russell said: “You wanna see Wordell ’fore you go, I got an idea where he went off to. You want, we can go check.”

  Suzella glanced over at Cousin Bud, engaged in hearty conversation with Mrs. Lee Annie, and got up. Half an hour later when Cousin Bud decided it was time to go and Suzella and Russell hadn’t come back, I was sent to get them. As I ran outside I saw them coming up the trail from the Little RosaLee. I was about to call out to them when to my surprise Russell turned Suzella to him and kissed her. Suzella allowed the kiss, then looking confused pulled from him and ran back to the house.

  “Cousin Bud said he’s ready to go,” I told her as she hurried past me. Hardly looking at me, she nodded and went inside.

  A few minutes later when we were in the car and going down the trail, I whispered, “I seen Russell kiss you.”

  Suzella glanced at me, a bit embarrassed. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  I stared at her.

  “Really,” she protested.

  “You say so,” I said, letting her have her way about it.

  As we pulled into the road, we saw Dubé Cross up ahead and Cousin Bud offered him a ride. Dubé hopped gratefully into the backseat with Suzella and me; he was headed over to the Harrison plantation. I told him about the visit from Mr. Sutton and Mr. Simms and what they had said about Mr. Wheeler’s being back. Dubé, however, claimed he didn’t know anything about Morris Wheeler. “I-I-I ain’t seen him,” he said earnestly enough, though I had my doubts about the truthfulness of his statement. “Th-th-they here, they must bbbb-be hidin’.”

  “You sure you ain’t seen him?” I questioned. “Thought y’all was so close.”

  “I-I-I jus’ helped ’em out s-s-sometime. I-I—” He stopped and stared out the side window. “Uh-oh! Th-there that Stuart.”

  Coming toward the crossroads from the north was Joe Billy Montier’s car. We could see two other men in the car and figured they were Stuart Walker and Pierceson Wells.

  Cousin Bud slowed, then turned onto the Granger Road. I kept my eyes on Joe Billy’s car as it picked up speed; I didn’t like the feel of it.

  Joe Billy honked at us and Cousin Bud slowed down.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t stop.”

  Cousin Bud looked in the rear view mirror at the car. “Ain’t gonna stop. Think they just wanna pass.”

  Joe Billy’s car was now at our tail. Cousin Bud pulled over to let them pass. They pulled along beside us. “Say, boy!” Stuart hollered from the front passenger seat. “Pull over a second! We wanna talk to ya!”

  “Please, Cousin Bud, don’t,” I said. “I got me a feeling. Them boys, they up to no good. Dubé, you tell him.”

  “C-C-Cassie, she most likely r-r-right. B-b-better speed on up.”

  Cousin Bud glanced over at Stuart. “It’s probably nothing, I don’t make it anything. I’d better stop.”

  He slowed to a stop and a nagging remembrance told me he was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

  Joe Billy stopped as well, and Stuart and Pierceson Wells got out. Pierceson walked around to the other side of the car and put his foot on the front bumper. Stuart came over to Cousin Bud’s window and peeped inside; his eyes rested on Suzella. “Say, Suzella,” he said, “I hear your father’s here. This him?”

  Suzella blanched and nodded.

  Stuart stepped back from the car. “Well, well. So this is the boy who sired a pretty thing like you.”

  Cousin Bud gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead.

  “He don’t look quite light enough to me.” Stuart looked over at Joe Billy, then Pierceson. “What ’bout y’all?”

  “Not that I can see,” Pierceson replied. Joe Billy did not answer.

  Stuart laughed. “Ya know, this gal of yours, she pulled a pretty good one on me a while back. Had me thinking she was white. Had me bowing and scraping to her like she was a lady. . . . Yeah . . . I won’t be forgetting that.” His eyes settled on Suzella, lingering too long. She crimsoned as he stared, but did not look away. Finally Stuart stepped back and motioned Cousin Bud out of the car. “Get on out and let’s take a look at you.”

  Joe Billy stepped from his car and came closer. Cousin Bud, his hands still gripping the wheel, looked over his shoulder at Suzella.

  “Move, boy!” snapped Pierceson.

  Cousin Bud released the wheel and got out. Dubé opened his door to get out as well, but Pierceson stopped him. “You, boy, you stay put now.”

  Stuart circled Cousin Bud to inspect him. “Don’t look no lighter out here to me than he did inside,” he decided.

  “Maybe it’s the sun got him so dark,” suggested Pierceson. “Probably he real light-skinned under that fine suit he got on. Maybe he need to just take that off.”

  “Maybe so,” Stuart agreed.

  “Please . . .” said Cousin Bud. “My daughter—”

  “Now that’s just what we trying to find out . . . ’bout your daughter. Why she look so much like she white. Can you tell us why?”

  Cousin Bud, as chilly as it was, began to sweat.

  “Well, what you say, boy?”

  “Her mother . . . she—she’s real light-skinned—”

  “Yeah, now that’s just what we heard. Heard in fact she’s so light, she’s white. Now what you say ’bout that? You been bedding a white woman?”

  “No, sir, I . . . it’s a colored girl’s Suzella’s mother.”

  “Way I hear it,” Stuart continued, “up in New York they ’lows most anything. Even niggers wedding white women. You hear that too, Pierce?”

  Pierceson nodded. “Yep, heard that too.”

  Stuart turned back to Cousin Bud. “You hear that, boy?”

  Cousin Bud swallowed hard, his eyes cast to the ground.

  “Tell me, you ever sleep with a white woman?” Stuart taunted. “Ever want to? Huh? Bet you did. Don’t be scared. You can tell me.”

  “You white trash. Leave him alone.”

  There was a moment when nothing moved and nothing was said. Then slowly Stuart turned and stared in silence at Suzella. I waited, unable to breathe. Finally, very quietly, Stuart said: “You might look like you white, gal, but you best remember you ain’t. You vex me today and I’m gonna take you outa that car too.”

  Suzella met his gaze and did not look away. “Don’t you hurt him. I mean that . . . don’t you hurt him.” Her voice was calm, yet threatening, and Stuart seemed not to know how to react to it. He started toward her.

  Joe Billy moved forward quickly and grabbed his arm. “Ah, come on now, Stuart, this done gone far enough now—”

  “I say what we oughta do is make the nigger strip,” said Pierceson.

  Suzella leaned forward to protest, but Cousin Bud hissed sharply, “Hush, Suzella! Hush!”
/>
  Stuart took a deep breath and pulled his arm from Joe Billy’s grasp. He kept his eyes on Suzella a moment longer, then turned to Cousin Bud. “That’s an idea, Pierceson. We’ll see jus’ how light the nigger is. . . . All right, nigger, go ’head. Get them clothes off.”

  Cousin Bud looked stunned. “Please, sirs, don’t make me do that. My daughter, the children—”

  “But look here, can’t you see it’s for your own good? You light as you claim you are under all that clothing, we’ll have to believe what you say ’bout that gal’s mama. Go on now. Do like yon told—”

  “Stuart, for God’s sake!” objected Joe Billy. “He’ll catch his death of cold out here!”

  Stuart turned on him angrily. “You jus’ shut your mouth, Joe Billy. You ain’t got the stomach for this, then get back in the car. As for me, I’m gonna find out ’bout this nigger—you heard me, boy. Get them clothes off!”

  Cousin Bud’s whole body trembled. “Please,” he pleaded. “Not in front of my daughter—”

  Stuart’s hand lashed out and struck Cousin Bud across the face.

  “Oh, God!” Suzella cried and opened the car door. Before she could get out, Joe Billy slammed it shut. “Stay there,” he ordered.

  Dubé leapt from the other side of the car. “P-p-please, Mr. Stuart—” He didn’t finish; Pierceson punched him hard in the stomach and Dubé fell to his knees.

  “Dubé!” we cried from the car. Stunned, we gazed on as Pierceson grabbed Dubé and, pulling him up, slung him hard against the hood and twisted his left arm back to hold him. Blood spurted from Dubé’s nose and I felt the knot of fear tighten within me.

  “All right,” Stuart said to Cousin Bud, “I’m waiting. Get them clothes off.”

  Trembling, Cousin Bud took off his tie.

  “Bet you strip a whole lot faster’n that when you got some gal waiting for you.” He laughed obscenely.

  Cousin Bud glanced around at Suzella, then took off his coat, then his shirt.