Let the Circle Be Unbroken

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “Get that undershirt off.”

  Cousin Bud complied.

  Stuart again walked around him as if examining a prime steer. “What you think, Pierce?”

  Pierceson shrugged. “Still can’t tell. I think we’d better see his legs.”

  Stuart nodded. “You heard him, boy. Take off them pants.”

  “Please, just let me go down in the woods there—”

  “Get ’em off!”

  Cousin Bud did as he was told. He stood there, his back to us, his body shaking with only his shorts left to cover him. I looked away, feeling his humiliation.

  “What you say now, nigger?” taunted Stuart. “You ever sleep with a white woman in New York? You know what we do down here to a nigger tries that, don’t you?” Cousin Bud lowered his head and stared at the ground. Stuart grabbed his chin and jerked it upward. “Wants the truth now! This gal’s mama white?”

  Suddenly, before I could stop him, Little Man flung open the door and leapt from the car. Skirting Pierceson, he dashed madly up the road toward a wagon which had just appeared on the rise. Mr. Morrison was driving it.

  Joe Billy stared at the wagon and turned back to his car. “We’d better go.”

  Stuart laughed. “Just ’cause of some nigger in a wagon?”

  “If I ain’t mistaken, that ain’t no ordinary nigra. That’s the one folks say broke Dewberry Wallace’s back and put Thurston’s arm in a sling.”

  The wagon drew closer. Mr. Morrison, his eyes sure and steady, took in the scene. A few feet from us he stopped and pulled Little Man up beside him. Then he nodded toward Pierceson. “Be obliged you let go of that boy.”

  Pierceson looked uncertain.

  “Or you want, I’ll get down and you can try holdin’ my arm.”

  Pierceson glanced over for Stuart’s approval, and getting no reaction released Dubé

  “Uncle,” Stuart said, “you messing in something don’t concern you and I ain’t gonna hold for it, not from no—”

  “Mr. Rankin, get your clothes on.”

  “Nigger, look here now—”

  “That y’all’s car there, then it be best y’all get in it and get on home and let us do the same.” Mr. Morrison’s voice was soft and quiet, as always, but the unspoken threat hung over the still forest.

  Joe Billy got in. “Come on, Stuart,” he said.

  Stuart stood in a rage, not moving, as he glared up at Mr. Morrison.

  “I said come on!”

  Stuart turned, then looked back again and pointed a finger at Mr. Morrison. “I ain’t gonna forget this!”

  “I ain’t either,” said Mr. Morrison.

  There seemed nothing else to say. Stuart got in the car; Pierceson followed him, slamming the back door angrily. Joe Billy turned the car around and drove off. Mr. Morrison waited until they could no longer be seen and spoke once again to Cousin Bud. “Mr. Rankin, put your clothes on and we’ll get on home.”

  Cousin Bud nodded and reached for his clothes, but broken with fear, he retched upon them. Mr. Morrison got down from the wagon and, picking up the clothing, led Cousin Bud into the woods. Not knowing what to say, we said nothing while they were gone. In a few minutes they came back.

  “Daddy, you all right?” asked Suzella, her face pale, her eyes filled with pain.

  “Yeah, baby, I’m fine,” Cousin Bud replied, getting into the car, but his hands shook violently as he reached for the ignition.

  “M-M-Mr. Rankin, I-I-I can drive, ya want me t-t-to,” said Dubé, holding the bottom of his shirt to his nose. “He ain’t hurt me n-n-none.”

  Without looking at him, Cousin Bud scooted over.

  Mr. Morrison, with Little Man beside him, turned the wagon around and headed home. Silently we followed. Before the car rolled to a stop in the driveway, Cousin Bud got out and went to the outhouse, and when he finally came to the house, he would not look directly at anyone. That evening, before dusk, he and Suzella left for New York.

  13

  Little Man pressed his face against the front window, staring out at the misty rain which covered the land, and waited for New Year’s Day to pass. Several times Mama called him from the window and obediently he left it, but after a while he would return to it to stare out once again.

  So far the new year had been uneventful. Mr. Wiggins, along with Little Willie and Maynard, had stopped by in the morning, and Big Ma had walked up to the Averys’ to visit, but now we sat, just the family, in front of the fire, not much wanting to leave it and not much wanting company either. Then as the afternoon darkened toward evening and Little Man still stood at the window, he turned suddenly, his eyes bright, and announced that Mr. Jamison was coming.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Mr. Jamison said, sitting in the chair Uncle Hammer had vacated for him, “but I just heard from the sheriff of a town in Louisiana who had some information about some boys from Mississippi who’d worked a plantation near Baton Rouge.” His eyes swept our anxious faces. “He said there was a possibility one of those boys could have been Stacey.”

  The room went silent, our eyes glued to Mr. Jamison.

  “Where?” Mama asked breathlessly. “What’s the name of the town?”

  “Buford. But I don’t really know that much yet. Mrs. Jamison and I’ve been out of town this whole Christmas week and just got back late last evening. This afternoon I checked my messages and mail at the office, and found a note from my secretary saying that a Sheriff Conroy had called a few days back about the letter we sent.”

  Papa leaned forward. “You get a chance to talk to him?”

  “I tried calling, but it being New Year’s, I couldn’t raise anybody at the jail. Operator said the sheriff would be in tomorrow. Thought, though, that you’d like to know about this as soon as possible.”

  “How far is Buford into Louisiana?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’s north of Baton Rouge.”

  Mama leaned toward Papa. “We could leave now and be in Buford by tomorrow, couldn’t we?”

  Before Papa could answer, Mr. Jamison said, “I wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Logan—go there, I mean. Not yet. I think it’d be better if I got a chance to talk to this Sheriff Conroy on the phone and see if those boys are actually there.” He took a moment to clear his throat. “One other thing. I checked with my secretary about the call . . . she said Sheriff Conroy mentioned something about some of the boys who worked at that plantation being in jail in another county.”

  “Jail!”

  “Don’t alarm yourselves yet. We don’t even know if Stacey was at that particular plantation. I imagine a good number of Mississippi workers go into Louisiana to chop cane.”

  “You say you’ll call tomorrow?”

  “First thing.”

  “Can’t you give him a call at home?” questioned Uncle Hammer.

  “Hammer, it’s New Year’s,” Big Ma reminded him.

  “Mama, what I care what day it is? Stacey in a jail somewheres, I wanna know ’bout it now.”

  “Tried his house,” Mr. Jamison said. “No one at home.”

  Uncle Hammer sighed impatiently.

  Papa glanced at him, then back to Mr. Jamison. “What time you planning on calling in the morning?”

  “Beginning of business hours. Eight o’clock. You want, after I find out something, I can come back out—”

  “No. We’ll be in.”

  Mr. Jamison’s eyes met Papa’s. “All right.” Then he stood. “I guess I’d better be getting on back to town. I don’t like neglecting Mrs. Jamison on a holiday.” At the door he looked back at us. “Please don’t get your hopes up. It might not even be him.”

  When he was gone, Papa, Uncle Hammer, and Mr. Morrison drove over to Smellings Creek to tell Mr. Turner about the call, and upon their return little was said. Mr. Morrison excused himself early. Uncle Hammer and Papa exchanged a few words, then they too grew quiet. Even Christopher-John and Little Man made no speculations about the possibility that Stacey was perhaps only a
phone call away. It was as if after all this time of hoping, thoughts of Stacey were now too fragile to be spoken aloud, and we each kept our own thoughts, afraid of speaking them, afraid of somehow dashing this new hope.

  * * *

  I couldn’t sleep. The night was too long, the thoughts racing through my head too labored. As I waited for the crowing of the roosters, which seemed as if it would never come, I kept trying to picture what it would be like to see Stacey again. I had to remind myself that we didn’t know much of anything, not really, and that thought made me want to rush the coming of morning even more, so that we would know something.

  Several times I got up, crossed to the window, and looked up at the sky trying to see if the moon had gotten stuck up there, making it impossible for the sun to rise. On my fifth trip to the window Big Ma said, “Child, you jus’ wearin’ out that floor. It be mornin’ in the Lord’s own good time.” She sounded wide awake; she hadn’t been able to sleep either. “Come on back to bed and rest yo’self.”

  “I ain’t gonna sleep.”

  “Mos’ likely you ain’t, but rest yo’self anyways. It’s gonna be a big day tomorrow.”

  Long before dawn I heard Mr. Morrison in the barn hitching Jack to the wagon. He was getting an early start into Strawberry. Then I heard Papa and Uncle Hammer join him. The three talked for several minutes, and when Mr. Morrison had gone, Papa and Uncle Hammer reentered the house and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later Mama and Big Ma got up and went there too. With so much activity going on, I wasn’t surprised when Christopher-John and Little Man pushed open the door and padded in, whispering, “Cassie, you sleep?”

  I sat up. “No.”

  They came over and sat on the bed.

  “You think it’s him?” asked Little Man, his voice a mere whisper.

  “I dunno.”

  “If it is,” Christopher-John said, “what he doing in jail?”

  “It’s jus’ gotta be him is all I gotta say,” Little Man decided. “High time he come on home.”

  I heard one sniffle and then no more. They lay back on the bed, saying nothing else, and together we watched the moon sliding too slowly westward. Finally I fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Cassie . . . Cassie, wake up.”

  I opened my eyes. Mama was sitting beside me on the bed. Little Man and Christopher-John lay crossways on the bed covered by a blanket, still sleeping. Mama talked softly, not to waken them.

  “Cassie, your papa and I’ve decided to go with Mrs. Lee Annie this morning, and we’ve decided you can go too.”

  I sat up immediately. “I can?”

  Mama glanced over at Christopher-John and Little Man to see if I had awakened them. They were still asleep. “Mr. Morrison left early to get Russell, since there’s not enough room for everybody in the car. Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Lee Annie’ll be going with us.”

  I nodded, excited not only about going with Mrs. Lee Annie, but that I would be in Strawberry when Mr. Jamison made the call about Stacey.

  “Now, Cassie,” Mama said, her voice low, strained, “we’ve talked about this before. How dangerous this thing can be.” She took my hand. “We decided you should go because it’s important that you see this. But, Cassie, I expect you to keep that mouth of yours shut. I don’t want to hear one word out of you all the while we’re in that office, do you hear me? I’ll do the talking.”

  “Yes’m,” I promised.

  An hour later I was sitting in the car with Mama, Papa, and Uncle Hammer. Little Man and Christopher-John stood beside the car bemoaning the fact that they couldn’t go. “Sho’ wish we could go,” each of them managed to slip in at least twice. And Big Ma said: “Mary, hug Lee Annie for me and wish her well.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

  “And y’all bring back some good news this time ’bout that boy. Good news, ya hear?” She dabbed at her eyes, then waved us on. “Y’all go on now. And be careful. . . .”

  We said good-bye and headed down the drive with Big Ma, Christopher-John, and Little Man waving after us. At the rise where the oak stood, I looked back once more. They were still standing there.

  * * *

  It was a little after eight o’clock when we reached Strawberry. Mr. Morrison and Russell, dressed in civilian clothes, were waiting for us in front of Mr. Jamison’s office across from the courthouse square. To our surprise Mr. Tom Bee and Wordell were with them.

  “I told that old woman she was crazy,” Mr. Tom Bee explained as we got out of the car, “but she crazy ’nough to come try’n’ register, I guess I’m crazy ’nough to come in with her.”

  The door to Mr. Jamison’s office opened and Mr. Jamison came out looking tired, as if he had gotten as little sleep as we, and not for the first time I wondered why he cared so much. “I just called Buford,” he said after greeting us, “but I wasn’t able to get anyone. I guess they’re a little late getting in this morning.”

  Mama glanced away to hide her disappointment, but Papa said, “How long ’fore you planning on trying again?”

  “Another half hour the operator’s supposed to try again. You want to, you can come in and wait.”

  “We’ve got a bit of business to take care of first, but I’ll be back ’fore you call again.”

  “All right, I’ll see you then.” He gave us a nod and returned to his office.

  “Ya know, Mary,” said Mrs. Lee Annie, “you and Cassie here, y’all ain’t gotta go in with me. This here ’bout that child is what y’all need to be tending to. I can make out with jus’ Leora.”

  Mama refused to hear of Mrs. Lee Annie’s going without her. “We’ve got half an hour yet before we hear anything, so let’s just put that time to good use and get you registered.”

  “Well, Miz Lee Annie,” Papa said, “you ladies going to the courthouse, I imagine we best get started. We’ll walk y’all over.”

  Mrs. Lee Annie made a quick but useless adjustment to her hat and the bow-tied ribbon of her best dress, then ran her hand over the front of her coat. “All right. Let’s go.”

  It had been decided earlier that only Mama, Mrs. Ellis, and I would go into the courthouse with Mrs. Lee Annie and that none of the men would go; their presence could prove too threatening. Mr. Tom Bee stayed in the wagon, Mr. Morrison beside it. The rest of us—including Wordell, who jumped from the wagon to follow at the last minute—crossed the street to McGiver.

  “Wordell,” I said as we crossed the street, “you think it’s him?”

  Wordell looked at me, not even needing me to explain my words; he knew my thoughts. “Ya think it is?”

  At that exact moment, I decided I did. “Yeah . . . I do.” “Then mos’ likely it’s him then.”

  At the courthouse steps, Mama said, “David, you hear anything, anything at all, you let me know.”

  “Don’t worry, sugar.” He kissed her lightly, then looked at me. “I’m right proud of you. I want you to know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Lee Annie started up the steps and Mrs. Ellis, Mama, and I followed her. At the top we took a moment to look back, then stepped inside the courthouse.

  * * *

  The registrar’s office was on the first floor. We stood silently before the door leading to it, reading the lettering and giving ourselves another moment to gather our courage. Mama looked around at each of us. “Ready?” she said. We nodded, and she opened the door.

  A woman sitting at a typewriter, her fingers busy at the keys, glanced up as we entered, then back at the sheaf of papers from which she was typing. We stood before her, waiting. She finished a page, pulled it from the typewriter, and took the time to separate the carbons from the original before finally looking at us again. At last she deigned to speak. “What y’all want?” she asked.

  Mrs. Lee Annie told her.

  The woman looked as if she had just gone hard of hearing. “What?”

  “Come to register so’s I can vote,” Mrs. Lee Annie repeated.

  The woman star
ed at us. “All of y’all coming for that?”

  “No, ma’am,” Mrs. Lee Annie spoke up again. “Jus’ me.”

  The woman rose from her chair, her eyes on us as if we were some strange alien creatures who had wandered in, then crossed the room to another office in the back. The door was open and we could see her talking to a man there. He looked up surprised, much as the woman had done, and when she pointed to Mrs. Lee Annie, he stood and walked out with a scowl on his face. The woman followed.

  “Whose nigger are you?” the man demanded.

  Mrs. Lee Annie, the dignity of her being lining her face, replied, “I works Mr. Granger’s land.”

  The man eyed her a moment and turned to the woman. “Doreen, Mr. Granger in town?”

  “Seen him upstairs in the hall just a little bit ago, Mr. Boudein.”

  “Then go get him and tell him we need him here,” ordered Mr. Boudein, and returned to his office.

  Within minutes Doreen was back with Mr. Granger. He cast us a disapproving glance as he entered, but waited for Mr. Boudein to hurry from his office before speaking. “Now what’s going on here, Sam?” he demanded, his voice soft but annoyed.

  Mr. Boudein flashed a vexed look at Doreen that said she was supposed to have told him, but Doreen was already busying herself at the typewriter once more, removing herself from the explosion that was sure to come. “This ole aunty, she says she one of your niggers and she wants to register,” Mr. Boudein explained.

  Mr. Granger’s silence filled the room. “Lee Annie,” he said at last, “what kinda nonsense is this?”

  Mrs. Lee Annie took a deep breath before answering. “Wants to register so’s I can vote.”

  “Vote?”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Looking around at Mr. Boudein, Mr. Granger allowed a lopsided grin. Mr. Boudein, seemingly relieved, shrugged his own disbelief. “Now, Lee Annie,” said Mr. Granger, “you old enough to know that voting is white folks’ business. Now what make you think to be butting in it?”

  “I . . .” Mrs. Lee Annie’s words failed her.

  Mama spoke up for her. “Her father voted. She wants to do the same.”