The Sharecropper Prodigy

by Malone, David Lee

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other -except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. The Sharecropper Prodigy is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious . With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the product of the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published By

  Enlightenment Books

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Shet that baby up, Evergreen! Can’t you put a tit in its mouth or sump’n?”

  “I done tole you, you old fool, he ain’t hawngry. He’s got the colic.”

  “Well, you got to do sump’n. I gotta git up ‘fore da sun does and git out in the field. I ain’t got no hep ‘cept them two boys and Nellie. You ain’t never been no hep ‘cause you always a-havin’ young un’s.”

  “What you thank makes them young un’s, Rube Evans? If you’d keep that thang of yores put up ‘stead a chasin’ me around wid it all da time, thangs might be diff’rent.”

  It was the same old argument, or something similar to it, every night and Ben had learned long ago to ignore the constant banter that went on between his mama and papa. When he was really focused on something he could tune out most any dissonance or commotion as if it were nothing more than a summer breeze making the pine trees whisper. Right now he was as focused as he had ever been. He’d been waiting to read this book since he’d first heard of it three years ago, but for one reason or another had never gotten around to it. Miss Rachel had finally gotten it for him. She never failed him. It had been no easy task finding it, either. The Collinwood Public Library certainly didn’t have it. Books that had anything about colored folks were very hard to find there and if they were written by colored folks, they didn’t exist at all. She finally had to order it for him from a book store in Birmingham and even that was difficult. When she placed the order they looked at her as if she were asking for some erotic adult novel. A piece of literary trash unfit for young female eyes to look upon.

  Miss Rachel had brought it to him that afternoon just before supper. She had to use the same clandestine method of getting it to him she always had. She would bring it in a basket filled with tea cakes that she occasionally baked for the Evans family and hide the book under the cloth that was used to cover them. Ben’s mama would find it and hide it from old Rube until it was safe to give it to Ben.

  Rube usually got mad at Ben if he caught him reading. He said it was a waste of time and kept him daydreaming and lazy. And Rube couldn’t afford a lazy son. He had cotton to tend to and he needed his children’s total focus on the task at hand, not daydreaming about some world they would never see or be a part of. That sort of thing was for children of rich white folks, not poor black sharecroppers that lived hand-to-mouth. Miss Rachel’s papa wouldn’t like it either. His view was much the same as old Rube‘s on the subject, except he didn’t believe black folks had the mental capacity for much of anything other than menial, physical labor, anyhow. On rare occasions some of them did make pretty good carpenters or brick masons. But to think a black man could ever become a doctor or lawyer, or anything that required a formal education was ludicrous. Rachel had told her papa how incredibly intelligent Ben was, but Mr. Winston thought she was just embellishing the story because she was always trying to help the black children learn to read and write and better themselves. Rachel’s praise of Ben made it look as if her efforts were yielding results. Mr. Winston thought it was a waste of time.

  Ben was sitting on the back stoop, his back leaning against the uneven clapboard siding of the little three room shack he shared with his mama, papa, and six siblings, counting the new addition that was causing all the fuss. His concentration was suddenly broken by the creaking sound of the pine floorboards in the house, and he knew by the rhythm of the steps his papa had gotten out of bed. Ben could always tell by the sound the seasoned boards made which family member was walking on them. He quickly blew out the flame from the old stub of a candle he was using to read by. Candles cost money and Ben knew his papa would be angry if he caught him wasting one of them reading. He was already upset with the crying baby and Ben sure didn’t want to make matters worse.

  Rube Evans had a furious, but unpredictable temper. Sometimes little things that wouldn’t have amounted to a hill of beans to most people would get him worked up, while other times he would let something much more severe pass. But when his temper was ignited, it was usually a very short fuse. Especially if he had scraped up enough money to buy, or managed to talk someone into giving him, a quart Mason jar full of ‘shine. Ben and all his brothers and sisters, other than the baby, had been on the business end of the old leather plow line Rube used for disciplinary purposes or just to vent his frustrations and anger. Ben’s mama, Evergreen, usually got an open handed slap or sometimes a fist, depending on what level of progression Rube’s anger had reached. Evergreen was a stout woman who could fight like a wildcat and usually gave back almost as good as she got. But Ben had seen her far too many times with one or both of her eyes nearly swelled shut, or her lips split and puffed up to twice their normal size. Rube had even broken her arm once and had cracked her ribs a couple of times.

  Ben slipped the candle and book under an old lard can that lay under the stoop. The back door opened with a screech and his papa emerged, heading toward the out-house. He didn’t notice Ben as he walked by. Ben just sat there as quiet as a mouse, waiting for him to close the out-house door. Once the door was shut, he quickly retrieved his book and candle and ran into the house, hiding them inside a loose floor board under his bed. He undressed, knelt beside his bed and said a quick prayer, and laid down beside his three brothers, listening to their moans and complaints for making them scoot over.

  The night was hot and sticky with almost no air stirring, the way they typically were in Alabama this time of year. After a few minutes of trying to find a comfortable spot, with James’ bony knee poking him in the side, and the roof raising snores coming from Sam, he saw there was no chance of him getting any sleep. He rolled over and slowly got up. He grabbed an old worn out blanket, walked out the door, and made his way down the little footpath that led to the creek. This is where he spent a lot of nights. He could do his best thinking there, with the gentle sound of the water slowly rippling over the rocks and all the eclectic, but harmonious sounds of the night woods. The running water sounded like hundreds of tiny little bells tinkling softly in the still night air.

  Ben lay there, staring up through the trees at the stars that looked like a countless scattering of tiny diamonds resting on an endless curtain of black velvet. He was wishing he had brought his candle and book with him. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy, although he knew he needed all the rest he could get. Rube would want him in the field with his hoe in his hand as soon as it was light enough to distinguish the weeds from the young cotton plants. He made a pillow out of his shirt and britches and closed his eyes, thinking about the book Miss Rachel had bought him. He promised her he would pay her back as soon as he was able to sell the hides from the beaver and the coons he’d trapped, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She told him to save his money so he could go to college someday and get away from this poverty stricken place.

  The book was Up From Slavery, Booker T. Washington’s autobiography. He was thinking how many more advantages he had than Mr. Washington. At least he had Miss Rachel to bring him books from the library, as well as sharing her textbooks from school with him. Ben had the remarkable ability to retain almost everyth
ing he read, saw, or heard. His thirteen year old brain was like a dry sponge that never seemed to be satiated. His curiosity was never at rest and he couldn’t bear not knowing what caused this or that, or how some piece of machinery worked, or what made animals do certain things and how they instinctively knew what it took to survive. He wanted the knowledge he could get from books, as well as what he could learn from the natural and man-made surroundings that encompassed his small world. He knew that once he had this knowledge nobody could ever take it away. Not his papa, or any white man.

  Ben had no animosity toward white people. He was proud to learn from the book that Mr. Booker T. Washington didn’t hold any perceived ill will against them either. Holding grudges and being bitter took energy and also took up valuable thinking time. Miss Rachel was white, and if it wasn’t for her, the only knowledge he would have was from what he had learned in the little school his papa allowed him to attend about three months out of the year. There were compulsory education laws on the books in Alabama, but they weren’t enforced with nearly the same vigor on the parents of black sharecropper children in 1939 as they were on whites. It wouldn’t have mattered much if he had been able to attend the entire school year. With the use of Miss Rachel’s text books and all the other books she brought him from her daddy’s collection and the public library, he had already advanced far beyond anything the little school could teach him. If only he could just set out walking like Mr. Washington had done until he found a good school that would accept him. But that would mean leaving his brothers and his sister to bear the brunt of Rube’s abusive and violent temper. Besides that, it took constant vigilance from Ben to keep Rube from doing unspeakable things to his fifteen year old sister, Nellie. When Rube had a little liquor in his belly, his inhibitions would diminish to the point that he had no shame or conscience. The desires of the flesh were stronger than any guilt or remorse he might feel later. Evergreen was always either having babies or chasing the ones she already had, and had begun to fight off Rube’s amorous advances. Rube longed for a younger woman that was not worn out from child birth and his choices were limited. So Nellie had lately become the target of his drunken, carnal appetites. Ben didn’t think he had succeeded yet and knew better than to ask Nellie. If he had gotten to her, Nellie would be so ashamed she wouldn’t have told anyone, including Ben, and he was the closest person in the world to her.

  Ben loved Nellie. He loved his brothers too, but Nellie was special. She always had time to listen to him and he returned the favor. Nellie wanted to learn things like Ben did, but didn’t have his uncanny ability of retention. But Ben was always patient with her when he tried to explain things. There just wasn’t much time in their days for long lessons. They were either planting, hoeing, or picking cotton. This went on from sunup to sundown most days from May to October. Then the cow had to be milked, chickens and hogs had to be fed, and eggs gathered. When poor Nellie wasn’t busy at one of these chores, she was helping her over-burdened mama clean house, cook, or take care of babies.

  Rube had stopped using the plow line on Nellie once he began his incestuous wooing. If there was any silver lining in the clouds, that was it for her. But if given the choice between the two, Nellie would have much preferred the beatings.

  Ben rolled over on his side and pulled the old ragged blanket up over his head to keep the mosquitoes from biting. His mind was still racing, wondering what it would be like to have parents like Mr. Washington had. They were poorer than Ben’s family was, though he couldn’t imagine how anyone could get in much worse shape. But at least Mr. Washington’s parents encouraged him to go to school and learn everything he could so that he would have a better life than they did. Rube signed his name with an X and had no desire to ever do otherwise. As long as he could get an occasional quart of ’shine to dull his senses and take him away from cruel reality for a while, he didn’t want any more out of life. Maybe some carnal pleasure now and then or a good ripe watermelon. Ben couldn’t understand how anyone could be happy being totally ignorant and wanting to stay that way. His mama was encouraging when she had time to be, but in a lot of ways she was like Rube. She always talked of a better life to come after this one was over. Ben didn’t doubt that at all, but didn’t believe God meant for His children to be miserable in this life. His great-grandmother had just died the year before and had lived to be ninety-two. That was an awful long time to be miserable.

  As far as Ben knew, he, his brother Sam, and Nellie were the first ones in the Evans family that had ever learned to read. There was no excuse for it, in his opinion. Of course the Evans family’s ancestors had been slaves and had been programmed to believe that was their station in life and they had no right to hope for anything better. That the black man was inferior to his Caucasian counterpart in every way that mattered. Ben didn’t buy into that at all. He had seen some black men in his tiny part of the world that could read well and could do marvelous things with their hands. Old Eli, that didn’t live more than three miles away, could look at a roof and tell you what pitch it was on. Whether it was a 5 on 12 or a 6 on 12, or whatever the case may be, he was very seldom wrong. He could measure the distance from the eave of a house or barn to the center of it, and asked how steep you wanted your roof to be. Then, he could figure the exact diagonal length of the rafters and make the miter cuts on the ends of the boards to fit perfectly. Where had he learned that? Ben was pretty sure Eli had never heard of the Pythagorean theorem, but he still knew how to figure those angles and saw those boards to perfection.

  Another thing that made Ben very doubtful of the assumed superiority of white men, was the fact that he had seen an awful lot of ignorant white folks. There were almost as many white sharecroppers as there were black ones where he lived. They weren’t any smarter than the black folks. In fact, Ben thought many of the whites were even more ignorant. The black folks had been slaves three or four generations ago, and many of them, the Evan’s family included, still lived and worked on the same places where their ancestors had been slaves. In Ben’s mind that was still not a good enough excuse to continue to live in squalor, but it was a better excuse than the white sharecroppers had. If all white men were so superior, why were there so many poor, ignorant ones in close proximity to him? He was pretty sure that ignorant white folks weren’t exclusive to Jones County, Alabama. Ben figured the world was probably full of them.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I climbed down out of the barn loft and slipped around to the back stall where Uncle Lee sometimes kept Dan, his old work horse. I had my fishing gear hidden under some old loose hay in the corner, next to the manger. I slipped out the back of the barn and into the woods, trotting in the direction of the creek and my rendezvous spot with Ben.

  When I arrived at the ancient sycamore tree, I saw that Ben hadn’t made it yet. There was a giant vine, big as a man’s arm, that stretched from the old sycamore to another tree close by that sagged just right in the middle to make a perfect swing. I sat down on it and started pushing myself with my feet, swinging slowly back and forth and waiting.

  If my Uncle Lee or Aunt Mary Kate knew that I was playing hooky from school to go fishing, one or both of them would have worn me out. If Uncle Lee knew that I was fishing with Ben, it would have been worse. Uncle Lee wanted me to hang out with boys my own color. Aunt Mary Kate liked Ben. She was always saying what a smart boy he was. “And he’s so well behaved and well mannered,” she told my Uncle Lee. “I’d much rather Tom hang around with him than those white-trash boys who don’t bathe more than once a month. And every other word that comes out of their mouths is a cuss word, just like their daddy’s.”

  I think secretly Uncle Lee agreed with my aunt, but would never admit it. He was one of those narrow minded southerners who had been raised to believe black folks were just a notch above primates. But Ben’s sagacity on almost any subject did amaze Uncle Lee and made him rethink his assessment sometimes. Of course he would just pass it off as Ben being one of those rare freaks of nature.
/>
  As much as Ben liked going fishing with me, he had begged me not to skip school. “If I had a chance to go to a good school like Collinwood, I wouldn’t miss a day. Papa’s old mule couldn’t drag me away,” Ben had said. But it was almost time to start picking cotton and I knew me and him both would be too busy once it started. I told him he didn’t need to worry about school and that he already knew more than any of the teachers at Collinwood, anyway.

  Ben gave me an inferiority complex sometimes, though he never realized he was doing it. Ben was the type that would go out of his way to keep from hurting anybody’s feelings. But he was so smart, he just assumed I always knew what he was talking about. Especially since I had the advantage of getting to attend school regularly.

  I pulled the pocket watch my Grandpa Martin had given me from the bib of my overalls and checked the time. Ben said he would meet me at nine-o’clock and he was now almost thirty minutes late. That wasn’t like him at all. When Ben Evans told you he would be somewhere at a certain time, he was there. He owned an old watch that didn’t keep very good time, but somehow he always knew what time it was, anyway.

  I saw movement down in the little thicket where the creek made a slight bend. I recognized the old straw hat Ben sometimes wore and saw that he was walking slower than what was his usual springy, brisk pace. I trotted down to meet him and saw on closer inspection that his left eye was swollen shut.

  “Did that old bastard beat you again?” I asked, feeling my blood starting to boil.

  “I tried to stop him,” was Ben’s reply. “And I succeeded, too.”

  “Tried to stop him from what? Hittin’ your mama?”

  “No. I just had to stop him from doin’ something, and I did it. That’s all that matters and I don’t wanna talk about it.”