“That was delicious,” Ben said. “What do you call it?”
“It’s called burrito.”
“Well, how much do I owe you for it?”
“Ah, no charge for the first one my young friend. I’m happy you like.”
Manuel asked Ben to have a seat. What resulted was a conversation that lasted until supper time when a few more customers started to come in. Manuel was astounded at how intelligent this ten year old negro boy was. He had been in Collinwood long enough to know that black people didn’t have much of an opportunity for an education. Ben explained to him about Miss Rachel and how she was always bringing him books to read as well as newspapers. From that day forward, Manuel and Ben became close friends, despite their age difference. Manuel could carry on a more intelligent conversation with Ben than any adult he knew in Collinwood and both of them were interested in the same subjects. They were also both branded with the same stigma of second class citizens.
A couple of years later, Ben, Manuel and Rachel decided to form a little three person junta. Ben got the idea from his favorite historical figure, Benjamin Franklin. Franklin was also the man Rube had named Ben for. Benjamin Franklin Evans. To Ben’s knowledge, all Rube knew about Benjamin Franklin was that he once flew a kite in a lightning storm and somehow that is how electric light eventually came to be, or so Rube believed. Rube had also seen a few, very few, hundred dollar bills and knew Franklin’s face was on them. Ben had never been able to convince his papa that Franklin never served as president, no matter how hard he tried.
Ben had read Franklin’s autobiography three times and loved the part about he and some of his young friends in Philadelphia starting a secret club he called the junta, that would trade out different books and read them. They would then meet once a week and discuss and debate their views on what they’d read. The junta that Ben and his friends had created always met on Thursday nights, if everyone could get away. If any of the three couldn’t be present, the meeting was cancelled. This was the most enjoyable activity in Ben’s life and the closest thing to attending classes with people anywhere close to his intelligence level he had.
*****
Ben had been counting the days and hours leading up to the present weeks junta meeting. He wanted to discuss Up From Slavery and how reading of the tenacity of Booker T. Washington had made him even more determined to find a way to get a college education, no matter what obstacles he had to overcome. Manuel had been reading Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, which Ben had read about a year ago and could spend hours talking about. Rachel was reading Summa Contra Gentiles, the best work ever written on Christian Apologetics, by Saint Thomas Aquinas. Ben had also read it, though it took almost two months. Discussing it and the book Manuel was reading could take several meetings. In fact, Summa Contra Gentiles could be discussed for a lifetime. Ben wanted to try and postpone those and discuss his book, since it was relatively short and could be covered in one or two meetings.
They had chosen this weeks meeting place to be held in the little office of Rachel’s father, George Winston’s cotton gin. Rachel had snuck her daddy’s key to the office out of the drawer of the roll-top desk in his study, and the three were all seated, enjoying the discussion of Mr. Washington’s uphill battles, when Ben thought he heard a noise like an automobile door slamming shut. Rachel quickly got up and turned out the lights, hoping they hadn’t been found by her daddy. They sat there silently for a minute, hearing nothing but the usual night sounds coming from the nearby woods. Suddenly, the door burst open and the lights came on. George Winston was holding a shotgun, along with two of his hired hands, who were also armed. When he saw the three huddled up in the far corner of the small office, he immediately told Rachel to get up and go wait outside.
“Papa, we were just discussing some books we’ve read and that’s all. Now put that shotgun down before you kill one of us or accidentally shoot yourself.”
George saw the books laying on the floor where the three had been sitting. He never doubted anything his daughter said. He couldn’t have asked for a better daughter, and now that his wife was gone, she was his whole world. She was just like her mother in almost every way, from her appearance, to her love for books, and the way she was always trying to help those who were less fortunate. Still, he didn’t want her spending time with nigra boys, or Mexicans for that matter. Helping them when they were in need was one thing. Having a concealed meeting with them and no other adults around was another. Rachel was a very pretty girl, and he knew how those hot blooded nigras were when it came to women. Ben was still young and George thought he was a good boy, but still he knew how filled with lust black men were. He didn’t figure Mexicans were much better, as evidenced by the large broods of children they always produced. Besides that, Manuel Cruz was a married man. How would it look to the people in the county if they knew his daughter had been spending time alone with a nigra boy and a Mexican man, who was married and had children.
“Rachel, I forbid you to spend time with men alone. You know how I feel about that. Now, not only have you disobeyed me in that respect, but you are here with a nigra boy and a married man. What do you think people would say if…..”
“Is that what you’re worried about, Papa? What people might think? Let them think what they wish. Anybody who knows me, knows I would never do anything to bring shame to myself or to you. These two friends of mine, and yes they are my friends, are the only two people in this community that have the intelligence for a proper discussion of literature. The fact that they are men, or at least one of them is, and of a different skin color than mine, should make no difference.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Rachel,” George retorted, “it makes a great deal of difference, especially where we live. I believe you were doing exactly what you say you were, but others might not. We have a good name in this county and I have to rely on that good name for the success of my business. Now I have nothing personally against young Ben here or Mr. uh….”
“Cruz, Papa. His name is Manuel Cruz.”
“Well, anyway, he’s a married man. How do you think that looks, even if he were white? What would his wife say if she knew he was spending time with a pretty young girl?”
“My wife knows where I am, Mr. Winston,” Manuel interjected, looking straight into George’s eyes, showing him he had nothing to hide. “I guess the proper thing for me to have done would have been to ask your permission to let Rachel participate in our discussions, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I saw no harm in it, since my wife has knowledge of where I am and who I’m with. She is very fond of your daughter, as everyone else I know is.”
“Surely you should know then, Mr. Cruz, that it ain’t proper for a sixteen year old girl to be alone with a married man. That alone makes me question your judgment and maybe even your moral character.”
“If I offended you in any way, Mr. Winston, I apologize. But I assure you, nothing has transpired other than what you’re daughter has told you.”
George Winston took a deep breath, “Nonetheless, it must never happen again, no matter how innocent it might be. It’s still not the proper place or company for a young lady. Will you give me your word it won’t happen again?”
“If that is your wish, sir, you have my word,” Manuel answered.
Rachel had been listening and thinking the whole time the two men were talking. “Then I have a solution,” she said. “We’ll start having our meetings at the house. Your study would be a wonderful place, Papa.”
George was caught off guard by Rachel’s proposal. He looked down at the floor as if he didn’t know what to say.
“Well, ah….we’ll,.. we’ll have to discuss that later, honey. Now I have to get back to the house. Rachel, you can walk with me and we can discuss a few things along the way.” George turned to one of his men, “Ned, would you give Mr. Cruz a ride home in my truck? Young Ben here don’t live far so I know he won’t mind walking, will you Ben?”
“No sir, I’ll be fin
e,” Ben answered.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Rachel and her father had left, Ned told the other hired hand to
go on home. “I’ll take ol’ Pedro here home,” he laughed. Will Henry, the other man, looked at him and nodded. He didn’t like the look on Ned’s face and knew how much he hated black folks and also knew that hatred extended to Mexicans as well. Every year when the migrant workers came to Chandler Mountain, he would always hear Ned saying how they were taking jobs from the poor white folks and didn’t like the fact that few of them spoke any English. He always thought they were talking about him behind his back in their strange tongue.
One night a few years earlier, Ned had a belly full of liquor and the devil in his eye and tried to talk one of the young senoritas into his car. She refused and he started to get rough with her, eventually grabbing her by the hair and dragging her toward his old Chevrolet. When one of the nearby Mexican men heard her screaming, he came to her aid and confronted Ned. A fight ensued, resulting in the Mexican man pulling a knife and cutting a long gash down the left side of Ned’s face. He would always have the scar to remind him how much he hated the brown-skinned people.
Will really didn’t want to leave Ned alone with Manuel, but Ned was his boss and jobs were all but impossible to come by. He reluctantly walked out of the office and started toward home, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Ned had never lowered his shotgun the whole time he had been there.
There was a wicked grin on Ned’s face as he looked from Ben back to Manuel. He sat down behind the desk and rested the shotgun on top of it, his finger still on the trigger. “Well, now. I think Mr. Winston let you two off a little easy. Course, he had his daughter here with ‘im, so I guess he couldn’t say much. I know what I’d do if I caught my girl with a nigger and a pepper suckin’ Mexican, though. First thing I’d do is wear her little ass out with a razor strap, then I’d cut your gonads out. Well, she ain’t mine, so there ain’t nuthin’ I can do to her, but I can shore set you two straight. See, we don’t like for our nice young white women bein’ around the likes of you two. I bet either one of you would love to git you some of that young white stuff, wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t you talk about Miss Rachel that way,” Ben shouted.
Ned jumped up, picking up the book Rachel had been reading and threw it at Ben. He ducked out of the way and the heavy book hit the wall behind him with a loud thud.
“Don’t you sass me, you little black bastard. I heard about what you did in the store the other day. Talkin’ all that big talk you prob’ly heard from Rachel and tryin’ to make Charlie Stone look bad in front of everybody. They should’ve strung yore little black ass up right there. Ain’t nuthin’ worse than a nigger tryin’ to git uppity and forgettin’ their place.”
Ned walked over to the door, still pointing the gun at Ben and Manuel. He looked outside, making sure nobody was around to hear what was going on. Then he turned back to them and nodded at Ben. “Look in the bottom right hand drawer of that desk, there. There should be some rope in it. Git it out and tie ol’ Pedro’s hands behind his back.”
Ben stood there defiantly, crossing his arms across his chest.
“If you don’t do it, boy, I’m gonna shoot yore knee cap off. Do you know how bad this buckshot would mess yore leg up as close as I am to you?”
“Mr. Winston might hear the gunshot if you do that. He probably ain’t made it home yet,” Ben said, his voice trembling, but still defiant.
“So, what if he does hear it? All I gotta do is tell ’im you two tried to jump me. Who do you think he’ll believe? Now do what I told you, or you’re gonna lose a leg.”
“Do what he says, Ben.” Manuel said, looking at Ned as if he were the devil himself.
Ben slowly walked over to the desk and pulled open the drawer. The drawer was full of hand tools and old papers he had to move around, trying to find the rope. He saw something at the bottom of the drawer, tucked up in the back corner that gave him an idea. It was a Mason jar with pepper sauce in it. Mr. Winston ate his lunch at this desk a lot of days during cotton ginning season and he liked pepper sauce on his beans and turnip greens. Ben turned the jar upright and turned the lid. It apparently hadn’t been opened in a while, because it wouldn’t move. He bent over further, pretending to try and find the rope, which he had already seen. He put an old piece of cloth he found around the lid and gripped the lid again, using all the strength he could muster. The lid gave way and the seal broke, making a sound like a Coca-Cola being opened. The fumes almost took Ben’s breath. This jar was definitely potent. Then Ben let out a yell like he’d been bit by a snake or something.
“What’s the matter,” Ned asked, walking towards Ben.
“I broke this jar and I think I’ve cut the end of my finger off,” Ben cried.
“Move over and let me look in there, you ignorant little nigger.”
Ben stayed bent over, pretending to hold his finger in pain. He wrapped the cloth around his hand and stealthily picked up the open jar and placed it on the floor at the end of the desk. He moved back a couple of steps, still moaning volubly from the pretend agony. Ned moved over to the desk and bent over, taking one hand off the shotgun and reaching the other into the drawer. As quick as lightning, Ben picked up the jar and flung the contents directly into Ned’s face, aiming as best as he could for his eyes. Ned let out a yelp that sounded like a dog that had been kicked, and dropped the gun, putting both hands up to his eyes. Ben threw the jar at him, hitting him on the side of his head. Manuel had already sprung into action, quickly moving toward the gun. He and Ned grabbed it by the barrel at the same time, both struggling to break the others grip. Ned’s eyes were burning badly and were filled with tears from the fiery pepper sauce, but he knew he couldn’t allow Manuel to get the drop on him. He let go with one hand and jabbed his elbow into Manuel’s mouth. Both men lost their grip on the gun and it skidded across the wood floor out of reach.
Manuel had been the champion in his weight class on the boxing team when he was at the University. He knew if he could ever get the gun away from Ned, he would have the advantage. But Ned knew he might be a dead man if he ever let Manuel get the upper hand. He assumed that Manuel was as full of hate as he was. With one quick motion, Ned reached down and pulled a hunting knife from a scabbard that was attached to his boot and thrust it at Manuel’s belly. Manuel sidestepped the thrust, grabbed Ned’s forearm with his left hand, and threw a right jab into Ned’s jaw. Ned staggered backwards a few steps, but still kept his hold on the knife. The two circled each other, Manuel keeping his eyes on the shiny blade of the knife. Ned would feint with a jabbing motion to judge Manuel’s reaction. There was no doubt Manuel had quick reflexes. Ned’s peripheral vision was blurred and impeded from the burning sauce, but he used it as best he could to scan the room, trying to locate the gun or anything else that would give him an advantage. He finally spotted the gun and started backing toward it, still feinting jabs at Manuel, who could see what Ned was trying to do. Manuel knew if he let him get his hands on that gun it was over. He rushed him, moving aside just in time to escape a deadly jab from the razor sharp blade, and caught him with a hard right hook that smashed him right on the bridge of his nose. Ned staggered back and slammed into the wall making a crashing sound that echoed through the small office. Manuel quickly ran toward him, wanting to get the knife out of his hand. He noticed a strange look in Ned’s eyes. A look of surprise and agony. As Manuel quickly reached to grab the arm that held the knife, he saw Ned slowly release his grip and the knife fell to the floor. Ned didn’t move for a few seconds. Then his body began twitching violently. After what seemed like a long minute, the spasms got slower and slower, until finally Ned’s shoulders slouched forward and his body went limp.
Manuel took a step closer. Ben had moved up beside him and now had the shotgun in his hands. Ned’s lifeless body was still upright. What was holding him up? Manuel looked behind Ned and saw a trail of blood running from the back of his
head, down the wall and onto the floor, making a small, dark crimson puddle. Manuel placed his hands on each side of Ned’s head and lifted up on him, while at the same time pulling his head toward him. Ben saw him struggling, laid the shotgun down, and grabbed Ned’s legs around the thighs, helping Manuel lift. Manuel finally freed him and saw what had been holding him upright. When Ned had crashed into the wall, one of the sharp, narrow spikes used to stick invoices on had stuck into the back of his neck, just below his skull. It must have been embedded a good four or five inches.
Manuel looked around the room, thinking, and trying to remain calm.
“What are we gonna do, Manuel,?” Ben asked, surprisingly keeping cool.
“I don’t know yet. I guess we need to get in Mr. Winston’s truck and go tell him what happened. I only hope he believes us.”
“I ain’t so sure,” Ben said. “Mr. Winston might not take the word of a Mexican and a black kid over his foreman whose worked for him for years.”
“Well, if you’ve got any ideas, I’m open to any suggestions. What do you think we should do?”
Ben thought for a minute, looking out the door into the darkness, hoping nobody had been around. He was sure no one had been, and prayed it remained that way. Then he turned to Manuel.
“I’ll tell you what let’s do. Let’s turn the lights out and leave, locking the door behind us. We’ll get in the truck and drive down to the old grist mill road. Nobody ever goes down there much anymore since they opened the new mill. We’ll wait ‘til the Winston’s have had time to go to bed and then go wake Miss Rachel up. I know which bedroom window is hers. We have to tell her. Maybe she’ll know what’s best. At least we’ll have a respected white person on our side, and I have always trusted her judgment.”
The Sharecropper Prodigy Page 3
