Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Stillwater, Mississippi 1955
November
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
December
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Middle Grade Mania!
About the Author
Connect with HMH on Social Media
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Linda Williams Jackson
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
www.hmhco.com
Art by Sarah J. Coleman
Cover illustration © 2018 by Sarah J. Coleman
Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file.
ISBN 978-0-544-80065-6
eISBN 978-1-328-82907-8
v1.1217
This book is dedicated to my first critique partners—
Shelley Sly
and
Peaches D. Ledwidge.
Thank you for being there when I needed you most.
Stillwater, Mississippi
1955
November
Chapter One
Monday, November 7
MY GRANDPA, PAPA, USED TO SAY THAT GRATITUDE was the key to happiness. If that was true, then I would never be happy.
With the chill of November upon us, and all of Mr. Robinson’s cotton picked clean off every stalk in his fields, I was finally able to attend school like my younger brother, Fred Lee, and my older cousin Queen. But instead of school, where I should have been that beautiful fall day, I was cooped up in Mrs. Robinson’s kitchen, contemplating whether I should clean up the mess left behind by her cackling church club or pretend I had gone mad and add to it. Knowing the latter was impossible to actually get away with without my grandma, Ma Pearl, slapping me into the middle of the next week, one after the other, I held Mrs. Robinson’s fancy gold-rimmed plates over the empty bucket she had given me and scraped off leftovers. At least our hogs could be grateful for the slop.
Down the hall, happy hums flowed from a content Ma Pearl as she dusted every item in Mrs. Robinson’s already spotless bedroom. Of course she was happy. While Papa was on his return trip from Blytheville, Arkansas, where he’d attended his brother Charlie’s funeral, she had seized the opportunity to keep me out of school for the day. Had it been left to her, I would be kept out of school not just one day but every day. “A seventh grade education is more’n enough,” she’d said back in August when she tried to make me quit school for good.
So this morning when she yelled, “Git up, gal. Git dressed. You helpin’ me this moan’n,” I knew she didn’t mean baking biscuits or frying eggs. I had heard her the night before complaining about how she “sho’ didn’t wanna hafta clean up after Miz Robinson and that nasty bunch a womens tomorrow.” So there I was in her place, cleaning up after Mrs. Robinson and that “nasty bunch a womens” who were supposedly having Bible study.
Laughter exploded in the parlor. Didn’t these ladies have anything better to do on a Monday afternoon than giggle? There I was scraping practically full meals off plates, throwing good food to hogs, and they had nothing better to do at one in the afternoon than laugh—well, Bible study, supposedly, from ten till noon, then chitchat over coconut cake and coffee for the rest of the day. And their husbands still came home to a clean house and a full meal.
Like my good friend Hallelujah Jenkins always said, if they’d spend a little more time with the good Lord on Sunday like colored folks did, then they wouldn’t have to make up for it on Monday.
I stomped into the dining room and grabbed another stack of plates. On one of them lay a barely eaten ham and cheese sandwich. By my estimate, two bites had been taken. I peered out of the dining room toward the hallway for any sign of Ma Pearl. Chatter flowed cheerfully from the parlor—so no need to worry about the Cackling Church Club. I placed the stack of plates back on the table and snatched the sandwich off the top one.
My teeth sank into it. Lord, it was good. The ham was nothing like what our poor slaughtered hogs supplied us. It was tender, easy to chew, and beyond delicious. And the cheese? A flavor I’d never experienced—slightly smoky, almost heavenly.
I took another bite of the sandwich, closed my eyes, and savored every chew. I knew I should have stopped after two bites, but the sandwich begged me to finish. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I’d taken the last bite. I hadn’t eaten since six o’clock, and then only biscuits. Fred Lee and Queen had eaten all the eggs before I got a chance to even get to the kitchen. And for that I fault Ma Pearl, seeing I had to take extra care in dressing myself to ensure I was halfway decent enough to cross the Robinson threshold.
Another partially eaten sandwich taunted me from a plate. I resisted by stacking other plates on top of it. But my growling stomach betrayed me, forcing me to put the plates back down and grab the half-eaten sandwich. My mouth opened wide, and my teeth sank deep. I couldn’t stop myself from moaning, because this one, too, was undeniably delicious.
“Rose Lee Carter!” came a whispered shout.
I froze.
I didn’t bother turning all the way around. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Ma Pearl’s massive frame blocking the doorway to the dining room. My heart raced faster than a scared rabbit’s. How could I have been foolish enough to let Ma Pearl sneak up on me?
“Gal, what the devil is you doin’?”
I couldn’t answer because my mouth was full. Nor could I swallow, because a lump filled my throat. So there I stood, my mouth stuffed with sandwich, my body stiff with shame, as I waited for my grandma to storm into Mrs. Robinson’s dining room and knock me to kingdom come.
When I didn’t answer her, Ma Pearl charged into the room like a raging bull. She stopped inches from my face. With her nostrils flaring, she swept the remainder of the sandwich from my hand. It landed on the gleaming wood floor.
I shut my eyes and braced myself for a slap.
But instead of a slap, I got a plate shoved into my hands.
One by one, Ma Pearl snatched them off the table. When she spoke, she kept her voice low but firm. “I didn’t brang you over here to ack like no dirn fool.” She began piling the dishes i
n my arms. “If that woman wanted you to eat these leftover sammiches, she’da gave you a bag.”
She paused and frowned at me. “Did she give you a bag?”
I managed to force the lump of ham, cheese, and bread down my throat. “No, ma’am,” I muttered.
“What she give you?”
“A bucket,” I said quietly, my eyes darting from the floor to Ma Pearl’s gaze, then back to the floor again.
“So why is you eatin’ this food?”
Because it’s perfectly good food that these ungrateful women just played over because they don’t know what it’s like to be hungry.
Ma Pearl gestured toward the table. “This food meant for the hogs, not for the humans.”
The hogs ain’t the only somethin’ hungry on this place. Hogs shouldn’t eat ham anyway. They are ham!
When I still said nothing, Ma Pearl’s giant hand whapped me on the shoulder. I stumbled sideways.
“Quit ack’n like a triflin’ nigga,” she said. “I feed you at home.”
My shoulder throbbed with pain, but I didn’t dare raise my hand to rub it. Besides, I needed both hands to ensure I didn’t drop Mrs. Robinson’s precious plates. Anticipating another powerful lick from Ma Pearl’s heavy hand, my body grew stiffer, scared to breathe. But instead of smacking me again, she turned on her heels and stormed from the dining room. Her huffing seemed to ring in my ears until she reached Mrs. Robinson’s bedroom at the end of the hall.
Happy it didn’t get knocked to the floor, my body relaxed a bit, but shame burned in it like an August sun. Knowing I had no choice, I swallowed that shame and carried the armful of plates to the kitchen. After all the plates and saucers had been scraped clean, I returned to the dining room to collect the lipstick-stained, half-full cups of coffee and tea. Near one of the cups lay a beige, lace-trimmed handkerchief. The swirly blue letters KJM told me it belonged to Mrs. Jamison—Kay Marie Jamison—who was known around Stillwater for having her initials monogrammed on almost everything she owned, with the J always prominent and large. I suppose that was a privilege of having a husband who owned a clothing store.
I stood there for a moment and debated whether to leave the handkerchief on the table or take it to the parlor. Since Mrs. Jamison was known for having a persistent runny nose, she probably needed that handkerchief. But I reasoned that a rich lady like that should have more than one handkerchief in her purse.
After making a couple of trips from the dining room to the kitchen, I realized how silly it was to leave the handkerchief lying on the table. I snatched it up and headed to the parlor. Outside the parlor entry, I froze. How foolish would I look interrupting Mrs. Robinson and her guests over a handkerchief? I decided to drop it in the hallway and allow Mrs. Jamison to assume she’d dropped it.
But what if Mrs. Robinson came out and found the handkerchief lying there? She would probably blame me for not doing a good job of cleaning up. Even though it was a simple one, the decision swirled in me like a storm. I clenched the handkerchief in my fist. I knew what I had to do. I had to interrupt the Cackling Church Club and give Mrs. Jamison her handkerchief.
I took a deep breath, released it slowly, then stepped toward the parlor entry. And the second I did, the word niggers slammed my ears so hard that it almost knocked me to the floor.
Chapter Two
Monday, November 7
AS I STOOD AT THE PARLOR ENTRY, I DON’T KNOW who appeared more flustered—me or Mrs. Robinson and her friends.
Mrs. Robinson, her face red, stammered when she spoke. “Oh . . . um . . . Rose, did you . . . need something?”
My sweaty palms told me I should have minded my own business and left the handkerchief lying on the dining room table.
I took a hard swallow before I spoke.
My voice failed me anyway. “I-I—um.”
Mrs. Robinson pursed her lips.
I took a deep breath and composed myself. I held up the handkerchief and quickly said, “Somebody left this.”
With a sigh, Mrs. Robinson rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. A few of the other ladies reacted similarly, as if to say, “How dare this foolish girl interrupt us for something as frivolous as a forgotten handkerchief!”
When I cast my eyes toward the floor, wishing I could melt into it, a throat cleared.
I glanced up and spotted the petite, smartly dressed Mrs. Jamison staring at me. When she beckoned me toward her, fear filled my heart.
Nervously, I walked over to her and placed the handkerchief in her outstretched hand.
She peered directly into my eyes and said gently, “Thank you, child.”
I knew I wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t help but stare straight back at her. I’d heard that she was a kind lady, even allowing her colored maid to enter her home through the front door—and not just the kitchen. I’d also heard that she even invited her maid to dine at the table with her occasionally. I didn’t know whether either of those things were true, but I did know that as she stared at me, her eyes seemed as comforting as hot coffee on a cold morning.
And her smile was equally comforting.
I smiled back.
I’m not sure what overcame me, but with Mrs. Jamison looking at me—and not through me—smiling at me that way, I was unable to move. My mind and body were locked in a trance.
But Mrs. Robinson quickly broke it. “Rose!” she snapped.
I glanced around. All the women were staring at me. Some of them with their mouths slightly open.
Mrs. Robinson cleared her throat. She stared steely-eyed at me and said, “While I’m sure Mrs. Jamison is grateful for your kind gesture, it is very rude of you to stand there gawking at her like that.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, but before one word came out, Mrs. Robinson pointed toward the hallway.
Her mouth said nothing, but her face said, Git!
My heartbeat quickened as I scurried from the room.
I knew I should have hurried to the kitchen, but my heart was pumping blood to my head so fast that I thought it would explode. I leaned against the wall outside the parlor and placed my hand over my heart to steady it.
I couldn’t believe I’d just stood there and stared in the face of a white woman as if she was my grandmother and I was her darling little granddaughter. What if Ma Pearl had been nearby and heard Mrs. Robinson chastise me like that?
I took several deep breaths and said a quick prayer in hopes that Mrs. Robinson wouldn’t mention the incident to Ma Pearl. And just as my weakened legs regained enough strength to carry me back to the kitchen, I heard one of the women say with a haughty sniff, “You see, Rebecca, this is just what I’m talking about. Ever since that trial, the coloreds have gotten beside themselves.”
My body stiffened. The voice sounded like the same one who’d hissed “niggers” just before I stepped into the parlor. And what did she mean by “gotten beside themselves”? Was she talking about me? I hadn’t meant to stare at Mrs. Jamison like that. And I certainly couldn’t help that her warm smile invited me to smile back.
There was a reply to the woman’s comment, but it was whispered and muffled.
Though I knew I shouldn’t have, I pressed my ear to the wall. If these ladies were talking about me, I wanted to know what they were saying—especially if Mrs. Robinson was thinking about reporting my actions to Ma Pearl.
I couldn’t quite make out what the woman was saying, but I did pick up on the words “NAACP,” “trial,” and “shameful.” I couldn’t believe they were still talking about that trial of Roy Bryant and his brother J. W. Milam, the men who killed Emmett Till.
My friend Hallelujah Jenkins said that it’s all anyone in Stillwater—white and colored—had talked about for the last month and a half. White folks thought they had been treated unfairly by the colored press, especially Jet magazine, whom they claimed had given Mississippi a bad name with their so-called “one-sided” reporting.
And colored folks certainly felt we h
ad been treated unfairly when a jury announced that those two killers had not murdered Emmett Till, a colored boy who was said to have whistled at a white woman. They were free to go on with their lives, while that poor boy had lost his. And if they could get away with such a gruesome murder even after eyewitnesses testified against them, then there was no telling what could happen to colored people in Mississippi next.
My ears perked up when another voice came through a bit more clearly.
“After all those boys have been through, I can’t believe they might make them go back to court.”
Boys? What boys? Roy Bryant and J. W. Milam? The only boy involved in that case was Emmett Till. And he was dead, at only fourteen. Just a year older than me.
And what did she mean by go back to court? Who was going back to court? And why?
That storm swirled in my stomach again. I longed to do the right thing—to rush back to the kitchen and take my ears away from eavesdropping on Mrs. Robinson and her friends. I was potentially in enough trouble already if Mrs. Robinson decided to tell Ma Pearl about what happened in the parlor. I knew I should have left, but my legs wouldn’t move. I felt like the apostle Paul, who said when he wanted to do right, sometimes, he just couldn’t. I pressed my ear against the wall and strained to listen.
The next voice I heard belonged to Mrs. Robinson. “I wish the coloreds up north would realize how happy the coloreds are down here. Then they’d quit runnin’ down here trying to change things.”
“I know all of ours are happy,” someone interjected.
“Ours too,” came another. “Matter of fact, Allen and I are thinking about getting indoor plumbing for all our people.”
“Oh, how nice!” came a voice that sounded very much like Mrs. Robinson’s. But surely it couldn’t have been her, seeing that they had been promising to give us indoor plumbing for over two years now. Instead, we still had to use that stinky outdoor toilet and pump our water from a well in the backyard.
“It’s too bad those colored newspapers and magazines never report the good things that go on in the South,” someone said. “They should come down here and see how nice our colored schools are.”
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