I hesitated but shook my head.
Hallelujah shot me a doubtful look.
I scribbled on the note: “That’s all we talked about. I swear. Now stop passing notes.”
Hallelujah read the note, sighed, then tucked it inside his Bible.
I released a breath and relaxed my knotted-up shoulders. Luckily, with it being the night before Thanksgiving, there would be no fellowship after Bible study. Folks wanted to get home and prepare their meals for the holiday.
I wouldn’t have to talk to Hallelujah. It was one thing to write a lie. It’s was a whole nother thing to have to speak one.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday, November 24
AFTER NEARLY A WEEK HAD PASSED AND I HAD HEARD nothing about a band of Negro youth terrorizing white people in the middle of the night, I fixed my thoughts on enjoying one of the two days each year that Ma Pearl seemed to act halfway decently toward her fellow human beings—Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I was nine years old the first time I remember celebrating Thanksgiving. It was something Ma Pearl wanted to do because the Robinsons did it. And from what I’d heard, the Robinsons began doing it because the president of the United States declared that the fourth Thursday of November would be a national day of thanks. Papa said it was a shame that the president had to remind people to give thanks when the good Lord has been trying to tell us that all along.
We gathered around the kitchen table right at noon. For once we didn’t have to eat one of our own chickens. Mr. Robinson sent Ma Pearl home with a plump turkey and a store-bought ham. I’d been wanting one of those hams since the day I humiliated myself by eating the leftover sandwiches of the Cackling Church Club.
Our table was piled with food—turkey, ham, dressing, collard greens, yams, smashed potatoes, creamed corn, field peas, cornbread, and butter rolls. In the gleaming white safe awaited the cakes—caramel, coconut, lemon, and chocolate—and pies—pecan and sweet potato. The eyes of Aunt Ruthie’s poor children seemed as if they would pop right out of their heads if they didn’t eat soon.
But before we could eat, there would be the scripture reading and prayer. Each person was expected to memorize a scripture regarding thanksgiving and say it before we ate. Papa started us off by quoting from heart Colossians 3:15: And let the peace of God rule in your hearts, to the which also ye are called in one body; and be ye thankful.
One by one, my family quoted memorized scripture on thanksgiving. Ma Pearl: Give thanks to the Lord for he is good. Aunt Ruthie: In everything give thanks. Queen: Give thanks always.
When it was my turn, something snapped in me and my mind went blank. I couldn’t remember the scripture I had memorized the night before. The only one stuck in my head was the one Papa had quoted: Let the peace of God rule in your hearts.
With all the Negro blood that had been shed in Mississippi in the last few months, how could Papa talk about peace ruling in our hearts? My mind began to race—not in search of scripture but in search of some kind of sense to everything that was going on around me. My grand-father was speaking of peace. My best friend was speaking of peaceful protests. And my cousin was speaking of retaliation. Fear for fear. What if that plan to instill fear grew into something more? What if it grew into a fight? Bloodshed for bloodshed.
“Gal, is you go’n say somethin’?” Ma Pearl interrupted my thoughts.
“Umm. J-Jesus wept,” I stammered.
Ma Pearl furrowed her brows. “Jesus wept? That ain’t no Thanksgiving strip’chur.”
Papa, too, frowned at me. “Now, Rose. I know you can do better than that.”
My throat went dry. No, Papa, I can’t do better than that. I can’t be like you no matter how hard I try. I can’t let peace rule in my heart when my heart is constantly broken by my circumstances. Yes, I probably should have been thankful seeing we had a table full of food before us. I knew a lot of people who would have given anything to have a feast like the one Mr. Robinson made sure we had. There was much to be thankful for. But sadly, there was even more to be bitter about.
Little Abigail had begun to fidget in Aunt Ruthie’s arms, and I knew I was holding up the dinner. I knew I had to quote a scripture and move on. But my brain seemed as smashed as those creamy white potatoes. Jesus wept. Jesus wept. Jesus wept.
Suddenly, a scripture popped into my head. And before I had time to consider the consequence, it had spilled from my mouth. “I didn’t come to bring peace but a sword.”
I quickly covered my mouth with both of my hands.
“Gal, what the devil is wrong wit’choo!” Ma Pearl cried.
With my hands still cupped over my mouth, all I could do was shake my head. This wasn’t what I wanted to say. I wanted to give thanks like everyone else. I wanted to pretend we lived in a good place, that we were as happy as the Robinsons were in their big white house, sitting around their fine oak table, in their wallpapered dining room, enjoying the fruit of their Negro laborers.
But I couldn’t pretend. My stomach knotted at the thought of the Robinsons and the fact that they were free. They could go to town and shop in any store without having to stand around and wait until all the white customers were served. They could eat anywhere they wanted without having to check for signs to see whether their kind was served there. They could drink water from a fountain where the water was actually cold and didn’t taste as metallic as an iron pipe. Nor did they have to cast their eyes downward when approached by the opposite race. And even though Papa was nearly twenty years older than Mr. Robinson, it was Papa who addressed him as “sir” and not the other way around.
A frown overtook my face, but I somehow managed to utter, “And when ye will offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving unto the Lord, offer it at your own will.” Before the words finished crossing my lips, I knew they were just as wrong as the peace and sword scripture.
I braced myself for a slap.
But Thanksgiving truly was a good day for Ma Pearl. Instead of slapping me across the room, she smiled and nodded at Fred Lee. “Go on, chile” she said.
Fred Lee’s voice shook when he spoke. “Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving.”
Ma Pearl nodded again, then addressed Aunt Ruthie. “Any yo’ young’uns got a strip’chur?”
“Yes’sum,” Aunt Ruthie muttered. Her voice, too, shook. It seemed I had shaken up the whole family with my foolish tongue.
Lil’ John, Virgil, Mary Lee, and even two-year-old Alice quoted a scripture. I thought Ma Pearl would smile. Instead she seemed disappointed that Aunt Ruthie had trained her children well. Or perhaps she was upset that I had fumbled like a fool while children younger than six quoted scriptures without a quiver.
The food and the conversation were lively. Even Aunt Ruthie, for once, was happy. Queen, with baby Abigail now bouncing on her knee, wasn’t allowing her predicament to spoil her day of thanks either. But I could not involve myself in the merriment. That whole business about peace wouldn’t leave my mind. There I was, my thoughts dark, wondering why I was sitting among these people who were so content with their sad way of life that they could enjoy a token turkey from the man who was barely better than a slave master toward them. And poor Queen! That man, Mr. Robinson, would even be the never-acknowledged grandfather of the child she was carrying. How could she smile?
A knock at the front door startled me.
Johnny Lee. Shorty had come through for me.
My body stiffened. What would Ma Pearl think? What would she do?
Even though I was not even two years old when it happened, I still remember the day he came to the house to see Fred Lee when he was a baby. I can still hear the panic in Mama’s voice when she said, “You need to leave ’fo my mama catch you here.”
I noticed Aunt Ruthie seemed to stiffen too. Perhaps she thought it was her mean-as-the-devil husband, Slow John, at the door.
I jumped up to rush to the front door before Papa could move his chair from the table.
Ma Pearl
glared at me. “Gal, what is you doin’? Set yo’self down ’fo I knock you back down. Didn’t nobody ast you to git the do’.
When I plopped back down on my chair, even Fred Lee eyed me suspiciously.
Papa took his time pushing his chair from the table and getting up. “Prob’ly Clara Jean and Ollie,” he said, referring to Queen’s mama and stepdaddy.
Ma Pearl sucked her teeth. “Long as it ain’t Slow John. ’Cause he ain’t gittin’ a lick o’ food from this table.”
Jesus, I prayed, if it’s Johnny Lee, please let Ma Pearl offer him a lick of food rather than a lick from her mighty fist.
My anticipation was short-lived. I let out a sigh when I heard the voices of Hallelujah and Reverend Jenkins once Papa answered the door. But the day wasn’t over. Perhaps my daddy would still come.
I was surprised to see Hallelujah’s aunt Bertha trailing behind them when they came back to the kitchen. Her visits to our house were almost as rare as that Thanksgiving turkey sent over by Mr. Robinson. That’s because Ma Pearl was not one of Miss Bertha’s favorite people.
Educated at the colored college, Tougaloo, like her brother, Reverend Jenkins, Miss Bertha Jenkins was one of those Negroes who could have easily chosen the North over the South. And she could have just as easily chosen a bigger place to live, such as Greenwood, rather than lowly Stillwater. Yet there she was, just like a few other educated Negroes, trying to make life fairer, as she said, for those who couldn’t leave. She operated a small store in town, and her store, unfortunately, had been vandalized numerous times in an attempt to get her to close it down. Nothing was ever done about the break-ins, which were dismissed—much like the Emmett Till case—as Negroes destroying their own property and blaming God-fearing whites in an attempt to make them look bad.
“Y’all c’mon in,” Ma Pearl called to the trio standing near the doorway. “Y’all chi’ren git up and make room,” she ordered us. Fred Lee and I gave our seats to Reverend Jenkins and Miss Bertha, while Queen, rather than give up her seat for Hallelujah, stayed put.
Miss Bertha might not have cared much for Ma Pearl, but she loved me like a little sister. I was the first person in the kitchen whom she came to and embraced. And unlike nearly everyone else who had known me most of my life, she called me by my new name, Rosa, rather than Rose. She was also tall, and movie-star beautiful, like Mama.
With the Jenkins family cramped along with us in our kitchen, I no longer felt alone. I no longer felt like the only one who could not be happy with the way things were in our state.
Hallelujah sat on the bench next to the window, and I joined him there. Fred Lee, as he did often, slipped out of the kitchen unnoticed and escaped to the back porch. I was surprised that Aunt Ruthie’s two boys, Lil’ John and Virgil, didn’t follow him, as they had become his unofficial second and third shadows.
I was still nervous that Hallelujah would bring up the issue with Shorty, but I leaned over anyway and whispered, “Glad y’all came.” Because I was.
Hallelujah reassured me with a smile and said, “Preacher has a surprise for you.”
My heart fluttered. A surprise? Reverend Jenkins was known to stop by on Christmas and surprise Queen, Fred Lee, and me with small gifts. But this was Thanksgiving, so I couldn’t help wonder what kind of surprise awaited me.
“For all of us?” I asked Hallelujah.
He shook his head. “Just you.”
My heart pounded with anticipation. I had already received a Bible, so that certainly, thank goodness, wasn’t the surprise. A book, perhaps? Maybe Reverend Jenkins had changed his mind about allowing me to read the book Native Son, which was written by a colored man named Richard Wright, who was born in Mississippi. Hallelujah had promised to bring it by for me to read it back in September when Ma Pearl wouldn’t allow me to attend school, but Hallelujah said Reverend Jenkins claimed the book wasn’t proper reading for a lady—which I assured him I was not.
“Is it the book, Native Son?” I asked Hallelujah.
With a bewildered look, he frowned and shook his head. “No. This is better than a book.”
My fingers tingled. Not a Bible. Not a book. But a surprise. When I heard my name mentioned, I leaned in toward the table to catch a whiff of the conversation. Hallelujah sat on the edge of the bench. His right foot tapped anxiously against the wood floor. And his smile was brighter than a midday sun.
But when Ma Pearl yelled out, “Nah, she cain’t go,” Hallelujah’s smile faded quicker than a September sunset.
“But Miss Sweet,” said Reverend Jenkins, “when I asked you this last night, you said you would give it serious consideration.”
“And I did,” Ma Pearl answered briskly. “I thought about it. I thought for sho’ I was go’n let her go. Woulda been good for her to git outta here for once.” She shook her head. “But after today, I don’t know what to thank o’ Rose. That gal ack like she done lost her mind. Couldn’t even say a decent strip’chur for Thanksgiving.”
I shot Hallelujah a confused look.
He mouthed, “Alabama.”
“Montgomery?” I mouthed back.
Hallelujah nodded.
I pointed at myself.
Hallelujah nodded again and whispered, “Yes, you. Preacher wants to take you to Montgomery with us Saturday.”
My mouth fell open. That’s why Ma Pearl was so calm after I got smart-mouthed with her. She wanted to hold it against me later. She knew all along that Reverend Jenkins was coming over to ask for permission for me to go to Alabama with them. It pleased her to have a reason to say no. She sat there and talked so badly about me that it was as if I wasn’t even in the room.
Though the kitchen was crowded, I knew we couldn’t talk there. I had to find an excuse to get outside, or to slip out unnoticed, like Fred Lee.
“Aunt Ruthie,” I whispered. “Want me to take the children outside?”
Aunt Ruthie smiled her consent. She always knew exactly what I needed.
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday, November 24
“SO, Y’ALL REALLY ARE GOING TO HEAR DR. HOWARD SPEAK?” I asked Hallelujah once we got Aunt Ruthie’s children off the porch and playing in the front yard.
“Yeah,” Hallelujah answered with a nod. “Leaving first thing Saturday morning. Gonna spend the night with one of Preacher’s college friends in Tuscaloosa, then go to the rally on Sunday.”
“And Reverend Jenkins asked Ma Pearl if I could go?”
Hallelujah released an exasperated sigh as if he were tired of hearing me ask that question. But I couldn’t help myself. I had never traveled outside of Stillwater, and now someone was asking me to go all the way to another state—and it wasn’t a relative inviting me up north to live. I couldn’t help but feel incredulous, as my seventh-grade teacher, Miss Johnson, would say.
“Why didn’t he ask Papa?” I said. “He would’ve let me go.”
“He did. He spoke to both of them about it last night. Mr. Carter said yes, but Miss Sweet said maybe. She said she needed to think it over.”
“I still can’t belie—” I stopped myself when I saw the look on Hallelujah’s face.
“You said you wished you could do things like that,” he said. “So I asked Preacher if you could go with us. And since Aunt Bertha’s going, he said yes, if Mr. Carter and Miss Sweet would let you.”
I crossed my arms and let out a puff of air. “This is my fault,” I said. “I got all worked up over how unfair life was and couldn’t think of a decent scripture for Thanksgiving. Now Ma Pearl is holding it against me.”
“Life is unfair,” Hallelujah muttered, his lips barely moving. “Most every race in this country came here on boats. But the African race was the only race brought over here, shackled like animals, in the bottom of the boat.”
“Well, I wasn’t thinking that far back,” I said. “Just to today, and Mr. Robinson giving us that consolation turkey.”
Hallelujah laughed. “Consolation turkey?”
“
Yep. That’s my new name for it. Consolation turkey. A big fat juicy turkey to make up for all the hard work that we don’t get paid for.”
Hallelujah gestured around the sagging porch and laughed. “Oh, come on now, you get to live in this fine house for free. And what about all that lovely furniture his wife passes along to Miss Sweet? And don’t forget the clothes Fred Lee gets when Sam gets tired of wearing them.”
I grimaced when I thought about the last time I went to the Robinsons’ to pick up a bag of their older son’s discarded clothes. It was back in the summer—three days after Levi Jackson was killed. And it was the first time I got to hear how the Robinsons really felt about the NAACP and all this business of integration. Right there in the Robinsons’ dining room, Mr. Robinson was holding a meeting of the White Citizens’ Council—a group determined to keep Mississippi’s Jim Crow status in place. They even referred to the NAACP as the National Association for the “Agitation” of Colored People, and said they were determined to keep them from contaminating the minds of the good colored citizens of Leflore County, Mississippi. How could getting people to strive for a better life be considered contamination?
“Why is it that white people don’t want us to have anything?” I asked Hallelujah. “What would be so bad about a Negro family living in a nice house with electricity in every room and a real bathroom on the inside? What would be so bad about a Negro having a house with a hallway in it, or closets to put their clothes in? Or what would even be so bad about a Negro actually going to the store and trying on clothes before they bought them instead of having to look at something and see if it fits? Why can’t we try on clothes and shoes like the white folks do? Why do we have to let them draw the shape of our feet on a piece of paper to see if the shoes fit?”
“Because we were brought over, shackled, at the bottom of the boat,” Hallelujah answered dryly. “We’re beneath them—in their opinion.”
Then, as if some alarm had sounded in his head, Hallelujah flinched and eyed me curiously.
A Sky Full of Stars Page 8
