Papa squinted at me when I opened the door before anyone knocked. I could tell he wanted to say something, but before he could, Hallelujah was inside the door. Reverend Jenkins spilled in right behind him.
From the looks on their faces, I just knew something bad had happened to Shorty. I just knew he’d gone out and gotten himself killed.
My hands, which were already sweaty, started to shake.
“Preacher?” Papa inquired.
With a grim look, Reverend Jenkins shook his head. His voice quivered when he spoke. “God help us, Mr. Carter. These crackers done shot Gus Courts.”
Chapter Fifteen
Saturday, November 26
MY TENSE SHOULDERS SLUMPED IN RELIEF WHEN Reverend Jenkins didn’t mention Shorty. But whoever Gus Courts was, his being shot was a cause of tears for Reverend Jenkins. He had barely slumped down on the settee before he removed his glasses, dropped his head in his palms, and began bawling like a small child. I had never seen him cry, not even at a funeral.
Papa and I both turned to Hallelujah for answers. But he only sat beside his father and placed his arm around his shaking shoulders. “It’s okay, Papa,” he said. “At least he’s not dead.”
Papa. I had never heard Hallelujah refer to Reverend Jenkins as anything other than Preacher. He said it’s because that’s what he grew up hearing everyone else call him. But Papa. That’s what he called him in his heart.
“Hallelujah, what—”
With his palm raised, Papa cut me off before I could utter another word. He shook his head. The look on his face said, “Not yet, daughter.”
I sat back in my chair by the window, and Papa sat in the matching chair near the door. I don’t know what was on Papa’s mind, but I was praying that Ma Pearl wouldn’t come barging into the parlor being loud and rude. I didn’t want her seeing Reverend Jenkins at such a low point.
I had so many questions, but I couldn’t ask any.
Who was Gus Courts?
Where was Miss Bertha?
And were we still going to Montgomery, Alabama?
I certainly couldn’t gather the answer to my last question by the way Reverend Jenkins and Hallelujah were dressed. They always dressed as if they had somewhere important to go. But since Miss Bertha wasn’t with them and we were supposed to leave for Montgomery two hours earlier, I had to assume we weren’t going. My heart felt like it deflated.
These crackers done shot Gus Courts. Now, crackers wasn’t even a word Reverend Jenkins used. And with him being an English teacher, he certainly, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have said “done” instead of “have.”
When Aunt Ruthie appeared at the parlor door, her eyes rounded and her mouth fell into an O. I could tell she was embarrassed to see Reverend Jenkins crying by the way she hurriedly backed out of the doorway. I followed her into the front room to explain, and to see whether she knew who Gus Courts was.
She didn’t. She had never heard the name, either.
“Could it be someone kin to them?” I asked.
Aunt Ruthie shook her head. “I ain’t never see’d Preacher cry. He didn’t cry at his own papa’s funeral.”
“His mama’s?” I inquired.
“She died when he was a boy.”
Chills covered my arms. “Just like Hallelujah,” I said quietly. “He never told me that.”
“Preacher ain’t no emotional man,” Aunt Ruthie said, her eyes sad. “He don’t cry easy.”
“Where’s Ma Pearl?” I whispered.
“Out in the toilet,” answered Aunt Ruthie.
“Good,” I said, touching Aunt Ruthie’s arm. “I don’t want her to see Reverend Jenkins like this.”
Aunt Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Lawd knows we don’t need that.”
When I came back to the parlor, Reverend Jenkins was wiping his face with a handkerchief.
Hallelujah peered up at me. “We took Aunt Bertha to Mound Bayou,” he said. “She’s safer there.”
I gave him a puzzled look.
“Gus Courts was shot yesterday while he was checking receipts at the cash register in his store down in Belzoni.”
Belzoni. That’s the same town where Reverend George Lee, back in May, was shot and killed for helping colored people register to vote.
Noticing the look on my face, Hallelujah nodded and said, “He was a friend of Reverend Lee. Like him, he was helping other Negroes register to vote.”
Papa finally spoke. “Y’all think Bertha might be in danger?”
Reverend Jenkins cleared his throat and said, “We’re all in danger, Mr. Carter.” His voice was choked but strong. “When someone is evil enough to gun down a sixty-five-year-old man who was only trying to do right by his community, it tells me that none of our lives matter to them.”
“Sixty-five?” asked Papa.
“Two years older than Lamar Smith, who was gunned down in August,” said Hallelujah.
Lamar Smith. A sixty-three-year-old farmer and war veteran had been shot down at the courthouse in a city called Brookhaven.
He was killed in broad daylight.
His killer, they say, walked away from the scene, covered in Lamar Smith’s blood.
The sheriff stood by and watched it all happen.
He did nothing.
Lamar Smith’s crime? Helping Negroes register to vote. Just like this man, Gus Courts. And just like his friend Reverend George Lee.
May. June. July. August. September. October. November. It seemed that if Negros continued helping other Negroes register to vote, a Negro would get gunned down every three months.
Shorty’s words rang in my ears. “Them dirty dogs done shot down a sixty-three-year-old man . . . Who go’n be next? Somebody’s granmama?”
I didn’t know if I could keep dealing with this evil.
“He still alive, you say?” Papa asked.
“Barely,” answered Reverend Jenkins. “But he’s lucky for that even. He insisted they take him to Dr. Battle in Indianola. He sent him straight to Mound Bayou for surgery. He knew they’d probably let him die at Humphreys County Memorial. White surgeons won’t try to save a colored man, especially when he’s the head of the local NAACP.”
“Is that where they took the preacher?” Papa asked.
Reverend Jenkins shook his head. “Reverend Lee never made it to the hospital. He died before he got there.”
“Sorry we can’t go to Montgomery,” Hallelujah said to me. “I know how much it meant to you.”
I smiled and shrugged that it was okay. But it wasn’t. My heart ached for Mr. Gus Courts and his family, if he had one. But it ached even more for myself. Tears threatened to rush to my eyes. But I fought them. Reverend Jenkins had cried enough for all of us that day.
“Bertha’s too distraught to travel,” he said. “She decided to stay in Mound Bayou with a friend for a while. Those crackers wouldn’t dare cross the line over there and start trouble.”
There was that word again. I had never seen Reverend Jenkins upset enough to use a derogatory term to describe any race of people.
“What’s go’n happen when she come back?” Papa asked.
Reverend Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t want her to come back. I might have to pick up my own gun if these crackers hurt my sister.”
This time I cringed when the word cracker came from Reverend Jenkins’s mouth. He was always saying that just because white folks used derogatory names to try to degrade us did not mean we had to sling ugly names back at them—not that any colored person would have called a white person cracker or peckerwood or redneck to his face and lived. But what Reverend Jenkins hated even more was when colored people used the derogatory names to describe themselves.
“I s’pose nobody saw who did it,” said Papa.
Reverend Jenkins tried to snicker at Papa’s sarcasm, but he was too full of sadness and what came out of his mouth was a cross between a laugh and a moan. “There are always witnesses, Mr. Carter,” he said. “But we both know they’ll never talk.”
&
nbsp; Like a ghost, Ma Pearl suddenly appeared in the doorway. With her size, it was amazing that she was able to sneak up without being noticed.
“What’s goin’ on?” she asked. “Where Bertha?”
“Another shootin’, Pearl,” said Papa. “A grocery store owner in Belzoni.”
“Bertha shot?” Ma Pearl asked, her eyes wide.
“No, not Bertha, Miss Sweet,” said Reverend Jenkins. “Gus Courts down in Belzoni.”
Ma Pearl threw up her hands and headed over to the sofa. “I asted y’all ’bout Bertha, and y’all tell me some sto’ owner been shot. How the devil I s’pose to know the difference?”
She let out a heavy sigh as she sank into the sofa. The poor sofa creaked under her weight. She crossed her arms over her bosom and said, “Now who got shot again?”
“Gus Courts. A store owner in Belzoni,” said Papa.
“Who shot him?” Ma Pearl asked matter-of-factly.
“Some think it might be the head of their local White Citizens’ Council,” answered Reverend Jenkins.
Ma Pearl snorted. “I bet he messin’ with them NAACP peoples, ain’t he?”
When no one answered, Ma Pearl shook her head and said, “I told you them folks ain’t doin’ nothin’ but gittin’ good peoples kil’t.”
When the rest of us still said nothing, Ma Pearl squinted at Reverend Jenkins. “Preacher, I’on’ mean no harm,” she said. “But I really don’t want y’all bringin’ that mess up in my house no mo’. Too many peoples gittin’ shot, and Mr. Robinson done already told us we gots to go if we start involving ourselves with them peoples. I ain’t got nowhere else to go, ’specially now that I got a whole house full o’ folks living here. And I sho’ don’t wanna mess around and git myself shot.”
Reverend Jenkins gave Ma Pearl an up-and-down look. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Miss Sweet. I doubt that someone like you poses a threat to the White Citizens’ Council goal to preserve their segregated South.”
Luckily the teakettle let out a whistle and summoned Ma Pearl back to the kitchen. Otherwise, I think Reverend Jenkins might have landed in 1956 before the rest of us got there. Ma Pearl had that look on her face that said she was about to slap him straight on into the next year.
December
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday, December 3
DECEMBER CAME IN COLD, WET, AND GLOOMY. And it wasn’t gloomy simply because the sun had been hiding behind rain-soaked clouds for two days straight. It was gloomy because I couldn’t stop thinking about what a fool I had been to stay in Mississippi—a place where old men were shot just for wanting to vote. When Reverend Jenkins finally had a chance to talk to Mr. Gus Courts after his surgery, he said he told him that all he wanted was a chance to vote before he died—a chance to feel like he had the rights of a citizen in Mississippi. He said, “The Negro pays taxes, so why can’t he vote?” I didn’t know much about taxes, but I surely hadn’t heard of any white folks trying to gun down Negroes for paying them.
Sixty-five. That’s how old Gus Courts was. Papa was fifty-nine, and he said he was too old to concern himself with voting. Though I loved my grandfather dearly, for the first time in my life I felt ashamed of him for not being bold like Gus Courts and Lamar Smith. I knew I shouldn’t have felt that way, seeing that Lamar Smith was dead and Gus Courts had barely won the battle for his life. But I did feel that way. And the feeling itself somehow embarrassed me. Because I, too, was afraid like Papa. I was afraid to face death for the sake of fairness.
Despite the chilly, damp weather, I sat on the front porch that Saturday morning and brooded. I should have allowed Aunt Belle to return and get me back in November. I should have never written her that letter. Why on earth did I ever think I was brave enough to handle the Jim Crow South? Back when Aunt Belle and Monty were here, their presence gave me strength. But without them, I was no longer Rosa, like the dew in the morning gently refreshing the earth as Monty said. I had gone back to being plain old Rose, the girl who was afraid—the girl who wanted to run away from those miserable cotton fields.
Who was I fooling? Montgomery, Alabama? To hear a rich colored man like Dr. T. R. M. Howard speak? Me and my borrowed dresses packed in my borrowed suitcase? My own grandma wouldn’t even allow me to wear a pair of stockings because she didn’t want me to get “beside myself.”
I would never get to go anywhere, or do anything important. And it was my own fault.
I stared at the red and gold leaves still clinging to the trees. Even their beauty couldn’t cheer me. My eyes kept dropping to the ground, at the dead brown leaves scattered across the front yard instead.
When I heard a car stirring up rocks on the road, I glanced up. It was Reverend Jenkins, and surprisingly, Hallelujah was driving. When they pulled into the yard, I tried to smile but couldn’t. I had begun to associate their arrival with bad news. I still had heard nothing of Shorty, nor had I seen him in school. I said a silent prayer, hoping the Jenkinses weren’t bringing bad news about him.
Hallelujah started waving before he exited the car. I couldn’t tell if he was happy to see me or just happy that he was driving. But the smile he wore was bright enough to light up a cloudy night. Of course, he wasn’t delivering bad news. A smile like that could never come from a sad heart. From the porch, I waved back at him and found my own smile.
When Hallelujah rushed from the car and raced toward the steps, his jubilance made me giggle. “What’s the hurry?” I asked. “We ate all the breakfast, and Ma Pearl don’t cook supper on Saturday. So I sure hope you ain’t rushing up here for something to eat.”
Hallelujah shook his head. “Nope. We came to get you,” he said, pointing at me.
“Me?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, pointing at myself.
“Yes, you, Rosa Lee Carter,” Hallelujah said, nodding. “We’re going to Mound Bayou, and you’re going with us.”
“Moun—” The words stuck in my throat. Mound Bayou? The town where folks said only colored people lived? The place where Dr. T. R. M. Howard was a surgeon and supposedly lived in a mansion that could rival Mr. Robinson’s? How was I going? And why?
I didn’t allow my hopes to rise. Instead I shook my head and said I couldn’t go.
Just as Hallelujah sat in the chair next to me on the porch, Reverend Jenkins reached the front steps. “We didn’t take a detour and drive out here for nothing,” he said. “We owe you a trip, and you’re gonna take it.”
“Ma Pearl—”
Hallelujah cut me off. “He’s asking Mr. Carter only.”
“We’re visiting Bertha,” said Reverend Jenkins. “And you’re coming with us.”
I smiled and allowed my hopes to rise.
Fifteen minutes later I found myself wearing the pink dress and the black patent leather shoes Miss Bertha had given me as well as a pair of stockings Queen let me borrow. And yes, I was beside myself, just as Ma Pearl had predicted. Yet to keep me from fully “classing myself,” she made me wear my ratty brown coat with the too-short sleeves.
Still, I was happy. I was in the back seat of Reverend Jenkins’s car (he was now behind the wheel, and not Hallelujah), and I was headed to Mound Bayou, Mississippi. For the first time in my thirteen years of living, I was leaving Stillwater.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, December 3
I REMEMBER ONCE, WHEN I WAS ABOUT ELEVEN YEARS OLD, I asked Mama if I could go to Greenwood with her. Often when she, Mr. Pete, Sugar, and Lil’ Man would come to visit, they would giggle and grin about the games they had played along the drive.
I Spy. That was the name of one of the games. And sometimes they would continue playing it even after they had reached the house.
“I spy with my little eye . . . something green,” Mama said.
“A leaf!” Sugar cried.
Mama grinned slyly and pointed at the bottom of the tree. “Fooled ya,” she said. “It’s the stuff on the bottom of the tree.”
I smi
led and said, “It’s called moss.”
Mama frowned at me and quit playing the game.
After that they never again continued their games once they reached our house. Though the games sounded silly and pointless, they made me long to go for a car ride along the highway just the same. Now, two years later, I was finally in a car, riding along the highway, but I knew I was too old to play a game called I Spy with Hallelujah and Reverend Jenkins. Besides, there wasn’t much to see except harvested cotton fields. And every town we drove through looked the same—like Stillwater. I don’t know what I expected, but I was a little disappointed that I discovered nothing new on the drive from Stillwater to Mound Bayou.
But driving into Mound Bayou was totally different. Not only did it look different, it felt different. It felt safe.
“Here we are,” Reverend Jenkins called from the front seat. “Mound Bayou. Mississippi’s all-Negro town. Founded by Negroes. Run by Negroes.”
Hallelujah peered back at me from the front passenger seat and smiled. I smiled back.
Reverend Jenkins continued. “The late, great Booker T. Washington himself once praised Mound Bayou as a place where a Negro can get inspiration by seeing what other members of his race have accomplished.”
Booker T. Washington was a name Miss Johnson had mentioned often, but there was nothing written about him in our history texts. Miss Johnson said he was so smart that he advised presidents even though he himself had been born a slave. I supposed Mrs. Robinson and her church club had never heard of him, since they felt that colored children couldn’t learn as fast as white children.
“And I agree with Mr. Washington,” Hallelujah chimed in. He gestured toward the window. “You see these stores? Negro-owned. Every last one of them.” He turned to me and grinned. “If that doesn’t convince you that colored people can do the same things as whites, I don’t know what will.”
As Reverend Jenkins’s car slowly cruised down a main street, it wasn’t the stores that I took note of. It was the people. They all looked the same. They all had brown skin. Like me. And they all walked together on the sidewalk—no one was stepping aside so someone of a lighter color could have more space.
A Sky Full of Stars Page 10
