Barbara and Dorothy leaned in as Hallelujah recounted to me what he had obviously already told them: Colored people in Montgomery, Alabama, were about to start a bus boycott, and it was all because of a colored lady who got arrested for not giving up her seat so that a white person could sit down.
Hallelujah stared wild-eyed at me and gripped my wrists again. “You’re not gonna believe this!” he said. “The lady who refused to give up her seat is named Rosa—just like you!”
Barbara and Dorothy clapped and cheered as if I had done something. Some colored lady with the same name as me had been arrested because she wouldn’t stand up and let a white man have her seat, and they were cheering for me?
I wriggled my wrists from Hallelujah’s grasp. “Okay, let me get this straight,” I said. “Dr. Howard gave his big speech in Montgomery, Alabama, a week ago Saturday, right?”
Hallelujah nodded eagerly.
“Then on Thursday a colored lady named Rosa wouldn’t stand up to let a white person sit down. And today colored folks aren’t supposed to ride the buses because she got arrested?”
“Yep, that’s right,” Hallelujah said.
“But why are y’all cheering for me?”
“Remember what you told me about your name coming from some saint from Italy?
“Rose of Viterbo,” I said. “It means ‘dew.’”
“Like the stuff on the grass in the mornings?” asked Dorothy.
Before I could answer, Hallelujah chimed in. “She says people with this name want to analyze and understand the world. They search for deep truths.”
I shook my head at them all as they stared at me. “I still don’t understand how this has anything to do with me.”
Dorothy shrugged. “Well, it don’t, really. But we just excited to have a Rosa among us, seeing that this Rosa lady just stood up to a white man.”
Hallelujah laughed and said, “Or shall we say, ‘She wouldn’t stand up for a white man’?”
While my classmates laughed with Hallelujah, I pondered how, until that very day, neither of them had bothered calling me Rosa. Like with Ma Pearl and everyone else, I was just Rose Lee to them.
“I still don’t understand the whole bus thing,” I said.
Barbara nudged Hallelujah. “Explain it to her, like you told us.”
Hallelujah rose and took his preacher’s stance. “The city buses in Montgomery,” he said, “have two sections—one for whites, up front, of course, and one for coloreds, in the back. But if the white section is full, then colored folks have to get up and allow the white people to have their seats. But Mrs. Rosa Parks said she was tired of giving in to white folks. So when the bus driver asked her to let a white person have her seat, she said no—”
“And she got arrested and put in jail,” interrupted Dorothy.
“So what’s this about a boycott?” I asked.
Hallelujah pulled a piece of paper from his pants pocket. “How could I forget to show you this?” He unfolded the paper and handed it to me. “Preacher said this is classified information. It’s part of a letter an NAACP worker named Jo Ann Robinson distributed throughout the colored sections in Montgomery on Saturday. I copied down the important parts.”
“Robinson?” I asked, my brows raised. “She colored?”
“I just told you she’s NAACP,” Hallelujah answered. “Of course she’s colored.”
“‘Another Negro woman has been arrested and thrown in jail because she refused to get up out of her seat on the bus and give it to a white person,’” I read aloud. “‘This has to be stopped. We are, therefore, asking every Negro to stay off the buses Monday in protest of the arrest and trial. Don’t ride the buses to work, to town, to school, or anywhere on Monday.’”
I glanced up at Hallelujah. “It says another Negro woman. It’s happened before?”
“Yeah,” answered Hallelujah. “Preacher said it happened earlier this year. Two others, he thinks, got arrested for not giving up their seats. It says another Negro woman, but I think one of them was about our age.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking about Joe Ann in Mound Bayou. She’d probably be the type of Negro who would be that brave.
Joe Ann and Hallelujah, of course. I studied the note again before handing it back to him. “So how do you know it’s a boycott? How do you know it’s not just for one day?”
Barbara nudged him again. “Tell her ’bout the meeting.”
“They’re having a meeting tonight at the church where Dr. Howard held his rally. Dexter Avenue. The one where that young preacher, Reverend Martin Luther King, pastors. Preacher says they’re holding a meeting tonight to strategize how to keep this going. To make it a real boycott. But for today they’re asking every colored person to stay off the buses.”
Barbara chimed in. “It don’t matter if it’s one day or one hundred days. What’s important is that they do it.”
“And how do they know colored people will stay off the buses like they asked?” I said.
Hallelujah glanced at the note again. “Preacher said he was sure they would.” He folded the note and stuffed it into his pocket. “He said folks are sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
“He got that right.” Shorty’s voice boomed from the doorway. “I’m sho’ sick and ti’ed.”
“Shorty!” I gasped. I was so glad to see him that I almost leaped from my seat to run and hug him. I was so glad that he wasn’t in jail. Or dead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday, December 5
DOROTHY FROWNED AND SAID, “WHERE YOU BEEN all this time, Shorty Cooper? You ain’t been to school in two weeks.”
Shorty answered flatly, “Mindin’ my bizness. Leavin’ yours ’lone.”
“How you jest go’n show up all of a sudden and stick yo’ nose up in this conversation?” Barbara asked.
Shorty ignored both Dorothy and Barbara and turned to Hallelujah. “How is a few Negroes not ridin’ the bus in Alabama go’n keep Negroes in Miss’sippi from gittin’ shot?” He folded his arms over his chest and said, “A white man jest walked up to a colored man on Saturday ’n shot him over some gasoline. And y’all up in here clappin’ ’cause a colored woman was too ti’ed to git out of a seat.”
Hallelujah glowered at him and said, “You don’t know anything, James Cooper.”
Shorty glowered back at him. “You thank you and yo’ daddy the only somebody that know what’s goin’ on ’round here? That doctor in Mound Bayou sayin’ one thang to the press, and another to the peoples. He tellin’ the press that there go’n be bloodshed in Miss’sippi. That both black and white blood go’n be runnin’ in the streets if Eisenhower don’t do nothin’ ’bout this killin’. But he tellin’ the peoples to march in the streets. Which is it go’n be, Preacha’? Marchin’ or shootin’?”
Hallelujah glared up and down at Shorty. “Guess you think we should all do like you and sneak around at night and shoot at white folks’ houses, huh?”
“What?” Barbara asked, her eyes widening.
Shorty cut his eyes at her. “They doin’ a heck of a lot worse to us. And I don’t need no Jet magazine to tell me ’bout it. I was there this time. I seen it for myself.
“That peckerwood, Elmer Kimball, drove up to the station. Ast for a fill-up. McGarrh, the boss man, told Melton to fill up the tank. After he fill’t it up, that peckerwood started cussin’ ’n screamin’ that he didn’t ast for no fill-up. But we all heard him say, ‘Fill ’er up.’ He lied like a sack o’ rocks and said he only ast for a dollar worth in his tank.”
Barbara interrupted Shorty. “You was there f’real?”
“I was there. Right outside the sto’ ’cause my truck wouldn’t start. That’s where I been all this time. Up in Glendora, working. My granmama’s brother got me a job doing some carpentry work. Stopped by that station for some gas, then my truck quit. I seen everythang.”
“You saw the whole thing?” Dorothy asked.
Shorty nodded. “The whole thang.”
&
nbsp; Hallelujah rolled his eyes.
“When that fool said he was go’n to git his shotgun, the boss man McGarrh told Melton to hurr’up ’n git home.” Shorty shook his head and said, “Melton’s car was outta gas. ’Fo he could fill it up, Kimball was back.”
“Lordy,” Dorothy whispered.
“And he just shot him?” Barbara asked.
“In cold blood,” said Shorty. “Went afta him like he was out ’n the woods huntin’ a deer or somethin’.”
“Open season on the Negro,” I said quietly, glancing at Hallelujah.
He said nothing.
Shorty shook his head. “The white man that own the service station begged that man not to shoot. Told him what a good man Melton was. ‘A hard-working Negro with a family,’ he said.”
When Dorothy moaned, Shorty shook his head again and said, “He begged him not to shoot.”
“But he shot him anyways,” Barbara said quietly. She dropped her head, wrapped her arms around her stomach, and muttered, “Umph, umph, umph.”
Shorty glared at Hallelujah and said, “So I ast you again, Preacha’, how is a few Negroes not ridin’ the bus in Alabama go’n keep Negroes in Miss’sippi from gittin’ shot? If that doctor in Mound Bayou really cared, he’a be here in Miss’sippi doin’ somethin’ ’bout the killin’s ’stead o’ runnin’ over to Alabama jest shoutin’ ’bout ’em.”
Hallelujah gave Shorty a harsh up-and-down look. He stared at him hard for a moment without speaking. “So you were there. You saw a killing. And all of a sudden you think that makes you more dedicated than Dr. T. R. M. Howard? What did you do when Emmett Till was murdered?”
There was no reply from Shorty.
“Did you host all those people from the North in your home during the trial? Did you protect Emmett Till’s mother when she was worried about what these white folks down here might do to her? Did you spearhead an all-out search for the colored folks who witnessed the crime?”
He glared at Shorty and waited for a response.
When there wasn’t one, Hallelujah continued. “Are you traveling from city to city demanding that something be done about these killings? Or are you just hell-bent on picking up your shotgun and doing what that peckerwood just did up in Glendora?”
Hallelujah stared Shorty square in the face and said, “Buckshot don’t discriminate. Remember that before you consider firing your shotgun.”
For what felt like the longest seconds in history, Shorty simply stared right back at Hallelujah. And within those seconds, a darkness seemed to creep into the room.
When Shorty finally spoke, his voice was calmer than I expected, considering the anger in his eyes. “You know what the rest of us was doin’ while Kimball was firin’ that shotgun, Preacha’?” He shook his head. “Nah. You don’t. ’Cause you wasn’t there. You ain’t never been there. Yo’ doctor in Mound Bayou ain’t never been there.” He stepped closer to Hallelujah and said, “Well, Preacha’, let me tell you what we was doin’. We was all hidin’ in the station. Every last one of us. You know how come? ’Cause Kimball woulda been happy to hit any one of us that day.
“So you tell me. Which one go’n work? Boycotts or bullets?”
Before Hallelujah could reply, Miss Hill entered the classroom. She took one look at Hallelujah, scowled, then said, “I know all about that mess going on in Alabama, and I certainly don’t need to deal with that kind of nonsense in my classroom this morning.” She pointed at the door and said, “Leave. Right. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday, December 5
I SAT ON THE PORCH TO WORK MATH PROBLEMS BECAUSE little Abigail was making too much noise inside the house for me to concentrate. It’s too bad she wasn’t old enough to fear Ma Pearl like the rest of Aunt Ruthie’s children. Ear infection or any other pain, they would somehow figure out a way to suppress their cries in her presence.
But it wasn’t just Abigail who hindered my ability to concentrate. It was everything around me. I stared at the nearly leafless oak in our front yard. Its winding roots making their way toward the front porch reminded me of snakes. I imagined those snakes having the faces of people like Roy Bryant, J. W. Milam, Elmer Kimball, Ricky Turner, and even the lady who had hissed “niggers” at Mrs. Robinson’s Cackling Church Club meeting. The ancient oak was their precious way of life, and they were ready to strike, with their venom, anyone who dared come near it.
While a potential bus boycott in Montgomery was a good thing, I could understand Shorty’s anger and wanting to do something more to protect ourselves. But even if Clinton Melton had had a gun, what could he have done? Would he have shot a white man who was threatening to shoot him first? And if he had, what would be his punishment?
If he had been able to leave the service station and head home before Elmer Kimball got back with his shotgun, would Elmer Kimball, Roy Bryant, and J. W. Milam have gone to his house in the middle of the night and “taken him” like they had done Emmett Till?
Sometimes when Papa faced a tough decision, he would shake his head and say that he was trapped between a rock and a hard spot. And that’s where the Negro was. There was probably nothing Clinton Melton could have done that day to save his life. Nothing. Because Elmer Kimball probably got up that morning with an urge to kill a Negro.
When Miss Hill ordered Hallelujah to leave her classroom that morning, Shorty had stormed out too, with fire in his eyes. No one had seen him the rest of the day. I prayed he hadn’t, like my cousin Mule in Arkansas, gone out and done something foolish.
I knew Shorty wasn’t the sharpest thorn on the bush when it came to school, but so much of what he said made sense. How was a bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, going to keep colored people in Mississippi from getting slaughtered like hogs? It was almost as if the only way to survive was to leave. But I had already passed up that opportunity.
The squeaking screen door jolted me from my thoughts. When Aunt Ruthie stepped out, her face said she needed some peace. Worry lines creased her forehead, and redness blurred her eyes. With a sigh, she dropped onto the chair next to mine and flayed her arms and legs. It was unladylike, but she sure looked comfortable.
She let her head fall back and let out another long, tired sigh. She swept a curl from her sweaty face and shut her eyes. “Rose,” she whispered, “don’t have chi’ren ’less you got a good husband to help you take care of ’em.”
I was about to respond until I saw the tear roll from the side of Aunt Ruthie’s eye.
I placed my math book, paper, and pencil on the porch floor and took Aunt Ruthie’s hand into mine. Neither of us said a word as we listened to the sounds of nature and allowed them to soothe us.
Five children, all seven years old and under, and Aunt Ruthie had to care for them the whole day in addition to helping Ma Pearl out around the house. It was too bad Lil’ John and Virgil still hadn’t started school even though they were already seven and six years old. There was no way to get them there, and it was too far for them to walk. Even with Queen out of school, they still couldn’t catch a ride with Uncle Ollie. With Aunt Clara Jean’s three other children being in school, the car was already overpacked before Queen’s absence.
After talking with Hallelujah about that whole bus thing in Montgomery, Alabama, I thought about how wonderful it would be to have a bus to ride to school like the white children. Some places in Mississippi, according to Hallelujah, had begun supplying buses for the colored children to ride, but Stillwater wasn’t one of those places. He also said the schoolchildren in big cities like Montgomery, and even our very own Jackson, Mississippi, could ride the city bus to school if they had the means to pay the fare. Of course, that probably wouldn’t have done Aunt Ruthie’s children any good. Aunt Ruthie didn’t have money to buy food, so where would she get money to pay for her children to ride a bus to school?
She taught them at home as best she could. But with her own education lacking, I didn’t know how much she was able to teach her children. I did my bes
t to pick up the slack when I came home, but I had my own catching up to do, seeing I had missed two months of school myself.
I stared at Aunt Ruthie—weary and worn from a bad marriage and the burden of caring for her small children all by herself—and wondered whether staying in Mississippi would put me at risk of turning out like her. Why didn’t she have the grit to defy Ma Pearl like Aunt Belle had? She had been offered the opportunity to go to Saint Louis, but Ma Pearl wouldn’t allow her. So she settled, marrying the first thing that came her way. Now she had returned—sad and broken—to the place she had so desperately wanted to escape.
I tried to imagine Aunt Ruthie living up north. During the summer she would visit the South like the other northern Negroes. She would pull into the yard in a big black car. I imagined her honking the horn with one hand and waving out the window with the other. She would be wearing a wide-brimmed fancy white hat. And the grin stretched across her face would reveal her pearly white teeth. She would always wear a smile, because she would be happy.
And when she married, it would be to a good man. A decent man. A man who worked—all the time, and not just when he felt like it. A man who didn’t drink spirits, as Papa called them. Spirits that controlled his mind and told him it was okay to hit his wife and curse his children.
But I also imagined Aunt Ruthie being happy where she was. Maybe there was still a way.
“Aunt Ruthie,” I said, with a slight squeeze of her hand. “It’s not too late.”
Aunt Ruthie sat up in her chair and, with the back of her free hand, wiped the tears from her face. “Not too late for what?” she asked, her voice raspy.
“It’s not too late to be what you wanted to be,” I said.
Aunt Ruthie shook her head. “I don’t know what I ever wanted to be. Other than outta this house.” She motioned toward the parlor door and said, “Now I’m back.”
Aunt Ruthie had an education, even if it wasn’t the best. Aunt Belle only had an eighth-grade education, but she still ended up opening her own beauty shop. She used her talents to find her own way, and so could Aunt Ruthie. She was a great cook. She was also good at doing hair. And Lord knows she knew how to take care of children.
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