“You ever thought about baking cakes and selling them?” I asked.
“Where I’m go’n git the money to buy the stuff to bake the cakes?” she asked.
I gestured toward the house. “We have plenty of flour and sugar and everything else you need to make pound cakes. And everybody knows you make the best pound cake in town.”
Aunt Ruthie shook her head. “That ain’t my kitchen. And that ain’t my stuff.”
“Papa wouldn’t mind you using what we have to make cakes and sell ’em.”
Aunt Ruthie’s face tightened. “But Mama would. If I used her flour and sugar and baked cakes in her kitchen, she take every penny I made from sellin’ ’em and keep for her own.”
That wrenched my heart because it was true. I thought about Shorty, and what he said about my daddy, Johnny Lee Banks. Johnny Lee gave him and his grandparents money to help them out. I wished there was some way I could get in touch with him, then maybe he could help us out. Maybe I could ask him for a small amount of money and give it to Aunt Ruthie to buy her own supplies.
When I told Aunt Ruthie about my idea, she shook her head and said it wouldn’t work. “She ain’t go’n let me use her kitchen nohow. Not to make money that she cain’t keep.”
“She can keep some of it,” I said. “Even slave owners did that much.” I told her about what Reverend Jenkins had said about Joseph Davis allowing his slaves to work outside his plantation, and how he allowed them to keep the money.
“They only paid him for the time spent off his plantation,” I said.
Aunt Ruthie squinted at me and said, “Chile, yo’ granmama worse than a slave owner.”
“No one is worse than a slave owner,” I said.
“Well, she as greedy as one,” countered Aunt Ruthie.
We both chuckled even though the subject was serious.
“I think you should at least try,” I said.
Aunt Ruthie pursed her lips. “How we s’pose explain where I’m gittin’ money to buy the flour and sugar and vanilla flavor? And you know she go’n charge me extra for using her butter and eggs and milk.”
When I creased my forehead in thought, Aunt Ruthie said, “And even if you could git money from yo’ daddy, you sho’ cain’t tell her you gittin’ money from him. Lawd knows she despise that man. And as greedy as she is, she still ain’t go’n be happy ’bout you takin’ money from him.”
“You can say you got it from Slow John,” I suggested.
Aunt Ruthie chortled. “Now we all know hell’a freeze over ’fo that happen.”
“Oh, I know,” I said. “What if we ask Miss Bertha to help us out? She might agree to saying she gave you the supplies on loan.”
This time Aunt Ruthie’s forehead creased. “Maybe we should jest do that anyway. Maybe Bertha’ll jest let me have the supplies on credit, and you won’t have to take nothin’ from Johnny Lee.”
“But how you gonna pay Ma Pearl up front?”
“If Miss Bertha can wait to git paid, then Mama can too.”
My face lit up. “So you’re gonna do it?”
Aunt Ruthie smiled and nodded. “Sho’ is. And with Christmas comin’ up, I can probably git a lotta sales.”
By this time, I was beaming so hard I felt my face would explode. I was so happy for Aunt Ruthie and the possibility that she would be at least trying to do something to help her and her children. Maybe then Ma Pearl wouldn’t be so grumpy toward her. Then a thought hit me.
“I don’t understand Ma Pearl,” I said. “As greedy as she is, why wouldn’t she let us take money from my daddy? Does she hate him that much for getting Mama in trouble? Seems to me she’d want him to pay her restitution for ruining her daughter.”
Aunt Ruthie laughed and said, “That ain’t the only reason.” She held out her hand and showed me the backside of it. I observed its smooth darkness.
“Because he’s dark?” I asked.
“Chile, Mama thank darkness is a curse. The dark Negroes worked in the fields. The yellow ones worked in the house. She thank the lighter you is, the better off you is. She ain’t got no kinda love for black folks.” Aunt Ruthie rolled her eyes and said, “Humph. She thank I’m the biggest curse of all.”
“How come?”
“She ain’t dark. Papa ain’t dark. But I’m black as the ace of spades. Now, how that happen ’less I’m some kinda curse God sent her for hatin’ her own skin?”
“Aunt Ruthie, don’t talk like that,” I said.
Aunt Ruthie frowned. “Rose, it’s the truth. Aunt Isabelle said Mama wouldn’t even hold me after she birthed me. She told Miss Addie she could take me out to the woods and leave me there for bears to raise for all she cared.”
“Then how come she didn’t let you go to Saint Louis with Great-Aunt Isabelle if she hates you so much?”
“It’s ’cause she hate me.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“When you hate somebody, you don’t want nothin’ good for ’em, even if they yo’ own flesh ’n blood. She didn’t want me to go up there and make somethin’ outta myself. She wanted me stuck here.”
“That why didn’t she let you marry Reverend Jenkins?”
A smile spread across Aunt Ruthie’s face. “How you know ’bout that?”
“Hallelujah told me,” I said, smiling back.
“She wadn’t go’n let me marry no preacher. She didn’t thank I was good ’nuff for no preacher.”
“So you married Slow John,” I said quietly.
Aunt Ruthie shook her head. “He wadn’t always like that. He wadn’t drankin’ that much when I marr’d him. He took to hittin’ the bottle real hard when Mr. Robinson thowed us off his place.”
That wasn’t the way I’d heard the story, but I didn’t say that to Aunt Ruthie. “Well, he’s gone now,” I said. “And you can have a fresh start. You can get to baking those cakes and selling them. And who knows where that could lead to next.”
“Humph,” Aunt Ruthie said, half smiling, half smirking. “That’s if Mama let me.”
“She’ll let you,” I said. “I’m gonna see if I can get on good speaking terms with Jesus again and pray about it.”
Aunt Ruthie studied me for a moment, then smiled. “You sho’ is growin’ up, Miss Rose Lee Carter.”
Something about Aunt Ruthie’s words gave me goose bumps. As I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed them away, I thought again about what was going on in Montgomery. Hallelujah had said the lady who would not give up her seat on the bus was named Rosa—like me. My classmates were celebrating the fact that someone named Rosa was among them. Could I grow up and be strong like this woman?
I told Aunt Ruthie about Mrs. Rosa Parks and what Monty said about our name.
She smiled broadly. “Well, if Miz Rosa Parks is anythang like Miss Rose—pardon me—Rosa Lee Carter, then she is one special lady.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday, December 6
THAT MORNING WHEN I SAW HALLELUJAH WAITING for me outside Miss Hill’s class, his smile was brighter than a summer sun. I knew he had good news to share, but before he did I wanted to ask him about getting Miss Bertha to help out Aunt Ruthie.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said quickly after I informed him of the plan. “That’s the whole reason she has the store, so she can help people. She’ll be glad to give Miss Ruthie credit.”
I was annoyed that he didn’t seem as excited about Aunt Ruthie as I did. “Aren’t you happy for her? This is her chance to make something of herself if everything goes as planned. The next thing we know she could own a bakery in town.”
Hallelujah’s spirit deflated. He pursed his lips and said, “I am happy for Miss Ruthie. I’m always happy when good things happen for our people. But what I need to tell you goes beyond just one person. It could impact the whole colored race.”
I was still a bit disappointed that he didn’t seem as excited about Aunt Ruthie’s potential cake-selling business as I thought he would be, but I perked up
and listened to what he had to share just the same.
Hallelujah’s face lit up again. “So Preacher got word late last night that very few Negroes rode the city buses in Montgomery yesterday.”
“How many usually ride?”
Hallelujah shrugged. “I don’t know. With all the people going to work and the children going to school, hundreds, maybe, thousands.” He grabbed my hand and said, “The point is, the boycott worked! Colored people stayed off the buses yesterday. And guess what?”
I was still having a hard time sharing his enthusiasm. I shook my hand from his grasp. “What?” I asked dryly.
“They’re continuing the boycott. It won’t be just a one-day thing.”
“What about the children?” I asked. “How will they get to school?” I thought about Aunt Ruthie’s children sitting at home, hopefully learning how to read and write. And count.
“The details haven’t been worked out yet. But for now they’re asking people to do what they did yesterday—to stay off the buses.”
“And what will that do?”
“A boycott is a peaceful way to protest all this unfair treatment,” Hallelujah answered. “Preacher said that sometimes colored folks pay their fares at the front of the bus, and by the time they walk around to the back where they have to enter, the driver will speed off. The boycott organizers said that if the city loses enough money from colored people not riding the buses, they’ll make some changes.”
I shrugged. “It’s just a bus. What about all this other stuff? Like the schools and people getting killed for registering to vote?”
Hallelujah shook his head. “It’s a start. And it’s a peaceful start. The police can’t arrest anyone for not riding a bus.”
I thought of Mr. Robinson’s warning to throw people off his place if they got involved with the NAACP. “Can’t people lose their jobs?”
Hallelujah shrugged again. “As long as they show up, why should white folks care how their colored workers get there?”
I crossed my arms and glared at him. “You, of all people, should know that it’s not about how colored people get to work but more about white folks making sure they keep their power. Separate, but unequal. Whites fighting to protect what they think belongs to their future generation. Negroes fighting to make life better for theirs.”
Hallelujah smiled and raised his brows. “I’m impressed.”
“You making fun of me?”
“No,” he said, quickly. “I’m proud of you. I’ve never heard you say anything like that before.”
I shrugged. “I think talking with Aunt Ruthie helped me figure out how to express what I’ve always known in my heart.”
I recounted to Hallelujah what Aunt Ruthie had said about Ma Pearl not allowing her to marry Reverend Jenkins or to go to Saint Louis and live with Great-Aunt Isabelle—how it all came down to Ma Pearl wanting less for her, because she didn’t see any value in her life.
“It’s a shame when our own people hold each other back,” Hallelujah said. “I’ll make sure I tell Aunt Bertha about Miss Ruthie’s plan. Who knows? Maybe our aunts can go into business together. Maybe Aunt Bertha could sell your aunt’s cakes in her store.”
Before I could respond to Hallelujah, we were interrupted by a couple of ninth-graders who approached him with questions about the bus situation in Montgomery. Hallelujah was more than eager to share information with them.
“Maybe I’ll see you at lunch,” he said to me.
I smiled, nodded, then headed toward my own classroom. The bus boycott in Montgomery might have been on their minds, but Aunt Ruthie was on mine. If Miss Bertha gave her the items she needed to bake cakes on credit, and if Ma Pearl allowed her to use her kitchen to bake them, and if Miss Bertha sold Aunt Ruthie’s cakes in her store, then that would basically make Aunt Ruthie a businesswoman like Aunt Belle. That would make her what Miss Johnson called an entrepreneur. And it would make me, her niece, very proud.
When the ninth-graders showed up for lunch, Hallelujah entered the lunchroom flanked by a group of mostly girls. His knowledge of the bus boycott in Montgomery had brought him up to a new level of popularity.
After he grabbed a tray from the very short line of students who could afford to buy lunch, he sat among his new friends and beckoned me over to their table. Feeling shy, I shook my head, lowered my gaze, and pretended to search for food in my already empty lunch sack.
But Hallelujah did not give up. “Rosa, come join us,” he called out.
I glanced up to find his table mates staring at me. With a sigh, I grabbed my lunch sack and joined them. When Dorothy and Barbara from the eighth grade class saw me, they also got up and joined us. Now there were eight of us—five girls and three boys—at a table that seated six.
“So your name really is Rosa, like the lady in Alabama?” a light-skinned, freckled girl named Gertrude asked me when I squeezed onto the bench beside Hallelujah.
I smiled and answered, “Yes.” And just as I was about to explain what the name meant, Gertrude gave me a quick up-and-down glance, wrinkled up her nose, and said, “I always thought your name was just plain Rose.”
She said it in a tone that indicated I wasn’t worthy of the name.
“Rosa changed her name when she got baptized in October,” Hallelujah explained.
I glared sideways at him and said, “I didn’t change my name. Rosa is the name my mama gave me. It’s on my birth certificate.”
They all stared at me like I had swallowed a canary and suddenly turned yellow.
Clearing her throat, Dorothy broke the silence. “Her name is special. It means ‘dew,’ or something like that.”
Gertrude gave her the same condescending stare that she had given me. After which she addressed Hallelujah: “So, what all do you know about the bus boycott?”
“Well, first of all,” he said, smiling, “yesterday’s one-day boycott was a success. So some of the leading Negroes in Montgomery formed themselves into a group called the Montgomery Improvement Association, or the MIA.”
One of the boys, Edward, the one Shorty had asked to join his night riding gang, rubbed his hands together and said, “Oh, I like that. M-I-A. Like Missing in Action. Like ain’t no Negroes on the bus today ’cause they all missing in action.”
The group chuckled and nodded in agreement.
Hallelujah beamed. “And that young preacher I told y’all about? Reverend King?”
Around the table, heads bobbed.
“The MIA elected him as their leader,” Hallelujah continued.
Dorothy interrupted. “See. That’s what we need to do. We need to form us a group and select a leader.”
“The Stillwater Improvement Association,” suggested Barbara. “SIA.”
Edward shook his head. “Nah. That don’t have no kinda ring to it. No kinda significance.”
Barbara crossed her arms and glared at him. “Then what do you suggest?”
After a roll of her eyes, Gertrude interjected. “I suggest we allow Jenkins to finish telling us about what’s going on in Montgomery, then we can start worrying about forming a group and giving ourselves a name.”
I don’t know whether it was because Gertrude annoyed me or because some new wave of bravery had suddenly washed over me, but I looked her straight in her light brown eyes and said, “I like the idea of forming a group. It shows unity.” I turned to Edward and said, “How ’bout the Negro Youth Council?”
Gertrude turned up her nose. “You mean like that ol’ White Citizens’ Council?”
“I like it,” said Edward. “Negro Youth Council. See the letters? N-Y-C. Like we down here in Stillwater, Mississippi, marching like them folks up there in New York City. Yeah, I like it. Negro Youth Council. N-Y-C,” he said again, his head bobbing.
Gertrude cut her eyes at him so hard that it’s a wonder he wasn’t sliced in two.
“So that mean you in, Rosa?” Barbara asked. “You go’n leave Robinson’s place long enough to do something with us her
e in town?”
My stomach felt like it flipped upside down. I hadn’t thought about actually doing something. I only wanted to show up Gertrude by suggesting a name for their group.
But all I could say was, “Um, yeah. I guess.”
With a beaming smile, Hallelujah leaned into the group and said, “Then here’s what we need to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tuesday, December 6
I STUFFED MY HANDS INTO THE POCKETS OF MY WORN brown coat and kicked leaves out of my way. As I trudged toward the house, I didn’t turn and wave goodbye to Uncle Ollie like I normally did when he tooted his horn at Fred Lee and me. I was too distraught to care.
I had gotten myself in a fix, as Ma Pearl would say. Why had I foolishly promised Hallelujah that I would go into town with them on Saturday and hold signs in front of Danny Ray Martin’s store?
Since Reverend Jenkins would be out of town, Hallelujah thought it would be a good opportunity for us to test out a peaceful march without fear of his daddy persuading us not to.
But my knees knocked at the thought.
Dorothy and Barbara agreed to make signs out of cardboard that they had around the house, and Edward said he would nail the signs to boards. We all agreed to meet at Miss Bertha’s store at eleven thirty on Saturday, then walk over to Danny Ray Martin’s in time for his noontime crowd of whites who would come to enjoy the food prepared by his colored laborers, whom Hallelujah was convinced he underpaid.
I lagged behind as Fred Lee entered the house. I wasn’t ready to go in. I was never ready to go in. I stopped at the porch steps and just stood there, staring at our ugly gray house.
There was a chilly wind that day. It ripped right through my coat. But the air around me was not nearly as cold as the fear in my heart. What would happen if I went into town with Hallelujah and the others and marched with signs in front of Danny Ray Martin’s store? Danny Ray Martin might not have been a wealthy landowner or prominent person in Stillwater, but he was white, nonetheless. Just like Roy Bryant.
A Sky Full of Stars Page 14
