Colored folks called Roy Bryant a peckerwood, but that didn’t stop a jury from claiming he was not guilty of murdering Emmett Till. Like Reverend Jenkins always said, white folks will protect their own, even if they consider them the lowest of their low.
I gazed beyond our tin-roofed shack toward the cotton fields. If Mr. Robinson found out I was causing trouble in town, he would throw us off this place. Then what? Where would we go, especially now that we had a house full of people?
Mr. Robinson had already warned Ma Pearl and Papa that if they got involved with any kind of progressive movement such as the NAACP, they might as well start looking for another place to live. I shivered, not just from the chill but from that thought. Aunt Ruthie and Slow John had been kicked off Mr. Robinson’s land years ago. And they ended up living in a house that was so raggedy that it was beyond repair. And there I was, possibly about to put my grandparents in the same predicament.
I would have to back out. Just not sit with Hallelujah and his new friends. Not talk to any of them for the rest of the week. Not cause trouble for my family.
But I knew I couldn’t do that, because Hallelujah wasn’t going to let me.
The screen door swinging open broke my thoughts and brought me back to the moment. But Aunt Ruthie rushing out to the porch the way she did sent shivers up my arms.
“Aunt Ruthie, what’s wrong?”
Breathless, holding her hand over her heart, she hurried across the porch and met me at the bottom of the steps. She reached into her dress pocket and drew out an envelope. In a whisper, she said, “I wanted to get this to you ’fo you got in the house. I didn’t want Mama to see it.” She sighed and gave me a contented smile. “It’s a letter from Baby Susta.”
My heart leaped. “Aunt Belle? I got a letter from Aunt Belle?”
Aunt Ruthie nodded.
My hand shook when she gave me the letter.
I stood there staring at the envelope, admiring Aunt Belle’s swirling, fancy penmanship. Her address included a house number and a street name, while mine was only a route number.
I stared at the envelope for so long, Aunt Ruthie finally piped in with, “Well, ain’t you go’n read it?”
I glanced up at her. “Right now?”
Aunt Ruthie motioned toward the raggedy chairs on the porch. “Sho’. Let’s set right here for a spell. You can read yo’ letter, and I can git me a lil’ fresh air.” She shrugged and added, “You don’t hafta read it out loud if you don’t want.”
I followed her up the steps and joined her on the porch.
Not wanting to spoil its crispness, I carefully slid my finger under the seal of the envelope and opened it. “You sure you don’t mind if I read it to myself?” I asked Aunt Ruthie.
She shook her head. “Nah, I’on mind.”
With a smile, I read my letter.
Dear Rose,
How are you? Fine I hope. We are doing fine here. Monty and Aunt Isabelle both said to tell you hi. Monty also said to tell you “again” that he sure is sorry you won’t be joining us in Saint Louis. He was looking forward to introducing you to his cousin Rhoda. She is in the 8th grade like you. You two would have gone to the same school. It’s a colored school, but next year you could have gone to Beaumont High, the white school. It integrated last September, right after Topeka, Kansas. (It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.)
Rhoda has been asking us a million questions about you, Rose. But she said she couldn’t wait for you to get here so she could hear about life on a cotton plantation straight from the horse’s mouth. She wasn’t calling you a horse, of course! (Smile)
How is the weather down there? I know it’s a lot warmer than it is up here. We got a lot of snow already. That’s the only thing I hate about living up here. It snows almost every week in the wintertime! If you decide to come this way, make sure you have a warm coat. (Smile)
But it’s worse in Chicago. Anna Mae wrote me a little while ago. She said they got snow in November. Her and Pete and Sugar and Little Man are doing real good now. She said Pete might be able to buy them a house by next summer.
Remember how I said in my last letter that I was proud of you because you are brave enough to stay in Mississippi and face the challenges of growing up among so much hate? Well, I just want to encourage you to be even stronger because things are about to get a lot worse than they already are. We heard about that poor old man Gus Courts getting shot at his store. But I am so glad that he is alive. He is one of the lucky ones! You be careful, Rose. And stay out of harm’s way.
I love you! And remember, the door is still open. Anytime you are ready, you can walk right through it.
Love always,
Belle
p.s. Did y’all hear from Anna Mae yet? She said she was going to write you soon.
With a sad heart, I folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. But what I really wanted to do was rip Aunt Belle’s letter into a million pieces and let the wind blow it back to Saint Louis. She didn’t even call me Rosa. I thought that she of all people would remember to call me by my new name. It made me wonder whether Monty, too, had forgotten. All that talk about nine-year-old Belle thinking of the name Rosa on the day I was born, and now only a few months after having a whole conversation about what the name meant, she had forgotten to use it.
And figure of speech or not, I still felt like Monty’s cousin had called me a horse. She was probably as snobby as Ophelia, who had come down to Mississippi with them in the summer. As painful as it was to be in Mississippi, I was glad I wasn’t in Saint Louis. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Aunt Belle and her sophisticated Saint Louis friends.
“What she say?” Aunt Ruthie asked.
Don’t be nosy, Aunt Ruthie, my heart said. But my mouth said, “She told me to be careful.”
“Careful?” Aunt Ruthie asked, her brows raised.
I shrugged. “You know, so much is happening.”
“Um-hmm,” Aunt Ruthie said with a frown. “That po’ man in Glendora wadn’t doing nothin’ to nobody. That man didn’t hafta shoot him like that. Baby Susta sho’ right. We need to be careful.”
All I could think of was Aunt Belle’s visit over the summer. She and Monty had spent most of their time driving around the Delta trying to convince colored people to register to vote—the same thing Mr. Gus Courts and Reverend George Lee had been shot for. How could she tell me to be careful? Why did she even care?
“Did a letter come from Mama?” I asked Aunt Ruthie.
Hesitantly, she nodded.
I sighed.
And so did Aunt Ruthie. “That’s why I brung this one out to you,” she said. “ ’Fo Mama saw it. I been tryin’ my best to beat her to the mailbox every day since Anna Mae’s letter came.”
“Mama’s letter had money in it, didn’t it?”
Aunt Ruthie nodded.
“Ma Pearl still got it?”
With a pained expression, Aunt Ruthie said, “I never did see it. I heard Queen readin’ it to her. Then she told her to burn it up after she read it.”
“What did she say? She ask about me and Fred Lee?”
“She did,” Aunt Ruthie said, nodding. “She ast how everybody was doin’ and said she was sorry she couldn’t send mo’ money. However much it was, it still wadn’t enough for Mama. She got to complainin’ ’bout all the mouths she got to feed ’round here.”
“Hmm,” I said, sighing. “Guess she could’ve had one less mouth to feed if I had left in November.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Friday, December 9
NO ONE HAD SEEN SHORTY SINCE MONDAY, when he stormed out of Miss Hill’s class, which is why I was so surprised to see him in the lunchroom, sitting at my usual spot, waiting for me. I had promised Hallelujah that morning that I would join them when they came in. They wanted to confirm plans for what we were now calling the March Against Discrimination at Danny Ray Martin’s store. But I was too curious about Shorty and his whereabouts over the last
few days to ignore him.
“Where’ve you been?” I asked, my tone scolding.
Shorty raised his brows. “You worried ’bout me, Lil’ Cuz?”
“Of course, I am,” I said. “I mean you just tore outta Miss Hill’s class, and nobody’s seen you since.”
Shorty waved his hand. “You know I’m done with school.”
“That ain’t what I’m talking about.”
With a sullen sigh, Shorty said, “Don’t worry. I ain’t shot at no white folks’ houses. Yet.” He gestured around the lunchroom. “Couldn’t git none o’ these cowards to join me nohow.”
“You still working in Glendora?”
Shorty shrugged. “Nah. Mama Vee wanted me to come down from there afta the shootin’.”
I pulled out my biscuits, and after offering one to Shorty (who refused), I took a bite.
“She thinks it’s safer here?” I asked him.
Shorty scowled. “Lil’ Cuz, it ain’t safe nowhere,” he said. “My granmama jest feel better ’bout me being here with them then up there where she cain’t see me. Make her feel like she can keep somethin’ bad from happening if I’m around.”
“So what are you gonna do now?”
“Johnny Lee said he’a try to help me find somethin’ here.”
“Speaking of Johnny Lee,” I said, “did you tell him what I said about Thanksgiving?”
Shorty’s eyebrows shot up. “He’n come see y’all?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I tol’ him what you said.”
“What did he say?”
Shorty’s forehead creased with concern. “Come to thank of it, he’n say nothin’.”
Nothing. My daddy said nothing when Shorty told him I wanted him to come see us for Thanksgiving. Nothing. That’s exactly what I felt like.
After a brief silence, Shorty said, “Heard you and Preacha’ ’n’em got somethin’ planned for tomorrow.”
“Who told you?”
“It true?”
“Yeah,” I said. Then my skin began to tingle at the thought.
Shorty shook his head. “I’on thank you oughta do it.”
“Why not?”
Shorty scowled. “What good it go’n do, girl? You might git yo’self kil’t.”
“We’re just marching.”
Shorty clucked his tongue. “Ain’t been but a week ago since I see’d Clinton Melton git gunned down for no reason. What you thank these peckerwoods’a do to a Negro trying to march with some signs? Look what happened to Levi for registering to vote. Dead. For no dirn reason.”
“Nobody’s getting shot at for marching.”
“You better wise up, girl. This ain’t the Nawth. These white folks down here’a gun y’all down and nobody—white or colored—go’n care. The whites’a be happy. And the coloreds be too scared to say somethin’.”
He pointed his callused finger at me. “Don’t forgit what happened to yo’ cousin Mule. If they don’t shoot you down on the street, they’a beat you down in the jail.”
We both glanced toward the door when the ninth-graders began filing in. Shorty nodded toward them. “There go yo’ friends. You go’n join ’em?”
I began stuffing my biscuits and a piece of fried salt pork back into my lunch sack. “Yeah. We need to talk about tomorrow.”
He placed his rough hand over mine, stopping me from packing up. “Remember what I told you,” he said, his expression serious. “Don’t git yo’self kil’t.”
I lost my appetite for the meager food I had brought for lunch. And rather than joining the conversation with Hallelujah and the others, I kept thinking about what Shorty had said.
Don’t get yourself killed. Foolish me. I thought the worst that could happen was that my family might get kicked off Mr. Robinson’s land. I hadn’t considered somebody shooting at us while we marched outside a store.
Just as I was about to force myself to eat one of my biscuits in order to keep from starving the rest of the day, Gertrude addressed me. “You still coming, Rosa?”
Before I could answer, Hallelujah chimed in. “She’s coming,” he said, smiling. “She’s our own little Rosa right here in Stillwater. And just like Mrs. Rosa Parks in Montgomery, she’ll lead the way.”
When Gertrude rolled her eyes, I wanted to stuff my biscuit in her face. “I don’t know about leading the way,” I said. “But I’ll be there.”
The words left my mouth, but they didn’t feel real. Be careful, Aunt Belle had said. Don’t get killed, Shorty had said. We’ll get thowed right off this place, I imagined Ma Pearl saying.
Why couldn’t I just tell them the truth? Why couldn’t I just tell them that I wasn’t any braver than the rest of my family on Mr. Robinson’s place? I was nothing like this Rosa lady from Montgomery. I was not willing to be thrown in jail like she and my cousin Mule had been. I didn’t want to get beat up. I didn’t want my ribs and my jaw broken. I wanted to be careful like Aunt Belle warned me. I wanted to live like Shorty ordered me. I wanted to make sure my family continued to have a place to live, even if it was only a shack.
I wanted to say all these things, but the smirk on Gertrude’s face stopped me. She knew I was scared, and she took great pleasure in that.
My throat was dry, but I forced myself to speak. “Around eleven, right?” I asked Hallelujah.
He nodded. “Yep. Then we’ll drive back to town and meet everyone else at Aunt Bertha’s store.”
“And we’ll be there with the signs,” Dorothy said, glancing at her cousin Barbara.
“Y’all scared?” Edward addressed the table.
“Lil’ bit,” Barbara admitted.
The other boy at the table, Floyd, finally spoke. “A lil’ bit?” he said, glancing sideways at Barbara. “Shoot. I’m a whole lot scared.”
“But you still coming, right?” Barbara asked him.
Floyd lowered his head and muttered, “I’on know.”
The table grew silent for a moment, and I wondered whether I should speak up. Side with Floyd. Talk both our way out of going.
With clenched teeth, Hallelujah said, “We don’t have room for cowards. Either take a stand or take a hike. If you ain’t coming tomorrow, go on and leave now.”
Floyd laughed nervously and raised his hands, palms forward. “Man, white folks shootin’. And I ain’t ready to die.” He stood, shook his head, and said, “I’m out.”
I know it was only my imagination, but it seemed a chill crept across the table.
Hallelujah glanced from face to face. “Anybody else?”
Heads shook no.
“Everybody else in?” asked Hallelujah.
“I’m in,” everyone said.
But I could only nod. My voice fled right along with my opportunity to bow out when Floyd did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Saturday, December 10
MY NERVES WERE SO JUMBLED THAT MORNING THAT I couldn’t eat, even though Ma Pearl had prepared a full breakfast—biscuits, grits, eggs, and, surprisingly, bacon. But my stomach churned at the thought of food and of the task I was about to embark upon. So I bit my nails instead of biscuits.
Luckily, Ma Pearl was too busy fussing at Aunt Ruthie to concern herself with me.
Miss Bertha had come through after Hallelujah told her about my idea for Aunt Ruthie to bake cakes and sell them. On Wednesday she had supplied the necessary items to bake two pound cakes that she displayed and sold at her store on Friday. Today she needed two more, which provided a perfect excuse for her to send Hallelujah out to the house. To my surprise, Ma Pearl was willing to let me ride back to town with him, with strict orders that I could be gone for no more than an hour—going and coming back. I thought that reason alone would make for a short march outside Danny Ray Martin’s store.
But I was wrong.
Shortly after eleven o’clock, Hallelujah carefully parked Miss Bertha’s Ford on the street in front of her store. Dorothy and Barbara sat on the bench outside. With white paint, they s
troked letters on their cardboard signs.
Barbara held one up. “How’s this?” she asked Hallelujah.
My first thought when I read the words—“Coloreds cook here, but they can’t eat here!”—was Shouldn’t you be making those inside the store instead of out here where every white person passing by can see them?
But Hallelujah beamed and said they were perfect.
“I’ll take the cakes inside,” I told him.
“Both of them?”
“They’re just pound cakes,” I said. “I can manage.”
After Hallelujah placed the two cakes on my arms, with as much care as I could, I rushed inside the store. I took deep breaths to calm myself down. How would I ever march in front of a store holding one of those signs if I couldn’t bear the thought of a white person passing by and seeing them being made?
But when I entered the store, my knees nearly buckled. There, next to the counter where Miss Bertha would display Aunt Ruthie’s cakes, stood Mrs. Jamison, one of the finest white citizens in all of Stillwater.
Fear rose from my heart and entered my throat, threat-ening to choke me. Why was Mrs. Jamison in Miss Bertha’s store? And why today of all days? Could she not have come on a day when I had not been foolish enough to join my classmates in a demonstration?
I had told no one, not even Hallelujah, about my encounter with her at Mrs. Robinson’s house. Through her smile, she had seemed so warm and friendly that day, so accepting of me as a fellow human being, and not just a good colored person. What would she think of me now if she saw me picking up a sign and marching back and forth in front of a white man’s store protesting the way he conducted his business?
Though she was dressed as finely as she was on the day I saw her at Mrs. Robinson’s, the smile she had worn was absent. Had we already done something to upset her? Had she seen Barbara and Dorothy making the signs and was planning to stop us before we even got started?
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