A Sky Full of Stars

by Linda Williams Jackson

  Miss Bertha’s face, however, lit up when she saw me. She clasped her hands together and exclaimed, “Rosa, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Please don’t mention what we’re about to do, I wanted to say. Not here in front of Mrs. Jamison. But all I could do was extend the cakes toward Miss Bertha and mutter, “I brought the cakes.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, smiling. “Mrs. Jamison was just inquiring about Ruthie’s delicious cakes. You’re right on time. She wants to buy one.”

  “For real?” The words came out before I had time to think about them.

  “Yes. For real,” Miss Bertha replied with a slight chuckle.

  My stomach flipped. I wanted to leap for joy. I wanted to believe that Mrs. Jamison was only there to buy a cake. But why? She had her own colored cook who could make her a cake anytime she wanted one.

  I managed a smile and a nod of acknowledgment toward Miss Bertha, but I would not dare glance at Mrs. Jamison. Although I was no longer in the presence of Mrs. Robinson, the shame that she had placed in me for staring at Mrs. Jamison still lingered.

  Miss Bertha patted the top of the counter and said, “You can put those right here, sweetie. One of them is lemon flavored, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said with a nod and a quick glance at Mrs. Jamison.

  Mrs. Jamison’s smile returned, as lovely as I remembered it. “I’ll take the lemon one,” she said, extending her delicate hands toward me. “I’ve tasted Pearl’s lemon pound cake. I imagine her daughter’s must be equally delicious.”

  My mouth dropped open, but no words came out. My brain kept telling my feet to move, but they wouldn’t obey. I couldn’t believe that of all the people of Stillwater, Mrs. Kay Marie Jamison was standing there in Miss Bertha’s store, purchasing a cake that had been made by my aunt Ruthie.

  “Rosa?” Miss Bertha said. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” I said, snapping to my senses. Though my legs threatened to wobble, I walked toward Mrs. Jamison with the cakes. “The lemon one is on top, ma’am,” I said to her, my voice shaking.

  “Thank you, dear,” she replied as she took the cake. She leaned over it and inhaled. “Umm, smells divine.”

  After placing the other cake on the counter, I lingered inside the store, afraid to exit. No, embarrassed to exit. How could I go out there, pick up a sign, then march right past the Jamisons’ store and on to Danny Ray Martin’s and protest when a white woman had just supported my aunt’s business?

  Afraid to face the real reason I came, I sauntered over to the shelves that held canned foods. I stood there and stared at a can of yellow cling peaches as though I wanted to buy some, knowing Ma Pearl had several jars of them that she had preserved herself for the winter.

  When Miss Bertha finished helping Mrs. Jamison purchase her cake and a few other items, she came over and gathered me in a hug. She smelled like new spring flowers.

  She whispered in my ear, “I know you’re scared. But that’s what bravery is. Being scared, but doing the job anyway.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to be brave. I don’t want to go back out there. I don’t want to do this job.”

  Miss Bertha held me at arm’s length and said, “You can do this, Rosa. You can go out there, pick up a sign, walk a few stores down to Martin’s, and march back and forth.”

  “What if Mrs. Jamison sees me?” I asked. “How can I go out there and do this after she just bought one of Aunt Ruthie’s cakes?”

  Miss Bertha scoffed. “Don’t you realize that that woman is just as sick of the way colored people are being treated around here as we are?”

  “Then why do they always serve their white customers first?”

  Miss Bertha raised an eyebrow. “When’s the last time you shopped at Jamison’s?”

  I shrugged. It was a very long time ago that I had visited the store with Papa and Uncle Ollie. I could still feel the eyes of the white folks who were in the store. They looked down their noses at us as though we were hogs, rather than humans, as though we had no right to shop at the same store as they. I remember that even though Papa had reached the counter with his items first, Mr. Jamison had made him step aside when a white man came to the counter after him. I recounted the incident to Miss Bertha.

  “Times have changed, Rosa,” she said, softly. “And people have changed.”

  “Like the Jamisons?”

  Miss Bertha nodded. “The Jamisons. And a few others.”

  “Then why do we need to march in front of Danny Ray Martin’s store? Maybe he’ll change too?”

  “And maybe he won’t,” Miss Bertha said, shrugging. “The marching is not to get Danny Ray Martin to change. The marching is to demonstrate that we want change. That we will no longer stand idly by and be treated as if our lives don’t matter.”

  I felt myself choking up. “Then why do we have to do this?” I asked. “You say ‘we,’ but it’s us children who are about to go out there and march with signs. Why can’t the grown folks do it?”

  Miss Bertha creased her forehead. “Other than the fact that it was your idea?” she asked. Then she bit her lip and hesitated. She sighed and cast her eyes toward the ceiling. “You young people have less to lose. But you have so much more to gain.”

  I remembered what I had said when Aunt Belle and Monty came by the house after the Emmett Till murderers had been set free. Monty asked Papa why he wasn’t registered to vote. Papa replied that he was too old and that he had a family to care for. Getting shot down at the courthouse won’t put food on the table, he had told Monty.

  “When I’m old enough,” I had told them, “I’ll register to vote.” I had said that Papa was right. That it was the young folks who had to take a stand while we could—​before we had people depending on us to take care of them.

  “What was that you just said about bravery?” I asked Miss Bertha.

  She smiled and said, “Bravery is when you’re scared but you do the job anyway.”

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” I said quietly, “I will fear no evil.”

  Miss Bertha touched my cheek and said, “For God is with you. His rod and his staff will comfort you.”

  I took a deep breath and said, “And he’ll prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

  With that, Miss Bertha hugged me again. “Now go on down there and let the people know that your enemy, Danny Ray Martin, won’t allow our own people to prepare food for us.”

  By the time Miss Bertha and I finished, Dorothy and Barbara, along with the other girl, named Lucinda, had finished the signs and Hallelujah and Edward had nailed them to the wooden posts.

  “Where’s Gertrude?” I asked.

  Dorothy folded her arms to her sides and flapped them up and down. “Bok, bok, bok. She chickened out.”

  “What!” I said. Then I remembered how only seconds ago I had wanted to do the same thing. I shrugged and said, “Some people have more to lose than others.”

  Barbara narrowed her eyes and said, “Or some people are just plain chicken.”

  “Ready, everyone?” Hallelujah asked.

  With nods, we all echoed, “Ready.”

  People were already staring at us before we headed up the street. We didn’t bother with the sidewalk because there was no sense in getting in trouble before we even started.

  “Too bad we’re doing this in December and not during a warmer month, like May,” Dorothy said. “More people would be outside walking around instead of inside the stores.”

  Glancing around, I counted six people, besides us. Four of them were white. But it seemed that the two colored people were the ones who frowned at us harder. I was glad people were inside rather than out.

  “Are we gonna chant?” Edward asked.

  “We’ll keep quiet,” said Hallelujah. “Let our signs do the talking.”

  By the time we reached Danny Ray Martin’s, my legs were shaking so bad that I thought I would collapse right there o
n the street. My heart beat so hard that it felt like a drumroll inside my chest.

  But before we hoisted our signs and began our march, a red-faced Danny Ray Martin burst out of the store and yelled, “Don’t y’all start no trouble over he’ah. I don’t wanna hafta call the sheriff on y’all.”

  Hallelujah kept walking.

  The rest of us followed.

  “Git on home!” Danny Ray yelled. “This ain’t the Nawth. We don’t need that kinda nonsense here. Coloreds is treated fairly here in Stillwater, and y’all know it. Everybody is equal in my sto’ah.”

  Though Hallelujah had told us to keep silent, Barbara yelled out, “Coloreds cook here, but coloreds can’t eat in your café!”

  Then Edward chanted, “Coloreds can cook, but coloreds can’t eat! Coloreds can cook, but coloreds can’t eat!”

  Barbara, Dorothy, and Lucinda joined in.

  I didn’t chant. Instead I whispered, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

  Nor did Hallelujah chant. He sealed his lips, set his expression like stone, and marched back and forth before the store, allowing his sign to do the talking.

  A few more people gathered around and stared at us. Some of them were colored. And some of them shook their heads and walked away.

  Fear set in when a few of the whites began yelling at us.

  “We don’t need that NAACP nonsense here!” someone said.

  To which Edward yelled back, “NYC! Negro Youth Council! NYC! Negro Youth Council!”

  “Coloreds can cook, but coloreds can’t eat! Coloreds can cook, but coloreds can’t eat!” Dorothy shouted.

  The chanting and the counterattacks continued for what felt like an eternity. But the worst of the yelling was when someone called out, “Ain’t that the preacher’s boy? Don’t his daddy teach at the colored school?”

  My palms got sweaty and I thought I would drop my sign. I prayed no one would call out, “Ain’t that Paul and Pearl’s grandchild? What’s she doing here? I thought they were good Negroes.”

  I didn’t know what time it was, but I was hoping we would soon stop. Hallelujah had promised it would be brief—​just long enough to demonstrate that we had concerns. He had to get me home in time.

  And he would have, if someone hadn’t thrown that rock.

  It landed square upside Hallelujah’s head. And it knocked him flat on his back.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Monday, December 12

  THE LASHING I GOT FROM MA PEARL THAT SATURDAY after I finally got home in the late afternoon should probably be written down in some record book. It was bad enough I was late, but when she found out why, I thought for sure my world was about to end, and I was about to meet my Maker.

  But at least Hallelujah didn’t meet his. Since Reverend Jenkins was out of town, Miss Bertha immediately closed her store and rushed Hallelujah to the hospital in Indianola—​the same hospital where Gus Courts was taken when he was shot. Fortunately, Hallelujah only had a slight case of something called whiplash. The doctor said it usually occurred when people were in car accidents, but Hallelujah got it from suddenly whipping his head to the right to avoid the rock coming in from the left.

  The doctor said he would have had something called a concussion if he hadn’t jerked his head to the side to avoid the rock, however. He was given medicine and sent home to rest. And rather than being angry at him like Ma Pearl and Papa were with me, Reverend Jenkins was proud that his son had suffered for what he considered a just cause.

  None of us had spoken since the incident, so I was unsure whether we would meet during lunchtime that Monday. Hallelujah was still resting, but Reverend Jenkins had said Miss Bertha would bring him to school later in the day if he felt like attending. I had my fingers crossed that he would show up, but I got a surprise lunch companion instead—​Shorty.

  It was the first time since he’d quit coming to school that I didn’t want to see him. I was sure he would only make fun of us for what seemed like a failed attempt to march, or demonstrate, as Reverend Jenkins called it.

  So before he sat down, I tried to turn him away. “I’m saving that seat for Hallelujah.”

  Shorty shook his head. “Ninth grade don’t come in here for another ten minutes. We got plenty time to talk. Plus, from what I hear, Preacha’ won’t be showin’ up anyway.”

  I tried rudeness. “Why are you here? I thought you quit school.”

  Shorty scoffed. “I ain’t here for no learnin’. I’m here to see you.”

  “Well, if you’re here to talk about what happened on Saturday, then you can just leave. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Then I’ll stay,” said Shorty. “ ’Cause I ain’t here to talk about what y’all did on Saturday. I’m here to talk to you ’bout yo’ daddy.”

  My mood suddenly perked up. “What about him?”

  “I talked to him yesterday. Ast him why he’n come see you and yo’ brother on Thanksgiving. Said he got too busy and couldn’t make it out there. He had to take his wife over to Kilmichael to see her family. By the time they got back, he said it was too late to be visitin’ folks.”

  “Where’s Kilmichael? Is it far?” I asked.

  “It’s a good ways past Greenwood. It’s kinda far.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “I ast him ’bout Christmas,” Shorty said. “Said he’a try to make it out there then.”

  “What about—”

  Shorty cut me off. “He said he ain’t comin’ out there no other time. ’Nuff white folks gunnin’ down Negroes. He’on need to git gunned down by no mean-as-the-devil colored woman like yo’ granmama.”

  I smiled at the thought of my daddy dropping by on Christmas morning. He might even bring me and Fred Lee gifts. But then I remembered how Ma Pearl had reacted to the knock at the door on Thanksgiving when she thought it might be Aunt Ruthie’s husband, Slow John. She said that he better not dare show up at her house. I now wondered if the same was true of Johnny Lee.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know if he can come see us. Not even for Christmas.”

  Shorty frowned. “Look, girl. You wanna see yo’ daddy or not?”

  I nodded. “I do. But—”

  “Then stop worrying ’bout yo’ granmama,” Shorty said with a wave of his hand. “Let him come.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding but still feeling nervous.

  “I’ll be sho’ to remind him on Christmas Eve. Make sho’ he come see y’all,” Shorty said, smiling. “I thank you and him go’n git ’long real good.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  Christmas was two weeks away, but I already felt butterflies in my stomach. What if Shorty was wrong? What if me and my daddy didn’t get along real good? What if he didn’t like me at all? What if I didn’t like him?

  On the other hand, what if we did get along, and he wanted to start seeing me and Fred Lee more? Would Ma Pearl let him? I bet Papa would. Maybe Johnny Lee would even take us to his house sometimes, unlike Mama, who never did. I just hope our little sisters and brother weren’t spoiled rotten like Sugar and Lil’ Man. And I certainly hoped Johnny Lee wouldn’t make them refer to me and Fred Lee as Aunt Rose and Uncle Fred as Mama had done with Sugar and Lil’ Man.

  Before I continued to let my imagination run free with thoughts of a future relationship with my daddy, Shorty surprised me. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Tell the lil’ preacha’ that I’m proud o’ him.”

  “Huh?”

  Shorty nodded. “I’m proud of all y’all. What y’all did took guts. Jenkins lucky that was a rock that came at him and not a bullet. I done see’d for myself what these white peoples’a do. They’a gun a Negro down in open daylight and won’t thank twice ’bout it. I’m glad Lil’ Jenkins doing okay.”

  Shorty placed his rough hand over mine. “I’m glad all y’all okay.”

  All I could say was “Thank you.”

  “Well, Lil’ Cuz,” Shorty said, rising from his sea
t, “I won’t be bothering you no mo’. I won’t be comin’ back up here interrupting yo’ lunchtime with Jenkins. I’m movin’ on. Go’n mind my own bizness. Try to leave these white folks ’lone.”

  “No more thoughts of going out at night shooting at windows?” I asked him.

  Shorty shook his head. “Nah. You and Jenkins right. Wouldn’t do nothin’ but make them madder. Jest make thangs harder on the folks that got to live on they land and tend to they crops every summer. Make it harder on the folks that got to clean up they houses and raise they chi’rens for ’em.

  “I could shoot at they windows at night and scare ’em all I want. But it ain’t go’n change nothin’. The ones full o’ hate ain’t go’n never leave Negroes ’lone. They go’n keep on terrorizin’ us.”

  I was so happy to see Hallelujah when the ninth-graders entered the lunchroom that I almost leaped out of my seat. But I didn’t have to go to him; he immediately turned in my direction and headed over—​not even bothering to stop in the short line to get food.

  Just as I was about to ask him how he was feeling, he slumped down beside me with a huff. He shook his head and said through gritted teeth, “I can’t believe what I just overhead.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Howard is leaving.”

  “Leaving what?”

  Hallelujah narrowed his eyes. “Mississippi.”

  My stomach knotted. “Dr. Howard? From Mound Bayou?”

  Hallelujah frowned. “Do you know of another Dr. Howard?”

  “He’s leaving Mississippi?”

  Hallelujah gave me a didn’t I just say that kind of stare.

  “Why is he leaving?” I asked.

  “The same reason everyone else left. He’s a coward.”

  I grinned and said, “Then maybe that’s what we should call him from now on—​Dr. Coward instead of Dr. Howard.”

  “Do you think this is a joke?”

  I was about to respond with a joke, but the look in Hallelujah’s eyes made me pause. He looked as if he would cry at any moment.

  I held up my hand. “Wait. Slow down. First of all, how are you feeling? Is your head better?”