by Iceberg Slim
I found out from arguments between Mama and Papa that cousin Bunny had been a fast twenty-five-year-old hustler who was operating a blind pig and poker trap in Vicksburg’s sin district that night that Mama saw Papa for the first time.
I don’t know whether Bunny had used bright-eyed, curvaceous Mama as a shill, or worse, in her joint. But I’ll always believe that Mama was hurt morally by those years with Bunny in her blind pig. And perhaps what Mama revealed when Bessie left home to whore could explain the cold-blooded things Mama did up North.
Papa rescued Mama from Bunny’s den of iniquity and took her for better or for worse a month after they met. Papa took her to Meridian, Mississippi, shortly after that, perhaps to escape cousin Bunny’s scarlet charisma and the outraged condemnation of Grandpa Tilson.
Papa shoed horses and mules in Meridian and fathered his first child, Frank Jr. The livery stable burned down, and Papa took his small family to Wilkerson’s plantation.
In the spring of 1936 (the same year we went to the Promised Land), Mrs. Wilkerson borrowed half a dozen teenage boys from the fields for the annual scrubbing and wall washing in the big house. Frank Jr. was among them. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkerson had gone to Meridian, and her eldest son was in charge of the workers.
I was helping Mama peel potatoes for supper when Frank Jr. got back from the big house. Papa and the twins hadn’t come in from the fields. Frank Jr. acted strangely from the moment he set foot in the shack. His eyes were flashing excitement as he tossed a small paper sack of raw sugar in front of me. I thought he had lost his mind, because as far back as I could remember, he’d always slunk off somewhere alone and devoured his goodies from the big house.
He flung himself to the floor in front of Mama’s chair and with his head on her lap stared at her with a radiant look on his dirty face.
Mama said, “Yu sho looks funny. Ah hope yu ain’t ben nippin’ th’ Wilkerson’s applejack. Yu ain’t no baby; git yo’ haid offen mah lap an git kindlin’ fer th’ cook stove.”
He got to his feet and ran to the door. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked down the path that Papa and the twins used coming from the fields.
He rushed back to Mama and shot a suspicious look at me and said, “Mama, sen thet lil’ niggah outdoes. Ah got uh secret tu tell yu thet Ah don’ want him blabbin’ tu Papa or nobody.”
Mama looked sternly at him and said, “Sweet Pea don’ blab nuthin’. An’ tell him not tu. Now, stop ackin’ lak uh star natal fool an’ say whut yu goin’ ta say.”
He stooped and pulled up a trouser leg. He had a red bandana handkerchief tied around his leg. He walled his eyes at the open door as he plucked a roll of bills from beneath the bandana.
In a speedy flow he said, “Now, Mama, Ah ain’t stole nuthin’. Ah wuz sweatin’ an’ slavin’ up there en th’ big house. Ah wuz thinkin’ ’bout mah one an’ only dear Mama achin’ fer thet train goin’ North when dis forgot money fell at mah feet jes’ as Ah moved thet ole grandfather clock frum th’ wall.
“Nah, ma’m, Ah ain’t stole nuthin’. See how dusty these greenbacks is. It’s sho ’nuff forgot money. Ah found it fer ye, Mama. Count it.”
He held out the bills toward Mama’s lap as if to drop them there. Mama’s mouth flew open, and she spun her lap away like the money was a water moccasin. She gasped and held her hands up as if to ward him off. She got to her feet sputtering and pointing to the big house.
She cuffed him against the side of his head and words came out, “Yu crazy rascul, git them white folks’ money back there en thet same spot quick as yu rusty laigs kin go.”
Frank’s bare feet drummed the floor as he fled the shack. Mama stood in the doorway biting her lip and staring at Frank Jr. sprinting toward the big house. She turned her head and looked down the path leading to the fields.
She screamed, “Boy, come back heah.”
In a moment Junior ran back out of breath with a puzzled look on his face.
Mama squeezed his sweaty brow with the edge of her hand and said softly, “Now think hard, an’ tell Mama, duz eny uv them lil’ niggahs thet wurked up at th’ big house know yu found thet forgot money?”
Junior pressed the bills in Mama’s hand and said loudly, “Nah, ma’m. Nah ma’m! Wuzn’t nobody pee-pin’.”
Mama’s hand was trembling violently as she counted the tens and twenties. Junior went outside and stood revolving his head from the path to Mama.
Junior hissed like a snake and stuck his head inside the shack and stage whispered, “Papa is cumin’.”
Mama balled a fist at me and laid an index finger across her pursed lips. She shoved the bills in her bosom and started to hum a spiritual.
Junior came in with kindling and was starting a fire in the cook stove when Papa and the twins got to the shack. Collard greens with slat pork and potato patties were on our supper table when I heard the Wilkerson’s Ford pickup coming home from Meridian.
Mama and Junior ate like innocents. I could only swallow a few bites. I was worried about the Wilkerson money in Mama’s bosom that Papa might find out about, and said a silent prayer that it was real “forgot” money and that the beet red sheriff wouldn’t come and take us all to jail.
I almost fainted when Papa looked across the table at me and said, “Otis, whut’s th’ matter yu playin’ wid them vittles? Iffen yu ailin’ en the belly, Ah have ole vet tu dose yu up good wid croton oil when he cum tumurrah.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mama giving me the evil eye.
I said, “No sir, I’m not sick. I been messing with the treat bag that Junior brought from the big house, that’s all.”
He grunted and went back to the mountain of food on his plate.
It was a balmy, brilliant night after supper, and the next day was Sunday. So we kids played hide-and-seek, and Mama and Papa brought kitchen chairs and sat quietly relaxing (at least Papa was) beneath the starry sky.
We had all gone in to go to bed when Papa said, “Ah’ll be Satan’s imp iffen old man Wilkerson ain’t out prowlin’ dis time uv night. Mayhaps uh mule is ailin’ so bad Mr. Wilkerson got tu drive an’ fetch th’ vet. Ah hope Naomi’s asthma ain’t got no wurse.”
We all clustered around Papa at the window and watched the jouncing glow of a lantern move down the hill from the big house to a shack in the irregular line that ended with our shack.
One of the cleanup boys lived in that first shack where they had stopped. I shivered when I thought it hadn’t been “forgot” money after all.
Papa lit a lantern and said, “Best Ah go. Sumbody mayhaps need mah prayers.”
The twins went to bed after a while. But Mama, Frank Jr. and I stood silently there at the window and watched the accusing orbs of the lanterns moving through the night, stopping at four more innocent shacks on the way to our guilty one.
Finally after what seemed like endless hours, the lanterns stopped at the fifth shack. I felt Mama’s fingernails dig into my collarbone. I turned and looked up at her face drawn with tension.
She whispered hoarsely, “We got tu hit th’ bed now, an’ we don know nuthin’ ’bout them white folk’s money. Remember, ain’t no pruf or nuthin’ nohow ’bout Junior.”
I lay wrapped in my quilt and had chills. I was afraid Papa would drop dead or something if he found out that Junior was the thief.
Something touched my shoulder.
Carol whispered, “Ah heard Mama. Junior is en terrible truble, ain’t he?”
Before I could answer, the flash of lanterns streaked through a window. Carol scooted back to her section of the floor. I closed my eyes tightly and turned my back to the door.
I felt the flooring vibrate under the clump of brogans. I smelled Mr. Wilkerson’s distinctive musk and corn whiskey. I turned over and peeped through a hole in the quilt.
Mr. Wilkerson’s corrugated face was flaming red in the glow of his lantern as he stooped close to Junior and prodded his chest with gnarled finger. Papa squatted down on Junior’s other side. Junior flutt
ered his eyes open and looked up at Mr. Wilkerson in sham surprise.
Mr. Wilkerson jogged his fingers across Junior’s scalp and said affably, “Lil’ Frank, you woke?”
Junior cut his wide eyes at Papa and murmured sleepily, “Yes, suh, Mr. Wilkerson.”
Mr. Wilkerson said, “Laddie, one of them crew with you at the big house stole Miz Wilkerson’s big stash of money, near ’bout or more four hundred dollars. Did you see the sneaking scamp that done it?”
Junior swallowed hard, raised himself to his elbows and croaked, “Nah, suh, nah, suh. Papa an’ me alike. Ah sees uh smidget of crookedness on th’ plantashun, Ah tells th’ news right now.
“Nah, suh, Ah ain’t seen nobody fiddlin’ wid th’ big iron safe. Even when we finish th’ wurk an’ foot race frum th’ big house, Ah don’ hear no silver dollars rattlin’ nobody’s pocket. Nah, suh, Ah ain’t seen or heared nuthin’.”
Mr. Wilkerson and Papa stood up. Mr. Wilkerson stroked his chin and said, “Laddie, it weren’t no silver money. It were in greenbacks stashed agin the grandfather clock.
“Mah ole woman’s madder than a smoked out hornet. She had a powerful mind to fetch the sheriff tonight to cull out the criminal. But Ah’m a merciful man, and Ah ain’t fer that bloodthirsty sheriff whuppin’ heads and kickin’ asses of the whole damn crew. Ain’t but one guilty.”
He paused and watched Junior’s spastic tongue irrigate his gray lips.
Papa shut his eyes and said, “Lawd, draw th’ thief forth fer purgin’ uv his sin an’ returnin’ Miz Wilkerson’s greenbacks.”
Mr. Wilkerson stroked his hooked nose and impaled Junior on sharp blue eyes for a lone moment before he said, “Lissen, Lil’ Frank, we gonna’ root out the criminal before Miz Wilkerson get that mean sheriff on the place at noon tomorrow. Since Ah knows you innocent and cleverer than them others, Ah’m pintin’ you mah secret investigator.
“Ah want you up at daybreak rousing them suspecs and standing the guilty one before me no later than noon. Ain’t gonna’ be no penitentiary and crool treatment. Jes a fair and honest whupping with a piece of horse harness at the punishing spot. You understand me, boy?”
Too quickly Junior almost shouted, “Sho do, Mr. Wilkerson, sho do, an’ ah be up at ’em early, early, sho will.”
Mr. Wilkerson’s face had a cunning look as he picked up his lantern. He patted Papa affectionately on the shoulder and walked away into the salubrious and innocent night.
Papa walked the floor and prayed until daybreak. Mama’s face looked awful with the strain and pressure she was under. She fixed biscuits and hash for breakfast that everybody just picked at. Junior kept his eyes riveted to Mama’s face like he desperately needed guidance.
Right after breakfast Papa sighed and said to Mama, “Sedalia, Ah best go an’ help Junior hunt out Miz Wilkerson’s greenbacks.”
Mama squeezed her brow between her palms like she was treating a bad headache.
Her vacant eyes looked past Papa out to the backbreaking green oceans of early cotton plants when she said, “Frank, Ah tell yu true, it ain’t nuthin’ but uh low-down dirty shame thet po’ niggahs got tu shag down money fer them rich white folks. Ah swear iffen Ah wuz Miz Wilkerson Ah wouldn’t make no commotion. Since Ah ain’t payin’ but forty cents uh hundard no how.”
Papa turned crimson and hollered, “Sedalia, yu stop thet devilish talk. Wikerson’s don’ pay but uh cent uh hundard, ain’t nobody got uh right tu steal frum ’em. Come on, Junior, let’s git ’bout our bizness. It be noon ’fore we know it.”
Suddenly there was a burst of sobbing. Everybody in the shack turned toward Carol in a corner. Papa rushed to her and lifted her into his arms.
He pressed her close and crooned, “Papa ain’t gonna’ let nobody harm his baby girl. Now yu shet off them tears.”
Carol hugged Papa tightly around the neck and blubbered, “Papa, Ah ain’t scairt fer me. Ah’m scairt cause Ah know thet sheriff is cumin’ at noon time.”
Mama and Junior stood frozen, staring at Carol and Bessie.
Papa patted her and said, “Ain’t no sheriff cumin’. Me an’ Junior gonna’ dig up th’ thief an’ take him tu the big house fer his justiz on th’ punish spot. Mr. Wilkerson don’ welcome no law on his place iffen he kin help it.”
Carol wailed, “Oh, Papa, the sheriff got tu come, ’cause thet money ain’t out there en sumbody else’s shack. It’s right en this shack! Junior took th’ money frum the big house! Papa, please don’ let th’ sheriff take Junior tu th’ pen.”
The big vein at Papa’s temple ballooned out lividly like his head was going to explode. He roughly stood Carol on her feet and turned and seized Junior by the shoulders. He thrust his face close and moved his eyes up and down Junior’s face like he was reading a printed page.
Junior’s eyes were bucked wide and his lips trembled to speak.
Papa shook him hard, and he sobbed piteously, “Papa, God en his Heaven knows Ah ain’t stole nuthin’ en mah heart. Ah found forgot money, Ah thought. Ah figured we all ketch th’ Chicago train. Papa, whut you gonna’ do?”
Papa embraced him for a long moment, and tears rolled down Papa’s cheeks.
Then Papa flung him away and said very quietly, “Ah’m takin’ yu tu th’ big house so’s Mr. Wilkerson knows Ah ain’t hidin’ th’ thief’s face ’cause he mah flesh an’ blood. Yu goin’ tu git justiz on the punish spot fer stealin’. Where them greenbacks?”
Junior moaned, “Mama got ’em. Please, Papa, don’ take me! Don’ take me!”
Mama took the bills from her bosom and stepped between them.
Her words were rapid and impassioned. “Frank, ain’t no need tu take mah chile up there fer white folks tu tear his hide off. Fact is, ain’t even no wiz reasun tu take this money back. Ole man Wilkerson were bull scarin’ us ’bout ole Miz fetchin’ the sheriff en tuday. Ain’t no way fer him not tu smell thet funky still stinkin’ up th’ place.
“An’ sumthin’ else. How we know Wilkerson ain’t ben robbin’ us wid his pencil all these years? How we know, Frank? Remember whut thet niggah tole us en Meridian even ’fore we cum tu wurk here. We ain’t cumalated nuthin’. Don’ be no fool, Frank. We keep this money an’ tuff it out. Few months we ease off this plantashun an’ ketch th’ fust thing smokin’ tu Cheecogo.”
Papa had been standing with an unbelieving expression on his face.
He snatched the bills from Mama’s hands and said carefully, “Sedalia, Lawd have mercy on yo’ soul. Ah ain’t nevah gittin’ off this plantashun iffen Ah got tu steal to git off. Yu done fergot th’ Lawd said, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ ”
Papa took a firm hold on Junior’s wrist and led him out the door.
Mama went to the doorway and cried out to Papa’s back, “Niggah, yu ah uh star natal fool tu take thet money back tu them cheatin’ white folks. Forty cents uh hundard ain’t uh precious gift no way yu look at it. Ah’m gonna’ quit yu, niggah, iffen yu don bring mah chile an’ thet money back heah. Fool, forty cents uh hundard ain’t uh precious gift.”
Papa didn’t even turn his head. He just kept marching Junior to the big house. We all went to the window and watched them go up the hill to the big house followed by people from the shacks who sensed that Junior was the thief, and they were eager to break their awful boredom at the punishment spot.
The twins and Mama sprawled on the floor and bawled. Carol was pitiful the way she told Mama over and over how sorry she was that she told Papa the secret.
Mama cried bitterly and shouted over and over, “Ah hate white folks. Oh, how Ah hate white folks.”
I stood at the window remembering what the punishment spot looked like and cried for Junior. In the days of slavery it had been a hut where recaptured runaway slaves and troublemaking slaves had been beaten and tortured under the supervision of Mr. Wilkerson’s grandfather.
It no longer had sides or a roof, just a rotted floor of bloodstained planking with four iron stakes in the center making a square roughly the size of a ma
n’s spread-eagled body.
I stood at the window until I saw people drifting down the hill to the shacks. Then I saw Papa and Junior. Junior’s chin seemed to be resting on his chest, and Papa had his arm around Junior’s waist as they came down the hill.
I raced out of the shack and met them.
Junior’s back was covered with ropey welts, and he kept mumbling, “Papa, don’ touch me. Papa, don’ touch me.”
It was more than a week before Mama’s lard-based ointment took the soreness out of Junior’s back. It was longer than that before Papa and Junior exchanged whole sentences.
Something sweet and important had soured and died between them. They didn’t tussle or horseplay together any more, and I’d often see Junior looking at Papa with cold eyes when Papa wasn’t noticing.
For more than a month after Papa took Junior to the punishment spot, Mama communicated with Papa by grunts and head nods and head shaking.
And then one night the moon filtered through the potato sack curtain and I saw Papa’s naked shadow humping and thrusting and finally quivering with Mama’s legs and arms locked around him.
On November 1, 1936, the day I reached my eighth birthday, a miracle happened. Mama’s cousin Bunny’s husband died, and there had been enough money left from his insurance policy after funeral expenses to send Mama money for five tickets to Chicago and a furnished apartment with rent paid up two months across the hall from Cousin Bunny.
The letter with the money said, “Please hurry, because I have lung cancer bad, and I need someone to look in on me.”
Everybody except Papa was thrilled and excited at the prospect of going to the enchanted North. Papa hassled with Wilkerson about our cotton account and got a fabulous sixteen dollars.
Three days after Mama got the money we were on the train wearing our hand-me-down and homemade clothes. But I didn’t give it a thought. There would be bales of money waiting for us up North and store-bought clothes by the piles.
