Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “So after we found the wheels and the bolts, Papa told me to hold the reins real tight on Jack to keep him still…. Jack, he was real skittish ’cause of the storm. Then Mr. Morrison went and lifted that wagon all by himself. And it was heavy too, but Mr. Morrison lifted it like it wasn’t nothing. Then Papa slipped the first wheel on…. That’s when he got shot—”

  “But who—” I started.

  “A truck come up the road and stopped behind us while we was trying to get that wheel on, but didn’t none of us hear it coming ’cause of the rain and the thunder and all, and they didn’t put their lights on till the truck stopped. Anyways, there was three men in that truck and soon as Papa seen ’em, he reached for his shotgun. That’s when they shot him and he fell back with his left leg under the wagon. Then…then Jack reared up, scared by the shot, and I—I couldn’t hold him…and…and the wagon rolled over Papa’s leg.” His voice cracked sharply, and he exploded guiltily, “It’s m-my fault his leg’s busted!”

  I thought on what he had said and, laying my hand on his shoulder, I said, “Naw, it ain’t. It’s them men’s.”

  Stacey did not speak for a while and I did not prod him to go on. Finally, he cleared his throat and continued huskily. “Soon’s I could, I…I tied Jack to a tree and run back to Papa, but Papa told me not to move him and to get down in the gully. After them men shot Papa, they come down trying to get Mr. Morrison, but he was too fast and strong for ’em. I couldn’t see everything that happened ’cause they didn’t always stay in front of them headlights, but I did see Mr. Morrison pick up one of them men like he wasn’t nothing but a sack of chicken feathers and fling him down on the ground so hard it must’ve broke his back. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it before in my whole life. Then one of them other two that had a gun shot at Mr. Morrison, but he didn’t hit him. Mr. Morrison, he ducked away from the headlights into the darkness and they went after him.

  “Couldn’t see nothin’ then,” he said, glancing toward the door where Papa lay. “Heard bones cracking. Heard somebody cursing and crying. Then I couldn’t hear nothin’ but the rain, and I was real scared. ’Fraid they’d killed Mr. Morrison.”

  “But they didn’t,” reminded Little Man, his eyes bright with excitement.

  Stacey nodded. “Next thing I seen was a man coming real slow-like into the headlights and pick up the man lying in the middle of the road—the one Mr. Morrison thrown down. He got him into the truck, then come back and helped the other one. That one looked like he had a broke arm. It was hanging all crazy-like at his side. Then they turned the truck around and drove away.”

  “Then what?” Little Man inquired.

  Stacey shrugged. “Nothin’. We put on the other wheel and come on home.”

  “Who was it?” I rasped, holding my breath.

  Stacey looked at me and said flatly, “The Wallaces, I think.”

  There was a fearful moment’s silence, then Christopher-John, tears in his dark eyes, asked, “Stacey, is…is Papa gonna die?”

  “No! Course not!” denied Stacey too quickly.

  “But he was so still—”

  “I don’t want Papa to die!” wailed Little Man.

  “He was just sleeping—like Mama said. That’s all.”

  “Well, when he gonna wake up?” cried Christopher-John, the tears escaping down his plump cheeks.

  “In—in the morning,” said Stacey, putting a comforting arm around both Christopher-John and Little Man. “Jus’ you wait and see. He’ll be jus’ fine come morning.”

  Stacey, still in his wet, muddy clothes, said nothing else, and neither did the rest of us. All the questions had been answered, yet we feared, and we sat silently listening to the rain, soft now upon the roof, and watching the door behind which Papa lay, and wished for morning.

  10

  “How does it look?” asked Papa as I passed through the sitting room on my way out the side door. Over a week had passed since he had been injured, and this was his first morning up. He was seated by the cold fireplace, his head still bandaged, his broken leg resting on a wooden chair. His eyes were on Mama at her desk.

  Mama put down her pencil and frowned at the open ledger before her. She glanced at me absently and waited until I had closed the screen door behind me, then she said, “David, do you think we should go into this now? You’re still not well—”

  “I’m well enough to know there’s not much left. Now tell me.”

  I hopped down the steps and sat on the bottom one.

  Mama was silent a moment before she answered him. “With Hammer’s half of the mortgage money, we’ve got enough to meet the June payment….”

  “Nothing more?”

  “A couple of dollars, but that’s all.”

  They were both silent.

  “You think we should write Hammer and borrow some money?” Mama asked.

  Papa did not answer right away. “No…” he said finally. “I still don’t want him to know ’bout this thing. If he knows I’m not on the railroad, he’ll wanna know why not, and I don’t wanna risk that temper of his when he finds out what the Wallaces done.”

  Mama sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  “I know I am,” said Papa. “Things like they are, he come down here wild and angry, he’ll get himself hung. Long as things don’t get no worse, we can make it without him. We’ll meet that June note with the money we got there.” He paused a moment. “We’ll probably have to sell a couple of the cows and their calves to make them July and August notes…maybe even that ole sow. But by the end of August we should have enough cotton to make that September payment…. Course we’ll probably have to go all the way to Vicksburg to get it ginned. Can’t hardly use Harlan Granger’s gin this year.”

  There was silence again, then Mama said, “David, Mama’s been talking about going into Strawberry to the market next—”

  “No,” Papa said, not letting her finish. “Too much bad feeling there.”

  “I told her that.”

  “I’ll talk to her…. Anything we just gotta have before the first cotton come in?”

  “Well…you picked up batteries and kerosene on that last trip…but what we’re going to need more than anything is some insecticide to spray the cotton. The bugs are getting pretty bad….”

  “What ’bout food?”

  “Our flour and sugar and baking powder and such are low, but we’ll make out—we don’t have to have biscuits and cornbread every day. We’re out of pepper and there’s not much salt, but we don’t just have to have those either. And the coffee’s all gone…. The garden’s coming along nicely, though. There’s no worry there.”

  “No worry,” Papa muttered as both of them grew quiet. Then suddenly there was a sharp explosion as if something had been struck with an angry force. “If only this leg wasn’t busted!”

  “Don’t let Stacey hear you saying that, David,” Mama cautioned softly. “You know he blames himself about your leg.”

  “I told the boy it wasn’t his fault. He just wasn’t strong enough to hold Jack.”

  “I know that, but still he blames himself.”

  Papa laughed strangely. “Ain’t this something? Them Wallaces aim a gun at my head and I get my leg broke, and my boy’s blaming himself for it. Why, I feel like taking a bullwhip to all three of them Wallaces and not stopping till my arm get so tired I can’t raise it one more time.”

  “You’re sounding like Hammer.”

  “Am I? Well, a lot of times I feel like doing things Hammer’s way. I think I’d get a powerful lot of satisfaction from whipping Kaleb Wallace and them brothers of his.”

  “Hammer’s way would get you killed and you know it, so stop talking like that. Don’t we already have enough to worry about? Besides, both Thurston and Dewberry Wallace are still laid up, so I hear. Some folks even say that Dewberry’s back is broken. In any case, Mr. Morrison must have hurt them pretty bad.”

  “Where is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him this morning.”

>   There was an instant of silence before Mama answered. “Out looking for work again since dawn.”

  “He ain’t gonna find nothing ’round here. I told him that.”

  “I know,” agreed Mama. “But he says he’s got to try. David…” Mama stopped, and when she spoke again her voice had grown faint, as if she hesitated to say what was on her mind. “David, don’t you think he ought to go? I don’t want him to, but after what he did to the Wallaces, I’m afraid for him.”

  “He knows what could happen, Mary, but he wants to stay—and, frankly, we need him here. Don’t pester him about it.”

  “But, David, if—”

  Before Mama finished, I spied Mr. Morrison coming west from Smellings Creek. I left the step and hurried to meet him.

  “Hello, Mr. Morrison!” I shouted as Jack pulled the wagon up the drive.

  “Hello, Cassie,” Mr. Morrison greeted me. “Your papa awake?”

  “Yessir. He’s sitting out of bed this morning.”

  “Didn’t I tell you nothin’ could keep him down?”

  “Yessir, you did.”

  He stepped from the wagon and walked toward the house.

  “Mr. Morrison, you want me to unhitch Jack for ya?”

  “No, Cassie, leave him be. I gotta talk to your papa then I’ll be back.”

  “Hey, ole Jack,” I said, patting the mule as I watched Mr. Morrison enter the side door. I thought of returning to my seat on the steps, but decided against it. Instead I remained with Jack, thoughtfully digesting all I had heard, until Mr. Morrison came from the house. He went into the barn, then reappeared with the planter, a plowlike tool with a small round container for dropping seeds attached to its middle. He put the planter into the back of the wagon.

  “Where you going now, Mr. Morrison?”

  “Down to Mr. Wiggins’ place. I seen Mr. Wiggins this morning and he asked to use your Papa’s planter. He ain’t got no wagon so I told him I’d ask your Papa and if it was all right, I’d bring it to him.”

  “Ain’t it kinda late for seeding?”

  “Well, not for what he got in mind. He thought he’d plant himself some summer corn. It’ll be ready come September.”

  “Mr. Morrison, can I go with ya?” I asked as he climbed up on the wagon.

  “Well, I’d be right pleased for your company, Cassie. But you’ll have to ask your mama.”

  I ran back to the house. The boys were now in Mama and Papa’s room, and when I asked if I could go up to Little Willie’s with Mr. Morrison, Little Man and Christopher-John, of course, wanted to go too.

  “Mr. Morrison said it’d be all right, Mama.”

  “Well, don’t you get in his way. Stacey, you going?”

  Stacey sat across from Papa looking despondently at the broken leg. “Go on, son,” said Papa gently. “There’s nothing to do here. Give you a chance to talk to Little Willie.”

  “You sure there ain’t something I can do for you, Papa?”

  “Just go and have yourself a good ride over to Little Willie’s.”

  Since it had been my idea to ask to go, I claimed the seat beside Mr. Morrison, and the boys climbed in back. Little Willie’s family lived on their own forty acres about two miles east of Great Faith. It was a fine morning for a ride and the six miles there sped by quickly with Mr. Morrison singing in his bassest of bass voices and Christopher-John, Little Man, and me joining in wherever we could as we passed cotton fields abloom in flowers of white and red and pink. Stacey being in one of his moods did not sing and we let him be.

  We stayed less than an hour at the Wiggins farm, then headed home again. We had just passed Great Faith and were approaching the Jefferson Davis School Road when a ragged pickup came into view. Very quietly Mr. Morrison said, “Cassie, get in back.”

  “But why, Mr. Mor—”

  “Do quick, Cassie, like I say.” His voice was barely above a friendly whisper, but there was an urgency in it and I obeyed, scrambling over the seat to join the boys. “Y’all stay down now.”

  The truck braked noisily with a grating shriek of steel. We stopped. The boys and I peeped over the edge of the wagon. The truck had veered across the road, blocking us. The truck door swung open and Kaleb Wallace stepped out, pointing a long condemning finger at Mr. Morrison.

  He swayed unspeaking for a long, terrible moment, then sputtered, “You big black nigger, I oughta cut your heart out for what you done! My brothers laid up like they is and you still runnin’ ’round free as a white man. Downright sinful, that’s what it is! Why, I oughta gun you down right where you sit—”

  “You gonna move your truck?”

  Kaleb Wallace gazed up at Mr. Morrison, then at the truck as if trying to comprehend the connection between the two. “That truck in your way, boy?”

  “You gonna move it?”

  “I’ll move it all right…when I get good and ready—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes bulging in a terrified stare as Mr. Morrison climbed down from the wagon. Mr. Morrison’s long shadow fell over him and for a breathless second, Mr. Morrison towered dangerously near him. But as the fear grew white on Kaleb Wallace’s face, Mr. Morrison turned without a word and peered into the truck.

  “What’s he looking for?” I whispered.

  “Probably a gun,” said Stacey.

  Mr. Morrison circled the truck, studying it closely. Then he returned to its front and, bending at the knees with his back against the grill, he positioned his large hands beneath the bumper. Slowly, his muscles flexing tightly against his thin shirt and the sweat popping off his skin like oil on water, he lifted the truck in one fluid, powerful motion until the front was several inches off the ground and slowly walked it to the left of the road, where he set it down as gently as a sleeping child. Then he moved to the rear of the truck and repeated the feat.

  Kaleb Wallace was mute. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I stared open-mouthed, and even Stacey, who had witnessed Mr. Morrison’s phenomenal strength before, gazed in wonder.

  It took Kaleb Wallace several minutes to regain his voice. We were far down the road, almost out of hearing, when his frenzied cry of hate reached us. “One of these nights, you watch, nigger! I’m gonna come get you for what you done! You just watch! One night real soon…”

  When we reached home and told Mama and Papa and Big Ma what had happened, Mama said to Mr. Morrison, “I told you before I was afraid for you. And today, Kaleb Wallace could’ve hurt you…and the children.”

  Mr. Morrison looked squarely into Mama’s eyes. “Miz Logan, Kaleb Wallace is one of them folks who can’t do nothing by himself. He got to have a lot of other folks backing him up plus a loaded gun…and I knew there wasn’t no gun, leastways not in the truck. I checked.”

  “But if you stay, he’ll get somebody and they’ll try to take you, like he said—”

  “Miz Logan, don’t ask me to go.”

  Mama reached out, laying a slender hand on Mr. Morrison’s. “Mr. Morrison, you’re a part of us now. I don’t want you hurt because of us.”

  Mr. Morrison lowered his eyes and looked around the room until his gaze rested on the boys and me. “I ain’t never had no children of my own. I think sometimes if I had, I’d’ve wanted a son and daughter just like you and Mr. Logan…and grandbabies like these babies of yours….”

  “But, Mr. Morrison, the Wallaces—”

  “Mary,” said Papa quietly, “let it be.”

  Mama looked at Papa, her lips still poised to speak. Then she said no more; but the worry lines remained creased upon her brow.

  * * *

  August dawned blue and hot. The heat swooped low over the land clinging like an invisible shroud, and through it people moved slowly, lethargically, as if under water. In the ripening fields the drying cotton and corn stretched tiredly skyward awaiting the coolness of a rain that occasionally threatened but did not come, and the land took on a baked, brown look.

  To escape the heat, the boys and I often ambled into the coolness of the forest after the chores
were done. There, while the cows and their calves grazed nearby, we sat on the banks of the pond, our backs propped against an old hickory or pine or walnut, our feet dangling lazily in the cool water, and waited for a watermelon brought from the garden to chill. Sometimes Jeremy joined us there, making his way through the deep forest land from his own farm over a mile away, but the meetings were never planned; none of our parents would have liked that.

  “How’s your papa?” he asked one day as he plopped down beside us.

  “He’s all right,” said Stacey, “ ’cepting his leg’s bothering him in this heat. Itching a lot. But Mama says that’s a sign it’s getting well.”

  “That’s good,” murmured Jeremy. “Too bad he had to get hurt when he done so’s he couldn’t go back on the railroad.”

  Stacey stirred uneasily, looked at Christopher-John, Little Man, and me, reminding us with his eyes that we were not to speak about the Wallaces’ part in Papa’s injury, and said only, “Uh-huh.”

  Jeremy was silent a moment, then stuttered, “S-some folks sayin’ they glad he got hurt. G-glad he can’t go make that railroad money.”

  “Who said that?” I cried, jumping up from the bank. “Just tell me who said it and I’ll ram—”

  “Cassie! Sit down and be quiet,” Stacey ordered. Reluctantly, I did as I was told, wishing that this business about the Wallaces and Papa’s injuries were not so complex. It seemed to me that since the Wallaces had attacked Papa and Mr. Morrison, the simplest thing to do would be to tell the sheriff and have them put in jail, but Mama said things didn’t work that way. She explained that as long as the Wallaces, embarrassed by their injuries at the hands of Mr. Morrison, did not make an official complaint about the incident, then we must remain silent also. If we did not, Mr. Morrison could be charged with attacking white men, which could possibly end in his being sentenced to the chain gang, or worse.

  “I—I ain’t the one said it, Cassie,” stammered Jeremy by way of apology.