As simple as I was talking, nobody seemed to understand what I meant. People just stared at me, shocked-looking because I’d shrieked so crazy. So I kept going. “I . . . I got a best friend named Evette who’s black, and you wanna know what? Me and her are the same except for she’s poorer. That’s what I believe. That’s all. I didn’t even mean to cause trouble.”
Swallowing, I tried to come up with more to talk about, but it was hard. It was hard to think. “Just a few nights ago, I had a dream that all the black tenant farmers in Marlboro County floated off to New York, where they can own houses and cars and be with people who like ’em. And when they were gone, nothing grew in the cotton fields ’cause nobody was around to work. See? You gotta know we need to get along. You gotta know that.”
Stopping, I stared blankly out at all our friends and neighbors. Nobody spoke for a little while. Swaying, I tried to look into every face, but there were too many.
A man told me, “You don’t understand the history.”
Somebody answered back, “Yeah, but it don’t matter.”
Another person yelled, “We need to put this arguing to rest. It don’t help a difficult situation.”
A weak cheer rose up.
A man near the smashed windows declared, “Listen here. I believe I’m speaking for everybody when I say we aren’t gonna tolerate the Klan in Marlboro County anymore. No matter! We don’t need that sort of anger on top of everything else.”
“Here, here!” somebody called in agreement.
“Here, here!” a good number of people answered back.
Turpin Dunn didn’t say a word.
Waving his hands over his head, Sheriff McDonnell got people to clear the way.
He glared at the Klan man. “I got something to say to you boys, so y’all listen up good. You come in here trying to cause any more trouble, and I’m gonna thump you good. Y’all’ll be walking outa here in nothing but your birthday suits, or you’ll be rotting in jail. I ain’t kidding. Y’all just come on back and try me.”
Everyone had something to say, and the crowd got loud and excited, but the fight and fury was out of them. Tired and dizzy, I felt like all the angriness had been sucked out of my body, too. Turning, I crunched down the glassy aisle, passing by the farmer who my daddy had been helping. He said something to me, but I don’t know what. Like a ghost, I floated back to the Carmichael Dry Goods office, where I sat at Daddy’s desk, wishing I had that little statuette of the horse and Robert E. Lee. I wished I could play and get my mind off what had happened, because my head was so full it felt empty.
Since last fall, what I’ve learned about things is that people don’t change fast or easy and sometimes not at all. Still, after my daddy’s windows were broken out, I feel like all of Marlboro County’s been trying to be more thoughtful. Every week there are meetings held at Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild’s house, where everyone from tenant farmers to shopkeepers discuss the things that need changing. That’s when people decided to open the A&P and Douglas and Johns to blacks. Considering the way things were, that was big. And even though people were nervous, the Ku Klux Klan didn’t burn crosses or smash windows or anything. It’s like they’ve been scrubbed out around here. Mean Mr. Dunn has stayed quiet out on his farm. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t made a peep in months.
My daddy and Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild are pushing for better black schools and new books and buildings, but there isn’t much money to go around, so nothing will change for a while. I asked Daddy why blacks can’t go to the Murchison School, and he said it might happen one day, but that type of change takes a long time.
Still, I wish Evette was in class with me and Beth. Me and her and Beth would be like sisters, telling secrets and stories and passing notes. Unless Miss Burstin caught us a lot, we might pass a thousand notes a year.
At the start of the winter, around Christmastime, Evette and I started writing for the Bennettsville Times again. We like writing so much, is why. Sometimes we try to make people see the truth about important things, but we haven’t done anything else about blacks and whites.
In February, Mr. Salter began paying us fifty cents a column. He also told me to write an article about everything that happened between my daddy and Mr. Dunn and the Ku Klux Klan. I didn’t exactly want to, but I tried. The thing is, my story kept getting bigger and bigger so that it wouldn’t fit in the newspaper, till it turned into a small book. Mr. Salter didn’t mind. He helped me and Evette edit so that it makes better sense, which is good because I know it was a little bumpy. I know it seemed like the only reason I was writing was because I don’t like Mr. Dunn so much, and Mr. Salter fixed that.
But, the truth is, I still don’t like Mr. Dunn. I don’t, even though I’m trying to forgive him. As a matter of fact, just yesterday McCall made a list of the meanest men who ever lived, and he said that Mr. Dunn was number twenty, after Kaiser Wilhelm, who was the boss of Germany during the war in Europe. That made sense to me. The thing is, McCall’s number-one meanest is Genghis Khan, who a long time ago captured all of China. He said that Mr. Khan would cut Mr. Dunn’s head clean off without even thinking about it. That’s why Mr. Dunn was way down at number twenty. In fact, McCall said, sticking Mr. Dunn on his list was just a big joke. He laughed at me about it, but I didn’t think it was funny. I think that’s exactly where Mr. Dunn belongs, on the twenty-meanest-men-who-ever-lived list.
Since last fall, my mama’s changed. Since the night the Ku Klux Klan burned that cross on our property, she’s been trying to think differently. During the winter, she explained to me that she had a lifetime of habit behind her feelings, and that it’s hard to shake that stuff loose. Sometimes she can’t do it. In spite of that, she started a class to teach blacks who never learned how to read. Also, she’s a lot nicer about Evette. As a matter of fact, Evette’s been over to dinner a few times since the fall, and just last week, Mama let her spend the night with me and Beth. Early in the afternoon, when the three of us got back from our schools, we ran through the new-planted cotton fields to go swinging in the woods. When we were done, we rushed back to Ellan and rode bikes around in the backyard. Evette borrowed McCall’s while me and Beth rode our own. In the patchy dust beside the smokehouse, Evette constantly fell over. Being real nimble, she never did get hurt and always came up laughing. We all laughed. We laughed so hard we got bellyaches.
“How . . . how come you can’t ride a bike?” Beth finally snorted.
“’Cause I only done it twice before,” Evette explained, smiling.
I pedaled around fast and furious, with King chasing after me, barking and leaping. I skidded sideways in front of the Grab and put my foot down. Standing there, looking back at my friends, who I love, and Ellan, which I also love, I could see the whole big South Carolina sky over their heads and above the outbuildings and the pecan trees, and it had to be as pretty as Heaven. I promise. And noticing it got me sad for people like Great-Uncle Harvey, who’s so nice but still blind. I would hate not to be able to see the flat ground rushing away from my feet, rubbing the sky. I would hate not to see Marlboro County, South Carolina, with nearly everything perfect about it except for a few important things that can change. And those important things are changing, too. Miss Burstin and my daddy say so to me a lot. As a matter of fact, just three days ago McCall was carrying us home from school when a black man drove by in an old, beat-up truck. The man’s face was happy, and one of his hands was relaxed and out the window. And even though it wasn’t hardly a fancy car, it wasn’t a Cadillac, I saw a black man driving. Right then and there, it seemed to me that as pretty as Marlboro County is, it’s only gonna get prettier, and that’s the truth.
The characters in Darby are loosely based on a series of oral history interviews that I’ve been conducting in Marlboro County, South Carolina, since 1997.
Conceived by my good friend Catherine G. Rogers, who grew up just outside of Bennettsville, The Marlboro Narrative Project is an attempt to record smaller, contextual aspects of the are
a’s history before the people who remember them are gone. In the beginning, Catherine and I sought to document myths, historical details, and even lost sayings. However, in our hours spent in the company of retired farmers and housemaids, politicians and day laborers, we have learned so much more. The project remains a labor of love for both of us.
Two years ago, while driving south for another week of interviews, I began to imagine Darby’s story. While discussing the work ahead, I asked Catherine whether she’d mind if I tried to weave our interviews into a novel. It seemed natural. The people we’d spoken with painted such vivid, beautiful, and alien pictures that there was an absolute need to present them to a generation that hasn’t heard — or maybe hasn’t heard enough — about the everyday struggles and triumphs of the past. As usual, Catherine was an enthusiastic supporter.
The participants in The Marlboro County Narrative Project were big-hearted men and women who were at once excited and worried about our mission. Some were concerned that we would misrepresent the times and the people who lived them. Nevertheless, most everyone put aside their fears and opened their lives to us. Their cooperation and goodwill allowed me to create Darby’s story. In light of that, I need to thank the following individuals for their generosity: Harriet Charles Fairfield, Helen Breeden, Charles F. Hollis, Sr., William L. Kinney, Jr., Hampton and Lucy MacIntyre, Hubbard McDonald, T. A. O’Neal, Jr., Jennings Owens, Jr., Eula K. Prince, Catherine M. Rogers, Frank B. Rogers, Jr., Bright Stubbs, and William Weatherly. If I left someone out, please forgive the oversight. Those interviews can be heard at the Marlboro County Historical Society in Bennettsville, South Carolina.
Darby is a fictitious character. Certainly, many aspects of her life and the lives of people in the book are based on recollections and history, but her love for writing and the troubles it generates are my own invention. Also, I chose not to employ the words “colored” or “Negro,” even though they were commonly used in 1926. These days, both are considered offensive, and I did not want to perpetuate derogatory language for young readers.
Finally, I want to thank my beautiful wife and daughter, both of whom are patient and inspiring whenever I attempt to write. I’d also like to express gratitude to my hardworking and loyal agent, Robbie Hare; to my wonderful editor at Candlewick Press, Liz Bicknell; and to Deborah Wayshak, her fantastic and helpful associate. I hope that Darby makes everyone involved proud.
Jonathon Scott Fuqua
February 2002
JONATHON SCOTT FUQUA is the author of several acclaimed novels for children and young adults, including The Willoughby Spit Wonder, and King of the Pygmies. The characters in Darby, Jonathon Scott Fuqua’s debut novel for young readers, are based on a series of oral history interviews that he conducted in Marlboro County, South Carolina, over a three-year period. He says, “In the end, I hope that the book does justice to good people born into troubling times, some of whom, in small ways, helped lay the foundation for change and justice.” Jonathon Scott Fuqua lives in Maryland.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2002 by Jonathon Scott Fuqua
Front cover photograph copyright © 2006 by Creatas/Inmagine
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2014
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Fuqua, Jonathon Scott.
Darby / by Jonathon Scott Fuqua. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In 1926, nine-year-old Darby Carmichael stirs up trouble in Marlboro County, South Carolina, when she writes a story for the local newspaper promoting racial equality.
ISBN 978-0-7636-1417-1 (hardcover)
[1. Race relations — Fiction. 2. Racism — Fiction. 3. Journalists — Fiction. 4. African Americans — Fiction. 5. Prejudices — Fiction. 6. South Carolina — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F96627 Dar 2002
[Fic]—dc21 2001035061
ISBN 978-0-7636-2290-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7636-7426-7 (electronic)
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