by Daniel Black
“But what chu gon do?” Larry asked.
Billy pondered. “Tell you what. Anybody interested, meet me at my house in the morning ’round nine and I’ll explain everything to ya. For now, spread the word that ain’t nobody, and I mean nobody, spose to touch none o’ Chapman’s niggers. Let ’em wonder what we gon do ’til we show ’em. They’ll wish they had never seen a white man!”
The men nodded. They didn’t know what the sheriff was planning, but they loved the way he was talking.
“So you boys go on home now, and I’ll meet you in the morning. I’ll talk to Chapman, too. And remember—these niggers is mine!”
Six
MISS MARY STUMBLED TO THE FRONT STEPS AND HUFFED, “Thank ya, Lawd! Thank ya!”
Ella Mae stepped from behind the barn. “You all right, Momma?”
“Yeah, I’m all right, daughter,” Miss Mary said. “Jes a li’l wound up, dat’s all.”
“I was sho scared Billy Ray wuz gon try to hurt you,” Ella Mae said, joining her on the steps and leaning Enoch’s rifle against the porch. “But if he tried to kill you, he wuz sho gon join his brothers tonight!” she said with more courage now than she had before.
Miss Mary looked astonished. “You saw me, girl?”
“Saw the whole thing!” she boasted. “I wuz standing right there beside de barn wit dat gun pointed at Billy’s head the whole time.”
Miss Mary’s mouth dropped open.
“Aw, Momma, come on! You know I ain’t gon let nothin’ happen to you. You de only momma I got.”
The women embraced warmly. They were proud that, in the absence of their men, they had stood just as tall.
“Girl, I thought I was gon die fah sho!” Miss Mary sighed and lifted her hands.
“Not tonight, you wunnit,” Ella Mae assured. “Not if I had anything to do with it.”
Miss Mary smiled. “De chillen in de barn loft?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well, take ’em some dry clothes and tell ’em to wait ’til dey granddaddy get back befo’ dey move.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And you get some dry clothes, too. You oughta be tired, all dat runnin’ you done done tonight.”
“I’m all right, Momma,” Ella Mae said, and disappeared into the house.
After she attended the children, she returned to the porch, only to find Miss Mary pacing the front yard, conversing with something or someone invisible. Ella Mae watched in wonder.
“ … but that ain’t what You said, God! That ain’t what You said!” Miss Mary screamed.
“,” God must have said.
“That don’t make no difference! You and me had a deal and I intend for You to keep Yo part of it!” Ella Mae couldn’t tell if Miss Mary was crying or laughing.
“,” God must have said.
“Then do what You promised! Be the God You spose to be! It don’t make sense for Black folks to keep on sufferin’ de way we sufferin’ when we serve a mighty God! Now, come on, Lord! You know what to do, and I expect You to do it!” Miss Mary was shaking her head as though trying to rid it of some intangible confusion.
“,” God must have said.
“And what about the chillen?” Miss Mary asked matter-of-factly.
“.”
“Uh-huh.”
“?”
“Yes, but—”
“.”
“You right, Lawd. You right.” Miss Mary tossed her hands up in surrender.
“.”
“But the night I buried my oldest boy You told me that—”
“.”
“Yes, Lord. I’ll do it. But—”
“.”
“Lord, you know I love You? Why You ask me that? Sometimes I don’t like Yo ways, but me and You been walkin’ sixty years or mo.” Miss Mary sounded offended.
Miss Mary’s face was lifted toward the sky although her eyes were closed tightly. Finally, she said, “I’ll follow You wherever You go, Lord, but trust me on this one. If I’m wrong, You can take my life and I won’t say nothin’ ’bout it. But, please, Master, think about what I said.” Miss Mary opened her eyes.
“Ella Mae,” she said, a bit startled. “I didn’t know you wuz there.” She tried to distract Ella Mae from what she had witnessed. “The chillen okay?”
“They fine. I told ’em to wait there ’til somebody come get ’em.”
“Good, good,” Miss Mary said, and entered the house with Ella Mae following. “Let’s get a fire goin’ in dis old stove and get some breakfast together.”
Ella Mae was not put off so easily.
“Who was you talkin’ to, Momma?”
“Oh chile, don’t worry ’bout dat. Every now and then, me and de Good Lawd have it out!” She chuckled heartily.
Ella Mae’s eyes bulged.
Miss Mary looked up from the stove, and said, “Aw, girl! Me and God go waaaaay back. We fuss all de time!” She looked at a bewildered daughter-in-law. “Ain’t no need in you thinkin’ I ain’t had no right to talk to God that way. Dat’s what you thinkin’, ain’t it?”
Ella Mae smirked.
“Well, you wrong! God ain’t so arrogant that He can’t listen to nobody else’s opinion. What kinda God would dat be? He gave us minds so we could think just like He can think. That’s why God don’t talk to most folks. They ain’t got nothin’ to say. They thank He’s spose to do all the talkin’. What kinda friendship is dat?”
Miss Mary didn’t wait on Ella Mae’s confirmation. She filled the coffee kettle and placed it on the stove, and said, “Coffee be ready in a few minutes.” Then she sat in the rocker and began peeling potatoes for fried potatoes and onions.
Ella Mae dismissed the conversation and found a knife and bowl and sat on the floor next to her.
“What we gon do, Momma?” she asked, slicing potatoes carefully.
“I don’t know, chile, but somethin’ wrong. All de white folks in Money shoulda been out here by now. We ain’t even heard from Old Man Chapman.” She shook her head. “This is mighty strange.”
Ella Mae could tell Miss Mary didn’t want to talk, so she didn’t force it. Miss Mary started nodding and murmuring “uh-huh” like one in the midst of difficult negotiations.
When the men returned, Jeremiah told Enoch, “Clean out de wagon real good, then check on de womenfolks. I’ll go to de barn and see if de chillen in there.”
They heard the familiar knock and unlatched the door. After hugging each of them, Jeremiah asked, “Y’all okay?”
“Yessir,” they said.
“Good. Good.”
Chop asked, “Who d-d-did you k-k-kill, Grrrranddaddy?”
“Shut up, boy!” Ray Ray said, saving Jeremiah the trouble. “That ain’t none o’ yo’ business.”
Sarah Jane changed the subject. “I thought I was gonna drown in that river, Granddaddy, but Ray Ray took care of us. You shoulda seen us! We was—”
“Wooo. You chillen be quiet now. I gotta lot on my mind and a lot to tell you. This ain’t no playthang, and we sho ain’t seen de last o’ white folks. Now listen to me good.”
Jeremiah sat on a nearby hay bale and motioned for the children to gather around. His whispering reignited the fear Sarah Jane thought the river had washed away.
“This ain’t gon be easy, children,” the old man began softly. “Me and yo’ uncle Enoch done killed three white men, and another one got away.”
“B-B-But you was prrrrrotectin’ us, Grrrrranddaddy,” Chop averred.
“I know it, boy, and I’d do it again, but dem white folks is comin’ back for revenge. You gotta know dat. Now stop talkin’ and listen to what I’m ’bout to tell y’all.”
Ray Ray covered Chop’s mouth, then mumbled, “Go ’head, Granddaddy.”
“I get a feelin’,” Jeremiah began, “dat this gon’ get worse before it gets better. If I know white folks like I think I do, they gon try they best to hurt one of us. Or all of us. But we done come this far by faith, so we ain’t turnin’ ’ro
und now.”
The children’s hypnotized eyes were glued to their grandfather’s.
“Whatever I say do, I intend for you to do it and to do it quickly. We ain’t got time for no clownin’. We all in this together. This ain’t ’bout Clement either. It’s ’bout the Johnson family. It’s ’bout colored folks standin’ up for theyselves. But white folks is gon try to scare us back into bondage. They pretty good ’bout what they do. We jes gotta be strong and know dat God is on our side, and that God been waitin’ on us to fight for ourselves.”
Jeremiah looked to see if the children understood what he was saying. Believing they did, he declared, “Now here’s what I want y’all to do. We gon go in the house and eat breakfast like we do every other mornin’. Then we gon talk as a family and figure this thang out. But two things you got to remember ’til this situation over with: number one, never, under any circumstances, leave this house. Never! Fu no reason. No berry pickin’, no goin’ down to de fishin’ hole, nothin’. Make sure somebody can holla yo’ name and you hear ’em. You understand me?”
All heads nodded.
“And, number two, don’t neva tell nobody what you seen happen in dis house tonight. If somethin’ happens, and we get separated, keep yo’ mouth shut. Don’t try to explain nothin’ to nobody. Family business is family business, and we don’t go ’round tellin’ family business to folks what ain’t in our family. Got me?”
“Yessir,” the children responded like soldiers preparing for war.
“Good,” Jeremiah said. “Now one more thing.” He rubbed Clement’s head. “This ain’t yo’ fault, boy. Mississippi been dis way long ’fo you come. Dat’s why yo’ momma left here. She couldn’t stand de way colored folks wuz treated, and with that li’l feisty spirit o’ hers, she wouldn’ta ever had no peace. Naw, this ain’t yo’ fault. We all to blame. Every colored person ever lived here. We wuz spose to stand up fu ourselves, and we ain’t done it yet. But we gon do it now.”
The children didn’t understand. Chop tried to ask what they were going to do, but Ray Ray’s hand muffled his voice.
Jeremiah motioned for the children to precede him. “Let’s go eat.”
Inside, Ella Mae told Enoch about Billy Ray’s visit.
“Oh my God!” he murmured. “Y’all coulda been killed.”
Miss Mary and Ella Mae winked at one another, and Ella Mae said, “We all right. We did what we had to do.”
When Jeremiah entered and heard about the incident, he froze. Images of Miss Mary and Ella Mae lying in their own blood flooded his mind, and he knew that something radical had to be done. Once his heartbeat calmed, he said, “Y’all some powerful women. I’m mighty proud o’ you. Wouldn’t take nothin’ fu you.” He proceeded to the table.
Before they said grace, Miss Mary offered, “I knowed dat boy from de day he was born.” Everyone stared at her. “And, sho as de sun rise in de east, he comin’ back. He’s connivin’ somethin’ right now to make us pay.” Miss Mary closed her eyes. “And whatever he plannin’ is gon be de worse thang this community ever seen ’cause, if he die doin’ it, he gon have de last word. He been dat way all his life.”
Jeremiah said, “Well, he better get ready to die.”
No one else said anything. Bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes were passed automatically until everything had been devoured. The adults then drank coffee while the children waited stiffly for someone to speak. A mouse caught Chop’s eye, but instead of hollering, as was his custom, he studied it. First amazed that his own fear had apparently dissipated, he then became envious of the mouse’s carefree existence. Having found a piece of yarn, the mouse played with it, seemingly unaware that, only a few feet away, someone was plotting its destruction. The varmint discovered a crumb and ate it. At one point, Chop’s eyes met the mouse’s and, for some unknown reason, he felt sympathy instead of wrath. Unlike other times when he wanted someone simply to stomp the thing to death, the meeting of their eyes made him want to protect it, to understand it, even to love it. He began to wonder where it lived, who its momma was, why it would take the risk to expose itself to those who despised it. Really, he wanted to ask the mouse, “Is it fun being a mouse?” but then he thought the question ridiculous. Nobody wants to be a mouse, Chop told himself, yet he couldn’t help wondering if being so little might actually be freeing. Then people ignore you, and you can have all the fun and food you want because nobody thinks enough of you to care one way or the other. On the other hand, he thought to be little might be lonely and depressing, too, for then you have to tailor your life to what others think and like. So, in the end, he appreciated the distance between himself and the mouse and, in fact, felt sorry for the unwanted creature. Why did God make them anyway? he asked himself.
“We gon call a town meetin’,” Jeremiah said hastily. Miss Mary smiled at the idea. “Enoch, we gon go ’round and ask all de colored peoples who’s willin’ to meet us in de barn tonight for a very important meetin’. We’d betta not try to fight this one alone. My daddy used to say ‘there’s strength in numbers,’ so we gon see if he’s right.”
“Children, y’all go on back to de loft and stay quiet ’til we come git chu. Don’t make a sound and don’t say a word. Momma, you and Ella Mae jes act like ain’t nothin’ happened. If anybody colored come by, tell ’em ’bout de meetin’. If anybody white come—”
“We know what to do,” Miss Mary assured.
“Fine. Then let’s say … seven tonight.”
The women agreed and the menfolks grabbed their hats and left.
Seven
JEREMIAH WALKED IN EXCRUCIATING PAIN. AFTER APPROACHING the third house, he had no choice but to return home and rest. Enoch pressed on with his throbbing wound, speaking to half the Black folk in Money before he, too, was compelled to take a break.
Jeremiah awoke when Enoch returned, and asked, “How far did you get?”
“I talked to most folks.” Enoch sighed and reclined cautiously in the rocker. “We should get a crowd if they don’t get scared. I didn’t get to Mr. Tiny, though.”
“Tiny be by here after while,” Jeremiah slurred. “You ever knowed a Saturday he didn’t come?”
Enoch cackled.
“I’ll tell him then.”
“You menfolks hongry?” Ella Mae asked. “I can make y’all a sandwich or somethin’.”
“That sho would be nice, baby,” Jeremiah returned. “We’ll take it outside. It’s too hot in here.”
Enoch followed Jeremiah and both men sat on the edge of the porch. Ten minutes later, when Ella Mae offered the sandwiches, Enoch snickered, and said, “Glad I didn’t bet against you, Daddy” when he recognized Tiny’s size 58 overalls in the distance.
“How ya doin’, Tiny!” Jeremiah hollered long before his old friend reached the house. Enoch smiled at Tiny’s overweight form, wobbling like a newborn calf in a windstorm.
“Oh, I guess I’ll do, Mi,” he returned and hobbled onto the porch. Only those who had known Jeremiah as a child called him Mi. No one else would have dared.
Tiny Dawson and Jeremiah grew up pickin’ cotton together, they claimed. Nobody believed them, though, since Tiny’s youngest boy was at least ten years older than Jeremiah. Yet since no one could dispute it with any authority, the two perpetuated their claim virtually uncontested.
“I thought you said you was gon stop smokin’?” Jeremiah teased, as Tiny wheezed and plopped down onto the empty, rusted, fold-up chair Enoch offered. Enoch stayed on the edge of the porch, where his father had taught him to sit when elders came around, and prepared himself for the drama that always ensued whenever Tiny arrived.
“I ain’t neva told you dat, man. Shit. You may as well choose what’s gon kill you. Don’t chu think?” Tiny filled his pipe and offered it first to Jeremiah, who refused politely. Then he frowned at Enoch.
“What happened to yo’ arm, son?”
Enoch turned to his father who shifted uneasily.
“Well, this morning—”
; “Don’t worry ’bout his arm,” Jeremiah taunted, hoping to distract. “You need to concentrate on losin’ some o’ dat weight.” He poked Tiny in his rib cage with his cane. “You been four hundred pounds ever since I knowed you.”
Tiny took the bait. “No I ain’t! I used to be a li’l bitty fella! You don’t remember dat, Mi?”
Enoch couldn’t hold his laughter. He thought of Mr. Dawson’s sons, all of whom outweighed their father, and his shoulders jerked constantly with mirth.
“You remember how little I was, Mi!” Tiny shouted. “I was smaller than you ’til I had dat stroke back in ’thirty-six. Then I couldn’t get ’round like I was used to doin’ and—”
“Aw, hush, man,” Jeremiah said playfully. Then he assumed a stoic expression. “I got somethin’ serious I gotta tell ya, Tiny. I need yo’ help.”
“What’s wrong, Mi?” His voice deepened so suddenly that Enoch looked to make sure someone else hadn’t taken his seat.
“Cuthbert boys come by de house dis mornin’ lookin’ for Clement. Said he disrespected Miss Cuthbert in de store yesterday. De boy told me she asked him to put a nickel in her hands for a soda pop, but he laid it on the counter instead. I don’t know no details, but somethin’ happened. All I know is dat dem boys wunnit takin’ my grandson.”
Studying Jeremiah’s face, Tiny knew something very serious had happened. “What did you do, Mi?” he asked cautiously.
Jeremiah hung his head. Then, he lifted it and declared proudly, “I killed the sons of bitches. That’s what I did. They broke my front do’ down, thinkin’ they wuz ’bout to take one o’ my grandchillen, so I blowed they asses away right smack in the middle of my livin’ room.”
Tiny Dawson’s eyes almost popped out. With trembling hands, he pushed himself up from the old rocker, and burbled, “You did what?”
“That’s right! I killed ’em. I had to. Either I was gon kill them or they was gon kill me. And you see me standin’ here, don’t chu?” He paused. “They shot Enoch in the arm and got me right here”—he touched his side—“but we all right.”
