by Shana Burg
And I still can’t believe that our very own Reverend Walker went all the way to the nation’s capital on a bus and told our country’s president what he ought to do. One thing’s clear: our reverend’s come back a changed man. At long last his name fits him like a Sunday suit, because now Reverend Walker doesn’t just talk the talk, he walks the walk! He wants to get up and fight! Of course, he won’t fight with weapons—only wisdom and courage. It’s what Martin Luther King Jr. calls nonviolent resistance.
“Kuckachoo may not be a big city and Dr. King may never stop at our door, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna sit by and watch while white folks steal our dignity right out of our hands,” the reverend says.
He shuts his eyes, rocks on his heels, and prays the Lord will watch over us. After all that, he picks up something from behind the pulpit and carries it down the center aisle. When he passes, I see he’s got a long metal stick in his hand.
“What’s that?” I ask Cool Breeze.
“A crowbar,” he tells me.
The whole lot of us follow the reverend out the church door. Elmira hands us each a picking sack.
“Well, why’s he need a crowbar?” I ask Cool Breeze.
“Beats me!” he says.
Then we all trek down Magnolia Row, and I wonder if joining this garden picking will be the sorriest thing I’ve ever done in my life. But if I tell this to Cool Breeze, he’ll think I’m nothing but a nervous Nelly. And I know Cool Breeze, he’s impressed I’m here. So I walk on, my heart hammering in my chest, my soul praying the white folks won’t fire on us.
When we get to the tall fence that borders Old Man Adams’s farm, Reverend Walker sets the crowbar down on the grass. Then he weaves his fingers together and tells Cool Breeze to place a foot inside his clasped hands.
While Cool Breeze steps up and hoists himself over the fence, folks beside me hold hands and whisper. I hear only pieces. Pieces of whispers.
Dead.
The whispers get stuck in my hair.
Fight.
They wrap around my neck.
Ours.
The whispers cut off my breath and the grass moves and the reverend fades and the people fall and I can’t breathe and the whispers and my breath are short and fast and I’m alone. Here alone. And I won’t call Flapjack. This is my mess. Not his. Then there’s sunlight. Sunlight bouncing off the silver crowbar back in the reverend’s hand.
“Heads up!” the reverend shouts, and throws the crowbar over the fence.
The sunlight on the crowbar flying over the fence covers me in an arc. An arc of glitter. Yellow and orange glitter. I close my eyes. But I’m not under the sheet. I’m not in bed. Breathe! I tell myself. Breathe! The long strand of whispers breaks off my neck, breaks apart, into a thousand tiny butterflies. The butterflies fly. Fly away. Over the fence. Into the garden. Breathe!
My belly gets full. Full of sunlight. Full of breath. I’m not here. Not beside the fence. Not going to the picking. I’m above myself. Looking down at that river. That river flowing. That river rushing over rocks. Rushing fast. A force without beginning or end. A force that can’t be broken. I’m above the river, looking down on it, watching sunlight sparkle on the water’s surface. Gooseflesh washes over me. I hear him. I don’t see him. I hear him. “Stand up,” my brother says. “Stand up.”
By the time I open my eyes again, I don’t hear whispers at all. It’s quiet. And I don’t hear my breath alone. I hear everyone breathing hard together. Even though I’m terrified to be here at this picking, for one whole minute I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I know Elias, he’s proud. And now that Cool Breeze has followed the reverend’s instructions—taken out the nails and removed a section of the fence—we all crawl through before the whole lot of us get too chicken and run back home.
We march single file down the edge of the field, between a wall of sky-high corn and the tall wooden fence, dragging our empty sacks, singing “We Shall Overcome.” From the wavery sound of our voices, I can tell that everyone’s frightened as me.
When we get to the garden gate, we spread ourselves across the iron bars, another wall of corn at our backs. I see faces on the other side of the garden gate. The mayor’s red cheeks, the sheriff’s bulging neck, and Mrs. Tate’s wide-open mouth. And that’s when the truth of the matter sends a chill right through me: We’re inside the garden. The white folks, they’re left out!
Before Mrs. Tate can spot me, I take a step back and hide in the cornstalks. Although I can’t see the reverend, I hear his voice rumble as he shouts out to the white folks, “We don’t want your leftovers!”
When I hear the reverend’s words, I feel shimmery, like sunlight on steaming hot pavement. Here’s the reverend yelling to white folks about what’s on our minds and we all could die because of it! I reckon I never did think this picking thing through, because till about an hour ago, I was going to school like a good girl.
And for all the reverend’s fighting talk, the mayor just chuckles like the sight of us inside the garden’s nothing but a ridiculous joke. “We’re happy to welcome y’all at noon,” the mayor says.
“When nothing’s left but rotten cabbage!” the reverend shouts.
All of a sudden, I see it plain and clear: Mama’s smarter than all us fools put together. And now I’m cracking mad I was dumb enough to skip school and get caught up in this dangerous mess.
I glimpse out from my hiding spot in the stalks. Mrs. Worth uses the keys to unlock the garden gate. Then the sheriff pulls his pistol from its holster with one hand and pushes open the garden gate with the other to let the white pickers through.
Mrs. Worth crosses into the garden first. As soon as she does, she crinkles up her nose and shouts to us Negroes, “Didn’t you read the sign? You’re not invited to pick till noon!” When she yells, the daisies on top of her sun hat shake, but not half as much as I do. Then Mrs. Worth turns to the sheriff and says, “Oh, my! I plumb forgot. Coloreds can’t read!”
After the white folks push aside the cornstalks and stomp into the garden, the reverend blazes his own path into the rows. Cool Breeze grabs my wrist and draws me in behind our reverend. Then all of us stand at the garden’s edge and watch the white pickers spread across the rows.
It doesn’t take but a minute before we hear the white children laugh awful loud. They’re delighted to pick those collards and squash that should belong to us all. And I can’t believe how unfair this is, that they’re squealing with joy while we stand here and watch them steal what’s ours.
But soon the laughter fades. A scary silence surrounds us.
That’s when I look real close at the ground. And all of a sudden, I realize why their giggles are gone. No one’s ever seen such a field of horrors! Vines run everywhere, crisscrossing the rows, moving under and over the other plants, choking out the sun and the air, stealing the nourishment the garden crops need to survive. Cucumber beetles and spider mites creep everywhere. And everything’s mixed up crazy. Brown button squash litter the dirt like dead mice.
“Check it out!” Cool Breeze says. He holds up a cabbage the size of a plum.
Mrs. Tate’s at least ten rows away from us, but she screams so loud we can’t help but hear. “Land sakes!” she yells. “The garden! It’s ruined!”
One after the next, white pickers gasp with shock.
The reverend points to Magnolia Row. But no one needs to tell us Negroes that sticking around the garden is a bad idea. We know that whenever there’s trouble for the white folks, there’s trouble for us. So we all run out the garden through the missing piece of fence.
Wouldn’t you know it, on our way back to First Baptist, Delilah manages to catch up to Cool Breeze and me. As soon as the three of us squeeze into a pew, she nestles her head into his shoulder and tells him all about how scared she is. I want to be sick. I’m scared too, but I don’t go sticking my head into other people’s shoulders because of it.
CHAPTER 21
October 15, 1963, Late Morning
Then Reverend Walker steps up to the pulpit and tells us to bow our heads. While everyone else prays, I toss things over. At first, I’m burning up because the reverend spoke his mind and near about got us slaughtered. But the longer I sit in my pew, the more tickled I am that our reverend doesn’t just think his ideas, he speaks them. And he doesn’t just speak his ideas, he lives them, even when he’s scared inside.
When the silent prayer is over, the reverend calls on the Lord to see us through. We pray and chant and sing together so long, I reckon it’s hours by the time the reverend announces he’s going to hold a meeting to prepare for any trouble that might come our way. “Members of my brigade, stay here,” he says. “Everyone else can go on home.”
Of course, there’s one little problem with that. I can’t go on home, because Uncle Bump’s there. Sure Uncle Bump found work at the General Merchandise Store in Franklindale. It’s his job to mop the floors and hand out the government commodity—rice, beans, and of course, cheese, cheese, cheese. But Uncle Bump only works three days a week, and today he’s got off. If he sees me home early, he’ll know I skipped out on school to go to the picking.
So Cool Breeze, Delilah, and me sprawl out on the grass behind the church. After Delilah carries on more than an hour about how scared she still is, I decide to tell her and Cool Breeze a little secret. “Wanna know what Uncle Bump has to say when he hands out the food at the General Merchandise Store?”
“Have a nice day?” Cool Breeze guesses.
“Nope.”
“What?” Delilah asks.
“Cheese if you please!” I say.
They both split a rib over that. And it’s real good to hear them laugh, because under their laughs I can tell they’re worried up as me. All three of us know things aren’t going to turn out good. The more I think on it, the more I’ve got the urge to jump. But of course, I don’t have my rope handy, so I just use an imaginary one. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” I say.
“Very funny!” Delilah says.
“The right rhyme for the right time,” I tell her. Then I get back to saying “Mary, Mary” all over again. While I jump, I wonder why all the jumping songs are about a girl named Mary. And why Delilah thinks I can’t see that every five minutes she scoots an inch closer to Cool Breeze.
By the time Delilah’s almost snuggled up beside him, I’ve got a plan. I let go of my imaginary rope and fall to the ground. “My stomach’s rumbling,” I say, breathing heavy from all that jumping.
“Same here!” Cool Breeze says. He stands and fetches both our schoolbags out of the ditch. When he comes back, he sits down a whole foot away from Delilah. And I can’t say I mind.
Cool Breeze and me pull our lunch sacks out of our schoolbags. I’ve got a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but all he’s got are peanuts. Delilah didn’t bring a lunch because she didn’t know what a long day it was going to be, so I give half my sandwich to her.
While we eat, Cool Breeze keeps going over the garden problem like it’s a math equation he can solve. “Now white folks always blaming us for their troubles.” He cracks a peanut shell.
Then something occurs to me. Something I never thought of before. “Uh-oh!” I say.
“What?” Cool Breeze and Delilah ask.
In normal times, I wouldn’t care about talking with my mouth full of food. But I need Cool Breeze to think I’m a real lady, so I take all the time I need to swallow my sandwich down and lick my teeth clean before I share the scary idea.
“There’s gonna be a short run on vegetables at the Corner Store, because up till now folks were waiting to get their stuff free from the garden. I hear Mr. Mudge’s collards are rotting on the shelf. Now watch. He’ll raise prices higher than a cat’s back.”
I can tell Cool Breeze is impressed I thought of this, because he purses his lips and says, “Now ain’t you a real economist.”
“A real windbug is more like it!” Delilah says. Then she laughs like she’s just kidding.
But I know an insult when I hear one. And when someone insults you and pretends you’re too dumb to know it, that’s a double insult.
Just before Delilah gets another chance to cozy up beside him, Cool Breeze bolts to his feet again. “All the same,” he says, “I’m going down to the Corner Store to get some food before the short run.”
And wouldn’t you know it, Delilah changes her mind about my theory. “Good idea,” she says. “I’ll come too. I’ve gotta stop home for some money.”
“Same here,” I say. And I reckon right about now’s when I’d be getting home from school anyway, so at long last it’s okay to show my face.
When I get into the yard, I hear Uncle Bump’s harmonica ring out from his shed.
I knock.
Uncle Bump opens the rusty door.
“Guess what!” I say.
But Uncle Bump doesn’t guess. He just says, “Listen to this.” Then he blows a few raggedy chords and raises up his eyebrows.
“Good. Real good,” I say. And one thing’s clear: Uncle Bump’s been locked in his shed for hours. He hasn’t heard a word about what’s going on.
“Guess what!” I say again.
“Don’t know,” he says, and steps out of the shed.
“Delilah told me all about the picking ’cause she was there. Plus,” I say, “there’s gonna be a real short run on vegetables. Everyone says so.” And I don’t mean to fib, but I reckon I get a bit carried away with my theory because then I say, “Even the reverend agrees.”
“Well, then…,” he says. He drops his harmonica into his right pocket, pulls a quarter and two dimes out of his left. “You’d best get over to the Corner Store and load up.” He hands me the change.
If Uncle Bump knew how much trouble our folks are in, he’d never let me cross to the other side of town. And even Delilah’s mother won’t let her go now. Of course, I’m not sure I should cross the tracks either, but something inside’s telling me to stop being a scaredy-cat, to be more like the reverend.
So after I set my schoolbag inside my house, I meet up with Cool Breeze out front. Then I tweet, click, click, and Flapjack jumps out of the watering can and scampers down the lane beside us.
When we get to the Corner Store lot, I give my coins to Cool Breeze. “Can’t go in with Flapjack,” I tell him. “So get me one of Mr. Mudge’s famous chocolate chip cookies. Plus mustard greens, radish, and make sure you get a button squash.”
“What’s the magic word?” Cool Breeze asks, and smiles.
Those dimples do it every time. That tingly feeling buzzes through me. “Please,” I say real soft.
I stroke under Flapjack’s chin. He starts to purr, and I’m relieved he doesn’t mind being in this lot after all that happened to him here. And wouldn’t you know it, we’re just minding our business when we see that fat cat Sugar prancing our way. I reckon Flapjack thinks Sugar’s a real fancy lady or something, because soon as she arrives, he follows her into the forest that runs between the Corner Store and Mr. Mudge’s farm.
Truth be told, I don’t think playing with Worths, human or animal, is a smart idea. I tweet, click, click, but Flapjack doesn’t come, so I head into the trees to fetch him myself.
Seconds after I march into the woods, I hear Flapjack scurry up behind me. But the second I turn, my pulse jumps. That’s because running after my cat, near out of breath, is Honey Worth. And Honey doesn’t want Flapjack—she wants me!
“Hey!” she yells. “You wait right there!”
Swimmy-headed, I gaze at the freckles on her chin and hurry through my escape plans in my mind. I could run, lie my way out of this mess, or show Honey respect and make myself sick.
“Raise your head,” she says.
I do as she tells me. I look into her searing
blue eyes.
Honey scoops her cat from the ground, juts her full neck across her kitty’s back. “You and me both know your brother’s dead and gone ’cause he wrecked my brother’s leg,” she says, breathless, her blue eyes icy ponds.
My tongue hangs dry in my mouth. I want to throw a punch right into her stomach and run, but inside my head, a whisper tells me what to do instead. “I’m real sorry for what happened to your brother,” I say. I feel queasy as each word leaves my lips. And I hate myself when I say, “Can’t apologize enough.”
“Now I don’t suppose you was at the garden picking down in Kuckachoo today, ’cause you’re a good girl and went to school, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. My words are clouds, not really there.
“Well, Sugar and me went to the picking party down Magnolia Row this morning. And you must’ve heard what happened—the butter bean fiasco and all.”
I watch Honey’s lips. I expect them to move in tired patterns of hate, but they do something else instead.
“After the picking, there was a meeting at my house,” she says. “My daddy and his friend Mr. Tate said they didn’t take care of the garden, because Mr. Mudge hired your uncle and some other hands to do it instead.” And Honey’s not through. “My mama says your uncle’s mad at all us white folks ’cause your brother disappeared in the bayou. That’s why your uncle planted over our garden with butter beans. My mama says your uncle wrecked our garden to get revenge.”
The words, they jumble in my mind. They skip over each other, double Dutch. Butter bean. Uncle. Fiasco. I don’t know what a fiasco is, but I know it doesn’t sound good. And one thing’s certain: through all this hate, I’ve been warned. It’s like Honey couldn’t help herself. Some goodness seeped out.
“They’re gonna get him!” she says. “Y’all better run!”
Run I do.
