A Thousand Never Evers

by Shana Burg

  When at long last we arrive, the sheriff yanks Uncle Bump out and pushes him up the seven courthouse steps—seven, not six.

  Then I climb those same steps behind Bessie and Elmira. My legs, they’re heavy like a woolly mammoth’s. I’ve got the collywobbles. And I know if I don’t get some bellyache root soon, all this will get even messier.

  Inside the courthouse a sign with white letters on it says Rows 1–8 White. Rows 9–12 Colored.

  I follow Elmira to the ninth row. As we wait for the judge to arrive, she leans close and whispers in my ear. “While y’all was down round the jailhouse last night, your mama was sleeping sound in my bed. In the middle of the night, there’s a knock at my door. I go get it. I jumped a mile!”

  The funny thing is, even though my uncle’s handcuffed in this very court, the whole while Elmira talks, I’m happy as a May magnolia.

  “He was more miracle than I could ever conjure to cure what ailed your mama! Oh, dear! I’m afraid I pinched him rather hard to be sure it was him in the flesh and not a visiting ghost. Once I got convinced he was here body and soul, I took him to my bedroom to wake your mama. Then I left them alone.”

  By the time Elmira finishes her report, there isn’t enough room in the courthouse for a grasshopper to jump inside. All the rows are full, and Uncle Bump’s supporters have crammed into the central aisle.

  A skinny white man slumps to the middle of the floor like this is just another day at the office, nothing unusual, no big deal. He starts to talk and I’ll tell you one thing: his nose could use a good blow. “In the case of the State of Mississippi versus Charles ‘Bump’ Dawson, the court is now in session,” he says. “All rise. The Honorable Judge Cogswell presides.”

  Everything in me trembles. And all the good feelings I got from Elmira’s story slide off me and onto the floor like an old snake’s skin. I can’t believe I’m about to watch Uncle Bump fight for his freedom, and there’s nothing I can do but stare like I’m watching a Shirley Temple film on television.

  Up front, there’s a platform. On the platform, an empty black chair. When everyone sits down again, a sturdy man in a black cloak sits in that chair. I reckon he’s the judge.

  “Order in this court!” the judge says. “The preliminary hearing will begin. Now then, will the attorney for the prosecution please identify himself.”

  A pale man with sprouts of black hair stands and wraps his overgrown mustache round his index finger. “Mr. Hickock here,” he says.

  Next the judge asks if Uncle Bump has a lawyer. But everyone knows we Picketts don’t have the money to hire one.

  So when a white lady with a suitcase calls out, “I represent the defendant,” I wonder if I’m so tired I’ve started to dream. But there she is, standing beside the witness box in a red dress with short sleeves.

  “Who are you?” the judge asks.

  “Sylvia Gold, Your Honor,” she says. Her singsong voice bangs up against the sharp angles of her face. It echoes off the arched ceiling and sounds like the high notes on Uncle Bump’s harmonica.

  “Where you from?” the judge asks.

  “Right now, Jackson, but I grew up in New York City,” she says. She drops her suitcase to the floor beside Uncle Bump. “I’m with the NAACP Legal Defense Fund,” she says.

  Even from back here, I can see the judge’s scraggly eyebrows crawl together to form one line. When at long last they separate, he says, “Uh-huh. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Well, I’ve heard you Yankee lawyers make trouble in the cities. But what, pray tell, brings you here?”

  “We got a phone call telling us Bump Dawson is in need of representation,” she says.

  I reckon most lawyers roll up their shirtsleeves to prepare for a hearing, but not this one. Miss Gold takes the elastic out of her hair and shakes her head. Her red curls tumble down her back like a sunset. Then she whispers in Uncle Bump’s ear.

  Soon enough the judge bangs his hammer. “Our first order of business is to determine if there’s enough evidence to hold a full-fledged trial,” he says.

  The second I hear it, I pray the judge will end this stupid case here and now.

  The judge asks Mr. Hickock, the lawyer fighting against us, to explain why my uncle would spend his time ruining the community garden.

  Mr. Hickock stands and twirls the bristles of his mustache. “I’m afraid this is a simple case of family revenge,” he says. “Clearly, Bump Dawson was seeking revenge for the disappearance of his nephew, Elias, who is missing and presumed dead.”

  And me? I try not to roar with hilarity. I saw my brother last night in the milkweed. He breathed. He blinked. He talked. If that’s not alive, I don’t know what is!

  Mr. Hickock finishes his nonsense. Then the judge says, “After examination of the criminal law of Mississippi, as well as the allegations before me today, I’ve made a deliberate and carefully considered judgment.”

  The breaths hopscotch down my throat.

  “There’s ample evidence against Charles ‘Bump’ Dawson,” he says.

  Evidence? I didn’t hear any evidence.

  “This case will go to trial!”

  Applause louder than the Jackson-bound train chugs through my head. I grind my teeth back and forth to the rhythm of the claps. I just hope I don’t crack one of them, because even though we Picketts have a lawyer, we sure don’t have a dentist.

  “Now to the arraignment,” the judge says. “Bump Dawson is charged with grand theft of the town’s property, trespassing, vandalism, and disturbing the peace. How does the defendant plead?”

  “My client pleads not guilty,” Miss Gold says.

  “Very well then,” the judge says, “a jury will hear this case in five days.”

  “Five days?” cries Miss Gold. “Five days isn’t enough time to put together a case!”

  “Welcome to Kuckachoo,” says the judge, “where five days is plenty!”

  Miss Gold’s eyes bulge out of her head while the judge turns to the lawyer fighting against us. “Mr. Hickock,” the judge says, “the citizens of Kuckachoo will look to you to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bump Dawson is the guilty man.”

  “Yes, sir!” says Mr. Hickock like he’s a soldier saluting his commander.

  “And, Sheriff,” the judge says.

  The sheriff stands before his front-row seat. “Yes, sir?” he asks.

  “I’m holding you accountable for keeping the defendant safe till trial.”

  “Well, of course, Your Honor,” the sheriff says like he’s too sweet to squash a bug.

  CHAPTER 26

  October 16–21, 1963

  The sheriff throws Uncle Bump back in jail, and I run across the tracks to find Mama and Elias. When I get near Elmira’s house, I take in the still-smoky air, and I reckon Mama must hear me coughing because she hustles outside.

  “Oh, my baby!” She pulls me tight to her bosom.

  “Where is he?” I whisper.

  “Shhh!” Mama says. “What happened?”

  It hurts me to tell Mama that, yes, Uncle Bump’s case is going to trial after all. And I think the only reason I do tell her is I’m more than dying to see that brother of mine.

  Mama clucks her tongue. “As expected,” she says. Then she leads me through Elmira’s house to the bedroom, where the curtains are shut so no one can see inside.

  “We’ve got to be extra careful now,” Mama whispers.

  “Where is he? You seen him, didn’t you?” I ask.

  That’s when she pulls a chain out of her pocket. At the end of that chain is a gold watch. A grin so wide comes over Mama’s face, I reckon her cheeks might crack. And my heart, it’s warm as porridge knowing after all these days crying and praying, at long last she’s seen her son.

  “Last night when you all was down round the jailhouse, your brother was right here in this very room,” she whispers. “He told me, ‘Mama, you take this now. It’ll help you remember I’m still ticking.’” She squishes up her lips an
d kisses the face of the watch like she’s kissing the face of her son.

  She tells me she could hardly stand to part with Elias early this morning, but she had to let him go. “He slept here in my arms before he left this morning. He was sure the case would go to trial. Said he wanted to meet Bump’s lawyer back at the office in Jackson to help prepare. Now don’t even ask me how your brother knew Bump had a lawyer—a lawyer all the way from Jackson!” Mama shakes her head. “Well, I reckon that brother of yours knows just about everything.”

  And I can’t believe the way this is turning out, that at long last I’ve found my brother alive, but he can’t stay and talk to me because he’s got to go. Not just down the road a piece, but all the way to the state capital.

  Mama and me stand in Elmira’s bedroom till her smile fades and both of us choke on our fear. And I’ve got to admit, I’m mad Mama would lie to me about my daddy. Probably more mad than I’ve ever been in my whole life. I know I am. But even though I know it, I don’t feel it. I can’t. Not when my family’s still in danger.

  “Come on, Mama,” I say. “We’ve gotta keep some faith.”

  For the next few days till Uncle Bump’s trial, Mama and me stay at the Montgomerys’ place, because they’ve got more room than Elmira. We don’t do much but sleep and talk to our neighbors. But everyone says the same things: “Chances aren’t good.” And “Evidence don’t mean a thing.” And “Even with all proof he’s innocent, a Negro will end up in jail or dead.”

  Each morning, me and Mama wake up worried and downright miserable. I miss out on a whole bunch of school, and neither me or Mama go to work, even though Mrs. Tate could fire us and then where’d we be? But Mama says given the shape we’re in, we wouldn’t be any use anyway. She says with all that’s going on, Mrs. Tate won’t be the least bit surprised when we don’t show. And we’ve just got to pray she’ll understand once all is said and done.

  Each night, Mama and me rest on the Montgomerys’ couch, her head at one end, mine at the other. I wear the pink nightgown I borrowed from Delilah, and Mama wears the giant blue robe Elmira lent her. The tick of the gold watch in Mama’s robe pocket lulls me to sleep. And each night, in my sleep, I replay the same vision, half memory, half dream.

  Flapjack and me, we’re darting through the forest. Branches tear up my knees. Honey Worth’s grainy voice echoes in my mind. “Y’all better run!” Then a swash of sunlight on silver stops me in my tracks. I see a shovel, then the back of a man. He’s digging a hole. Flapjack and me sneak up close. We want to see who the man is and what he’s doing. But dark clouds gather. The sky turns purple-blue. In the hazy light, the man plays tricks. He’s a haint. A monster. A hooded Klansman. Then all of a sudden, Flapjack hisses. Startled, the man shouts, “Scram!”

  That’s when I wake up.

  That’s when I always wake up.

  Then I get to thinking about the trial.

  I can’t say I know just who planted over the garden with butter bean seeds, but I’ve got to admit, it could’ve been a Negro who was right mad the white folk stole our land in the first place. And it scares me twice to death to think it could’ve been Uncle Bump. What with all his feelings stuffed inside and his anger about Elias, I can’t help but think it’s more than possible he exploded. Then, in a flash bright as lightning, I hate myself for even wondering if Uncle Bump had something to do with this butter bean crime.

  Each night after supper, Mama and her friends gather at church to pray Uncle Bump will be proven innocent in court. While Reverend Walker’s service provides some comfort, just today, the day before the trial, Mama decides she can’t rely on prayer alone. So Mama and me go to see Elmira for some hoodoo fixes. And I wonder, if God really is all that and then some, why does Mama need magic too?

  As soon as we get to Elmira’s, the smell of mint growing in the windowsill pot springs right up my nose. Mama and me sit down at the rickety table beside the Dutch oven. Then Elmira squeezes into a kitchen chair and reaches across to grab our hands.

  “Thank you, Elmira,” Mama says. “You’ve already helped me so much. I hate to ask for more, but I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Now, now,” Elmira says, and pats Mama’s hand. “I aim to see this trial done right.” Then she reaches behind her, opens a cabinet.

  Mama and me wait a good long while till Elmira locates all her tools: an empty jelly glass, a bowl of sugar, a kitchen knife, a brown candle, and matches.

  “We’ve got to sweeten up that judge so when he sees Bump at trial, he’ll only feel love in his heart,” Elmira says.

  I always feel warm around Elmira. And it’s good to be beside her again in a kitchen.

  “Addie Ann, we’re counting on you to write the name of the judge here,” she says. She unscrews the lid off the empty jelly jar. Then she hands me the sharp knife. “It’s for the writing,” she tells me. “I ain’t got a pen.”

  But it’s hard to write on the slick surface. I hold on to the tip of the knife like it’s a pencil. I’ve got to scrape it against the metal lid over and over to get each letter to show up. And while I carve Judge Cogswell’s name, Mama and Elmira watch like I’m performing some sacred act, like I’m fixing the outcome of the trial here and now.

  Once I finish, I set the knife on the table. Then Elmira lights a match, melts the end of the candle, and presses the candle onto the jelly lid. “Favor the case of Bump Dawson,” she chants. “Favor the case…”

  “Better say ‘Charles,’ his given name,” Mama says.

  “Charles ‘Bump’ Dawson,” Elmira repeats. She strikes another match and lights the candle. “Favor the case,” she says. Then she motions with both hands for Mama and me to repeat it.

  “Favor the case,” we say. I watch the candle’s flame shoot up into a point, and pray the hoodoo will ward off the angry spirits that made the members of the Garden Club lie about Uncle Bump in the first place.

  Next Elmira sprinkles a pinch of sugar round the base of the candle. “As jelly is sweet to us,” she says, “as sugar is sweet to us, so will Judge Cogswell be sweet to Charles ‘Bump’ Dawson and favor his case.”

  While we watch the candle burn, any doubts I had about Uncle Bump melt away. I don’t need to worry. Squished in here between Mama and Elmira, I’m sure we’re going to win.

  When at long last the candle burns out, Elmira says to me, “Your mama tells me what a dapper gentleman your daddy was. A sturdy, strong one. He would want to be at that trial to help out, so I’ma tell you how to bring his spirit there.” Elmira gives us a spoon and a small sack to do the job.

  Three hours after we’ve come, Mama stands to leave and tries to pay Elmira a quarter. But Elmira refuses. She just says, “What’s given, returns.”

  Mama insists we go straight to the graveyard to follow Elmira’s instructions. But now it occurs to me: if Daddy died in Hornet, then how can he be buried here in Kuckachoo?

  “After your father died in Hornet, I gathered an urn full of ashes and buried him here the proper way, so he could stay close to us,” Mama explains. And I can tell by the way I see deep into her eyes, Mama’s telling the honest-to-goodness truth.

  Together, we kneel beside the grave that holds my father. I feel funny knowing what really happened to him. And even though I never knew him, a twinge of guilt rips through my chest, because all these years I never pictured him holding me, playing me a song, fishing with me down the bayou. If I’d thought more about Daddy, if I’d known more about him and his story, then all these years I would have loved him more.

  Mama slides the spoon and sack out of her pocket and collects some dirt. “You was strong and brave in life, Brayburn. In death, we ask you to help Bump with all your power and strength. Addie Ann and me are bringing this here dime to pay you for your graveyard dirt.” Mama giggles and pulls the coin from her pocket. “Though I know you would’ve given it free,” she adds, and sets the coin on Daddy’s stone.

  While we walk back to the Montgomerys’ house, Mama wraps an arm ro
und me, a firm arm, and I can tell she got some hope, some strength, by asking her dead husband to help out.

  Tonight at the Montgomerys’ dinner table, Delilah and me don’t say anything other than “Pass the corn,” and “Pass the taters.” Mama and Mrs. Montgomery cry into their chicken. Mr. Montgomery says, “Ladies, we need to have…to have some hope. You know Bump…Bump is strong. He’ll make it…he’ll make it through.” But I can just tell Mr. Montgomery doesn’t believe a word leaving out his own mouth.

  Tonight Mama and me, we lie with our heads at the same end of the couch, Mama holding me in her arms. And I get to thinking about the trial again. If it wasn’t Uncle Bump, who was it? Who would ruin the garden? But since everyone I can think of is a friend of mine, I decide not to think anymore.

  It’s strange how when you stop thinking, the answers grow your my mind.

  Tonight I doubt Mama sleeps at all. But I do.

  Tonight my dream is the same but different.

  I’m running throught the forest, same as always, and Flapjack’s beside me, same as always, but this time the news reporter for the Delta Daily is here too. We hide behind a fat pine tree. When I peek out, I spot the man with the shovel. The sky’s clear, not dark, and I can see the man’s not a haint. Not a monster. Not a hooded Klansman. He’s just a man digging in the forest, burying something in a ditch. “Who is it?” I ask the news reporter. The news reporter goes out of our hiding place to investigate. He sneaks from tree trunk to tree trunk till he’s just feet from the man. Then he yells, “Hey, you!” The man’s head snaps round. Startled, the man yells, “Scram!” But it’s too late. The reporter already took his picture with his instant camera. Now he’s running back through the woods to show it to me. I take one look at the photograph and gasp.

  I wake up, my breath even and calm.

  “Got it,” I whisper.

  I wish I could tell Elias what the night said, but I won’t see him till the trial’s through. And if I tell Mama, she’s likely to leave me home, thinking this is all too much for a twelve-year-old to bear. So for once in my life, I keep a secret all to myself.