“Oh, Pa,” he says, “I want to thank you for being my daddy. I want to thank you for taking me in when my folks died and all. Pa, I know you died from a broken heart and I am sorry about that. I am sorry I ran off and left you here to deal with the white folks all by yourself. You know, Pa, everything about being a man that I know, you taught me. Pa, will you forgive me for not being here when you took your last breath? Please forgive me, Pa.”
No sooner than Uncle Buddy said them words, it thundered. It thundered loud. I’m usually scared to death of a storm, but not today. I know in my heart that’s Grandpa talking back to Uncle Buddy. So I just walk over to Uncle Buddy and put my hand on his shoulder. Hobo let out a howl louder than I have ever heard him make.
“Grandpa’s all right, Uncle Buddy. It’s time to go home.”
He stand up and we start to walk away. Then he stop.
“Wait, Pattie Mae. I got one more thing to do here.”
He turns around and takes something out of his coat pocket. It is a framed picture. Not just any picture. It is the obituary of Grandpa’s ma, Mary Lee Jones, with a flower framed in it. He puts it on Grandpa’s grave.
“Now, Pa, you got some company. You always been here for us and we don’t want to leave you here all by yourself. I found it in the old chest in the living room. I hope you like it.”
We go home.
All seems quiet on Rehobeth Road until Uncle Buddy announces that he is leaving. Leaving for Harlem. He says he love us, but he ain’t never coming back to Jones Property. Said he ain’t never coming back south of Baltimore.
Author’s Note
When I was a little girl growing up on Rehobeth Road in Rich Square, North Carolina, my grandmother, Babe Jones, told me the story of Buddy Bush. Her version was:
“White folks said that boy Buddy tried to rape a white woman out in town. Colored folks said it ain’t so, but the law got after Buddy Bush and we ain’t never see him no more.”
That was her story, and that was what she said until the day she died. It was her truth, and my truth was that I wanted to write her story. I wanted to one day tell the story of Buddy Bush, the legend of Buddy Bush.
I also wanted people to know who Babe and Braxton Jones were. I wanted the world to know where Rehobeth Road is located and about all the good folks who walked up and down that road in the hot sun to see one another. They walked to Jones Property to see how Miss Babe and Mr. Braxton were doing. When nighttime came, they sat on the front porch while Grandma held court. They listened. I listened. Listening to Grandma gave me a voice to tell the world about “the incident” that changed a town. “The incident” that people are still talking about fifty years later.
When The Legend of Buddy Bush was published, it did exactly what my grandma always did; it fascinated people. At every turn, strangers questioned me about Buddy Bush and his legend. They wanted to know what was true and what was fiction. People wanted to know where Rehobeth Road is. They wanted to know if Rich Square is a real place. When I told them “yes”—it was all real, with a little fiction for excitement—they asked the big question: Where is Buddy Bush?
That is when I realized that my work was not finished. I had to write The Return of Buddy Bush for my readers. People needed to know what my grandmother had not told me. I started to research the life of Buddy Bush and the court case surrounding “the incident.” What my grandma said—and what I wrote in The Legend of Buddy Bush—about Buddy Bush getting away from the Klan was true, but his family did see him again.
Readers need to know that Buddy Bush came back to Rich Square, North Carolina, and was taken to the Raleigh Correction Prison for safekeeping until his trial. After one trial he was acquitted, and so were the seven men who tried to kill Buddy Bush. Governor Cherry was outraged and called for a second trial for three of the seven men, which was held in Warren County, but it only brought about a second acquittal. The ordeal was over. Buddy Bush left that courthouse and disappeared from the lives of the people who loved him forever.
In this sequel, readers travel with Pattie Mae to find Uncle Buddy and bring him home. Home to Jones Property Home to where he belongs.
Photographs
Court documents from Buddy Bush’s trial
Jones Property on Rehobeth Road
The inspiration for Mer Sheals (the author’s mother, Maless Moses), around 1965 at the Slave House
Buddy Bush at his trial in Northampton County Courthouse, Jackson, North Carolina
The Return of Buddy Bush Page 8
