I let out a slow breath. Miss Hoe’s words was ample hard to swallow. “Is that his name? Genesis?”
“Yes, that’s his Christian name.”
“It be a Bible name,” said Brother Smith. “First book, my mama tell me.”
Miss Hoe’s little hand reached out to touch Brother’s big one. “Correct. And perhaps the name of Genesis means a new start for Jailtown. A new beginning.”
“Sign from God,” said Brother, “maybe. Just like you, Missy Hoe. You be a gift to us from the Lord.”
As the three of us stood there on the street corner, sunlight sifted down through the green fingery leaves of a giant oak. It certain was, I thought, a Sunday sun. And inside I had a righteous good Sunday feeling.
“Thank you,” Miss Hoe said. “So, I guess that’s about all we’ll do for today. Brother Smith, you might as well return home and go fishing.”
Brother yawned. “Well,” he said, “I aim to go home and peaceful me a nap.” He bowed to Miss Hoe, turned, and amble his big body toward Okeechobee and his shack. As he walk away, his deep voice began to hum a hymn.
“Arly,” said Miss Hoe, touching my bare shoulder, “how would you like a present?”
“For me?”
“Come along, please.”
As the pair of us walked toward Newell’s Boarding House, I wondered what kind of a present she had in mind. And then she busted out and let it leak.
“Perhaps you know that Mrs. Newell is a widow. Her husband died. We had a chat this morning, and it seems that many of her late husband’s clothes are still hanging upstairs in a closet. Unused. Verna Newell said it was a shame, and I agree.”
“Yes’m.”
I didn’t dare to speak more. As we reached Mrs. Newell’s, my teacher ordered me to hurry around back and wash. There was a bar of brown soap on the pump rail, so I rubbed almost all of myself creamy with lather. Then rinsed off. Standing in the sunshine, I waited to dry my skin proper, then climbed the steps of the outback porch.
The back door opened and out came Miss Hoe and Mrs. Newell, a lady even smaller than my teacher. Mrs. Newell was holding an orange shirt. It near to blinded me with its pretty.
“Here ya go. Arly,” said Mrs. Newell. “My husband was a small man, so maybe you can grow into it.”
I had to force my hand to courage up and take it. All I could do was hold the shirt and feel all its finery. Before I could say as much as a sneeze, Mrs. Newell and Miss Hoe snaked me into it, buttons and all. It was a mite too large, but I didn’t care a bug’s worth about that. “Wow!” I said. “I feel orange all over.”
Both ladies laughed.
“Miss Hoe’s been telling me about you, Arly. She says you can already read letters and words. Your daddy oughta strut proudly of you.”
“I’m proud of Papa too,” I said. “Thanks for your shirt, Mrs. Newell. I won’t never take it off.”
“Except,” said Miss Hoe, “for soaping.”
I grinned. “Yes’m, I’m to tend it proper.”
Mrs. Newell looked sudden sad. “Elbert, rest his soul, cherished that orange thing. Wore it the day we went to Moore Haven, to the fairgrounds. There’s a bottom button missing, Arly, yet I don’t guess you’ll turn fretty over it. I recall how that button come off, the day Elbert and I went …” Her voice trailed off to empty. “Come inside, the both of you,” she said. “I could do with a cup of tea.”
I’d never been inside a house so grand as Mrs. Newell’s. There was even boards and cloth to walk on. In the hallway, I didn’t even dare to move for fear I’d nudge something over to breaking. There was nobody in the parlor. All the boarders must’ve been out or upstairs, sleeping their Sunday.
“You got a piano!” I said.
Mrs. Newell nodded. “Elbert use to play it, evenings. I can’t as much as even finger a single note. It’s been closed for years.”
I ventured a step closer to the piano. “Golly,” I said to Mrs. Newell, “you should hear Knuckle Knapp play his piano machine. Have you ever been inside the Lucky Leg and heard…?” My hand flew up to cover my mouth.
Miss Hoe smiled. “Knuckle Knapp is not the only piano player in Jailtown.” As she said it, her fingers wiggled as if trying to loosen their age.
I saw Mrs. Newell look at her. “Do you play?”
It took Miss Binnie Hoe less than a breath to open that machine, sit on the three-legged pie, and bless the keys with music. She even sang a song, called When the Organ Played at Twilight, warbling out the words in a birdy voice.
Mrs. Newell and I clapped.
Miss Hoe crooked a skinny finger at me. “Come over here, Arly.” As I stepped closer to the piano machine, Miss Hoe stood up from the stool, ordering me to sit down on the round wooden pie. “You’re too high,” she said. “Up.”
Soon as I stood up again, she spinned the seat around in circles, sat me down and laughed at the way my face must’ve looked. I was shorter. Then I spinned myself around, one time, just for the fun of it.
“Arly,” said Miss Hoe, “you may touch the keys.”
Being right cautious, I press down about seven or eight, yet no music pop out.
“Harder.”
“No,” I said, “I’ll bust it.”
She lifted my hands and then pushed them downwards on the keys. It made noise. But what I sounded be more like mud than music.
“It ain’t too ample pretty,” I said.
Miss Hoe smile at me. “That, my boy, will brighten as soon as I teach you which notes to play.” Taking my pointing finger, she rest it to one of the white keys. “If you can count up to eight, you can play a piano.”
“Honest?”
“It’s easy as eating. One, three, and five blend together to rhyme a chord. Press these three.”
I did what Miss Hoe tell me. She was right, like usual. My three notes rung out like sisters.
“Good,” said Mrs. Newell.
As I played the three notes again, I grinned. It was a clean feeling to listen up to how my own hand could press out music. So, without even as much as a prod from Miss Binnie Hoe, I slided my arm sideways to press down three new notes. The same kind of sound jumped out; only this time, the three sisters sang a mite younger. Higher up.
The music made me laugh.
Without any more teaching words from Miss Hoe, I rested my other hand on the man keys, the ones with the deeper voices. Then I just let my thumb monkey around until I found which note got along friendly with my three sisters. Like he was their daddy. Soon as I’d pressed a more cousinly sound, I looked up at Miss Hoe to read her smile.
“I played a family,” I said.
“Oh, Arly,” said Miss Hoe, standing behind me with her skinny little arms around my neck, “you’re the morning of life.”
Chapter 21
Brother Smith worked ample quick.
Miss Liddy Tant had made good on her promise, and the boards arrived, smelling cleaner than my new shirt. Miss Hoe said that our land would be near Brother Smith’s place, so that he could guard off trouble. She also claimed that Miss Liddy would give strict orders to Mr. Roscoe Broda that our new school place was to git left alone.
We worked a whole week on it.
As we pounded in the final peg, I stood back to look at what all of us had put up. It sure didn’t favor Captain Tant’s house. Part of it looked crooked, and it listed to one side, but I feeled proud about it fit to bust. Maybe, according to Brother Smith, our little school shack might even git slapped with a coat of whitewash, soon as he could locate the time.
Miss Hoe sighed. “She’ll do.”
I saw Brother Smith take off his hat, then shuffle a step of two closer to our teacher.
“Missy Hoe,” his deep voice near to whispered, “I got a surprise.” Without another word, he melted into his shack and then come back out again, toting a long whitewashed plank.
I wondered what his single board had to do with our new building, yet I sure didn’t have to ponder too long.
“Plea
se,” Brother Smith said to us helpers. “Y’all best close up your eyes. And turn about, hear? No peekers.”
Eyes closed, we all turned our backs to the school, listening to Brother’s busy hammer, wondering why Brother Smith had started to hum a hymn to the beat of his pounding.
“Now,” he said, “you can look.”
Turning around, I saw his fresh board, shiny white, with letters of bright blue painted across it. He nailed up a sign over the doorway. Miss Hoe said the words:
BINNIE HOE SCHOOL
Brother Smith’s teeth all smiled wider than the keyboard of Mrs. Newell’s parlor piano. “I hereby ordain our school after my teacher.” Then he throwed his hat up into the sunshine.
“Welcome,” said Brother. “You be home.”
To me, Brother Smith looked older and tired out. The hammer slipped from his hand. Looking down, he didn’t seem to muster the strength to bend over to fetch it up. I picked it up for him.
Holding the hammer, Brother Smith looked up at the sign.
“Hope I letter it right, Missy Hoe. I practice like you tell me, with my Bible. But I cheat some. I ask Mrs. Newell to write down your name for me, and spell out school.”
Miss Hoe couldn’t say nothing. So she only kneeled down on the sand, her little hands covering her face. We waited for her to speak up, which she final did. “I guess,” she said in a husky voice, “that I’m about the luckiest lady in all of Florida.” Standing up quickly, she said, “Brother Smith, seeing as you were my first pupil, I think it would be proper that as we enter our school, you lead us the way.”
The big man shook his head. “Don’t guess I’ll be coming no more, Missy Hoe. School ain’t no place for some old blacky like me. It belong to the children now. I take up too much room.” He looked square at our teacher. “You understand Jailtown.”
Miss Hoe nodded. “I do.”
Taking one more look at the little school he’d built, Brother turned and walked slowly away.
We went inside.
Our teacher asked us to sit on the new benches and stood straight in front of us. It was a time before she could speak. “What you just heard,” she telled us really soft, “was a sacrifice. I know that’s a big word, but Brother Smith is a very big gentleman.” After she said it, Miss Hoe bit on her lip.
Miss Hoe showed us a book, telling us a whopper of a surprise. It was a book donated by Miss Angel Free herself, even though Miss Hoe had lost the pool table game. The book, as Miss Hoe telled me and the Cooters, had been delivered to Newell’s Boarding House late last night, by Mr. Knuckle Knapp, the piano player at the Lucky Leg. So, right then, Miss Hoe started to read it to us all.
It was about a boy whose name was Tom Sawyer and I swallowed down every word she read. She showed us the pages and let each one of us hold it in our hands. But the sticky part was when we had to take turns reading it out loud. It be painful going. Huff Cooter read so powerful slow that he took angry and ripped out one of the pages.
Miss Hoe didn’t look too pleased.
“I got me a temper,” Huff said.
Our teacher scowled at him, long and hard. “We all have tempers, Huff. But destroying a book is akin to burning a school.” She put the page back inside the book.
“Are you riled at me?” Huff asked.
“Plenty. But I’m more than angry at Jailtown and Shack Row. Never at youngsters who now have a chance to become more than pickers. It’s no sin to fail, Huff Cooter, but tearing a book isn’t a proper way to thank Brother Smith.”
Huff looked down to study his dirty feet. “No, I don’t guess it be. I’m sorry.”
As I sat there, I was busy recalling one of the things that Brother had mention this past week. While we was fitting boards to the side of our new schoolhouse. “A good carpenter,” Brother Smith had telled me, “measure twice and saw once.”
I figured Brother had measured a few matters in his head, counting the lean turnout at our school, and how so many families keep their kids away. Maybe some of the white folks never forgive Brother for being on his own, not living in Darky Town but at his dock place on the lake. So, just today, he sawed hisself off from schooling, even though he’d a hanker to come and learn.
Thinking on it turned me glad that I’d throwed the dime back to that plume hunter. I’d measure and saw too.
After school let loose of us, I walk back to Shack Row, left the Cooters and set myself down at our doorway. Shack Row sure didn’t shine like Mrs. Newell’s house, or Captain Tant’s. Our shacks weren’t white. They was all gray boards, rotted with weather, most of them loose and curling away from their frames.
But it was home.
There was seven shacks on our side of the road and six across the dirt wagon road that divided the two rows. Thirteen shacks. Somebody said one time that thirteen weren’t too lucky.
“You’re right,” I said aloud.
It was a sorry thought to want to settle in Shack Row forever. Yet I couldn’t leave Papa. He’d be too skittery to follow. Across the road, a family named Yurman lived. Clete Yurman had tried to run off that one time. Roscoe Broda brung him back with a rope knotted around Mr. Yurman’s neck, telling him he owed too hefty a debt at Mrs. Stout’s trading store.
It was sudden after when Bess Yurman, their eldest girl, left home and went to work at the Lucky Leg for Miss Angel Free. She never come back again except once, when her ma slapped her red-painted mouth. Then, as Bess run back toward Jailtown, her ma had throwed herself down into the dust of Shack Row, screaming, and biting her own hand.
Nobody talked about Bess Yurman. It was like she fade off into a workday mist. Worse than dead.
I scratched my body. Remembering stuff about Bess commenced me to itching. Because it was Essie May Cooter’s turn coming up, and maybe she’d try on Miss Angel’s fancy bonnet one more instance. Thinking on it hurt me inside.
My nose sniffed.
Somebody, in one of the shacks, was boiling up turnips. It certain was a smell that belonged to a Shack Row supper. It meant that the picker wagon would be soon coming. I’d have to go see if there was any fire in our cookstove.
Getting up, I took myself uproad, beyond the last pair of shacks, to wait for Papa. A few other kids were there too, like usual.
We didn’t take long to wait.
Around the bend, the picker wagon busted through the scrub and into sight; Addie Cooter sat up front on her bench, driving. The four mules come toward me with their heads hung, plodding along to the growing rattle of the wagon.
“Howdy,” I said to Mrs. Cooter.
She only nodded, looking too sweaty and too tired to let loose of reins or speaking. The men looked even worse. Most of them was burnt a reddy raw from the all-day sun.
Nobody said anything. I saw Papa help old Mr. Dinker Witt down over the tailgate. One of the mules let out a bray. Addie cussed her.
Papa looked at me.
Yet he didn’t smile. Instead, he held a hand over one side of his face, as if trying to cover himself over. I didn’t have to ask. He’d probable got clouted by Roscoe or a field boss for sneaking into shade or to fetch a swaller of water. His other hand held his empty noon bag which hung down limp and wore out. It was near as dusty as Papa. Nobody spoke a goodnight to no one else. There was just the usual silent march through the grit, down between the tiny houses of Shack Row. Gray men to gray homes.
Mr. Witt stumbled and fell.
Papa reached him first, hefted him up, and we helped him home between us. I wondered how olden Dinker Witt was. His hat had fell off and his white hair was wet with work sweat. Actual, he was soaked clear through his shirt. So was Papa.
“Tomorrow,” I said to my daddy, “you best rest. I’ll go pick in your place.”
“No,” he said. “You got school.”
Chapter 22
I tended Papa.
As he was too tuckered to even wash, I dipped a rag from my old shirt into some stove water and wiped him warm. He was breathing like it was work to pump
his lungs.
“Papa,” I said, as I tried to ease him on his bed tick, “we all readed in school today. Miss Hoe owns a book about a kid called Tom Sawyer, and I was reading it out loud.”
He flashed me a weak grin. “That’s good, Arly. Ya gotta master it all. Every lick. I don’t want ya to …” His cough didn’t let him finish. Papa only lay back and closed his eyes. “Melons,” he whispered. “I bet I picked ample to feed all the world and half the stars.”
“Are ya hungry? I’ll fix ya supper.”
All he did was shake his head. “I ate myself melons enough to bust open. Broda caught me and give my back a smart with a stick.” Papa chuckled. “But he don’t make me puke it all back, no sir.”
He slept. Dan Poole’s body curled up into his own shadow and never even twitched. When I touched him, it was like resting a hand to our cookstove. Summer hot. Opening his eyes, Papa looked at me, and telled me how happy he was that I’d got a new shirt, the orange one I’d had on me for days. Then he rested hisself quiet.
Addie Cooter sent Delbert over with a fresh melon, and I told him to be sure to thank his ma. But I couldn’t eat even the first slice of it. To enjoy it didn’t seem fair to my father. Fact is, I didn’t want anyone to eat another melon. Not anywhere, because of the long day that Dan Poole had sweated through.
So I picked up the melon, went outside our shack, and throwed it hard against a big oak.
Looking up through the leaves, I wondered what it would be like to live away up on a star. Planters, up yonder, probable raise melons too. And, I was thinking, I bet they got Pooles to load ’em to a wagon. Mules to haul away. Just maybe there was a boy up on that star place who just busted a melon, like me, because he don’t no longer want to be hisself … yet there ain’t nobody else to be.
“Don’t cry,” I told the boy in the sky. “Please don’t let no sorry flow, or the hurt to bleed into your bones. Stand up proper and tell yourself lies. Same as me. Tell your picker pa that life’ll ripe sweeter, even if you know it’s rotten wrong to hope it.”
My neck hurt.
But I couldn’t quit looking to the stars, because they seemed to wink down to me, to Arly Poole. It made me wonder, when the earth’s so hot and gritty, how a sky can look so holy clean. It looked as if God had just soaped it righteous. I leaned against a cypress, feeling the bark press into the back of my orange shirt. Quickly, I pulled away. The shirt felt as though it lingered to Mr. Newell. Still his. But not me.
Arly Page 9
