Guess what? Her name is Mary, just like Ma’s. Isn’t that nice?
Now you have to keep this whole marriage thing a secret and not tell Ma. Coy wants to tell her himself. So be a big girl and don’t tell her. Okay?
My dear little sister, I’m glad you want to come here in late August.
I have to go now and I am looking forward to seeing you soon. You, my dear sister, will be my first guest in my new apartment.
Love, your big sister
BarJean
Coy is going to get married! More importantly, BarJean trust me enough to tell me a secret.
I put my letter back in my pocket and tuck my secret in the back of my mind. At least until I see Grandpa. I’ll tell him and he will tell no one. Difference from me.
I stick my tongue out at the bulls that are far away now and start walking as fast as my legs can carry me to get me some breakfast.
2
Dancing White Ladies
I can smell Grandma’s biscuits as I get closer to the steps that Grandpa built with his bare hands. Their house is painted white with green trimming around the windows. Yes, my grandpa painted the house. He tried to get Old Man Taylor to let him paint our house, too. Ole Man Taylor said no and Grandpa ain’t spoke to that white man since then. Grandpa’s cat, Hudson, meets me at the door. He and Hobo sure ain’t friends. They fight like . . . Well, they fight like cats and dogs. I open the back door that’s painted green too, and there she is. My grandma. The woman of the house. And everybody that walks in this door knows that. She ain’t no taller than I am. Black, as Grandpa is yellow. Her hair the same color as the silver quarters that Uncle Buddy gave me to save. He said that Grandma is what men folks call “black gal pretty.”
“Good mornin’, Grandma. How are you feeling today?”
I know the answer before she even answers. All my life I have asked her the same question and get the same answer.
“Child, Grandma don’t feel so good today.”
She just loves saying it, like it was a hymn she and Ma sang in the choir on Sunday morning. No matter how many times you ask, she gives you the same answer. When BarJean and Coy were at home with me, each of us asked the same question and got the same answer. Ma would skin us alive if one of us run in and just said “Hey.” We had to line up like soldiers ready to salute our commander and ask her how she was doing. Then we stood there and waited for her to answer. I still have to do the ritual. Sometimes it takes Grandma five minutes to answer. Sometimes ten, if she really ain’t feeling so good. Whatever the time, you just stand there and wait.
Grandpa said that was Grandma’s way of controlling us. He and Mr. Charlie use that word “control” a lot when they are talking about their wives. They said them two live to tell other folks what to do. I guess they are controlling Grandpa and Mr. Charlie too, because they don’t ever say that mess about the women loud enough for the women to hear them.
I wish I were grown so I could do like Uncle Buddy does when he comes in Grandma’s house. He don’t ask her nothing. He just says, “Ma Babe, you shoo looking good today.” He said he ain’t asking her nothing, because he might die waiting for an answer. “Besides,” he said, “ain’t nothing wrong with a woman who can pick two bushels of strawberries a day. Nothing.”
I wait as Grandma wipes her hands in the end of her apron and start thinking about when she might tell me how she’s feeling. First, she takes out her breakfast dishes and puts them on the table. One by one, she pulls out the white plates with the dancing white ladies on them. I want her to hurry up because I can’t tell her I cried in my eggs and didn’t finish eating my breakfast until after she finish her ritual.
Finally the words come. “Child, Grandma don’t feel so good today.”
There, she said it.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Grandma. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing special, just old age I guess. How are you this mornin’?”
“I’m okay. Just hungry.”
“What you doing hungry, child? Didn’t Mer fix you breakfast?”
“Well, she did, but I didn’t get to finish because Mr. Charlie came to get her.”
I start praying immediately that Grandma will forget the lie that I just told and don’t tell Ma. The last time Ma caught me in a lie she wore my behind out with a plastic cake-mixing spoon. Grandma don’t look like she believe me. But she never could stand the sight of a hungry man, woman, or child. “Never mind, just sit down and let Grandma fix you someteat.”
That’s her word for something to eat. I don’t dare correct her or any of the old folks on Rehobeth Road. We all understand what they mean. Besides Uncle Buddy swears that them old folks are a lot smarter than us schoolchildren. They have their own words, like “dor” for “door,” “yes-ciddie” for “yesterday,” “yonder” for “over there,” and “boot” for “car trunk.”
Right now all I need is someteat and some information about Grandpa.
“Grandma, can I ask you a grown folks question?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“Well, what’s wrong with Grandpa and why didn’t you go with him to the doctor?”
Grandma sits down and pours herself another cup of coffee from the white and blue teakettle that’s almost black from fire that comes out of the potbelly stove that she loves so dearly. She doesn’t even use milk and that means she needs something strong to help her through the day. Before I know it, Grandma is standing up and getting an extra saucer with white ladies dancing on it out of the cupboard. I’m so happy because I know that I am going to get a saucerful of coffee. “Our little secret, of course,” Grandma says. She’s the only person on Rehobeth Road that thinks that I am old enough to have at least a taste of coffee. Grandpa and Ma said that coffee makes children crazy. When I told Uncle Buddy what they said, he said, “That’s the craziest damn mess I ever heard.” Now I ain’t old enough to curse, but I know he is right about that being the craziest mess we ever heard.
I was getting ready to sit down when I notice that Grandma got herself a new kitchen set.
“Why, Grandma, you have a new table and chairs.”
“Yes, I do. Ain’t it nice?”
“Yes, it’s real nice, but when did it come? I didn’t see the Sears truck pass our house.”
“That’s because it didn’t come from Sears. Now don’t get me wrong, ain’t nothing the matter with their furniture. But I have always wanted to order me something out of that Helig Myers catalog that Doleebuck gets in the mail.”
I can’t believe it. Furniture from Helig Myers. New furniture.
I rub my hand along the table and think about how many Helig Myers stores they must have in New York.
“This is really nice, Grandma.”
“Thank you, child. Your grandpa bought it for me. He finally sold the lumber off of them ten acres of land back of the field and this is what we got with some of the money. Not only that, we have some left to hide under the house for hard times.” That’s one thing about my grandfolks I learned at an earlier age. They know how to save money. I also learned that Grandpa don’t never stay away from home at night because under his house is a hole. In that hole is a jar. In that jar is money. I have seen Ma crawl under there on her hands and knees many nights while Grandpa hold the night-light. Don’t nobody go in that jar but Ma. Nobody! She writes down how much goes in and how much goes out. She is Grandpa’s right hand when it comes to business. That’s just fine with Grandma. She keeps what she needs right in her bra. Every now and then she will get extra for things she wants or needs.
Like this new table and chairs.
Grandpa told me to get myself a jar. He said, “The money you save today will save you tomorrow.” When I save enough money I can buy me something nice like Grandma bought herself.
I don’t know if she is prouder of the table or the property they own. Grandpa is one of the few colored men in Rich Square that own his own land. Most of the people rent their houses and land from some of the white folks, who w
ill let you stay as long as you don’t get uppity and try to do something sensible like speak up for yourself. Ma rents from Old Man Taylor and she don’t care what he say. She says whatever she wants when she wants to. I don’t have to tell you that Uncle Buddy does too. Since he only give Ma $35.00 a month, he said he is saving enough money to build his own house. He says he has waited all his life to buy a place, just to tell white folks to “get off my damn land.” When he does get him a house he says he’s going to let us live with him. “Good-bye, slave house,” he’ll say. I hope he builds it nearby. I have to be able to sit on the porch with Grandpa half the evening and with Uncle Buddy the other half.
Grandpa says every man should own a porch to sit on to watch the sun set in the evening. He truly believe that. So much that he worked for the white folks who use to own Jones Property for four years for free until they gave him the deed. The only money Grandma and Grandpa had while they worked off the deed money was the extra money Grandma made for cleaning for the white folks who lived on Rehobeth Road back then. Them white folks long gone now, except Mr. Bay. Uncle Buddy said, “The only reason Mr. Bay is still sitting around with his nose in the air on Rehobeth Road is because he got one foot on a banana peeling and the other one in the graveyard. And he ain’t got nowhere else to go. Period!” Uncle Buddy insists when he’s raising hell about white folks.
I’m sitting here thinking about Grandpa and his land; just dreaming about the day I will own land up North.
“Child, what in the world are you daydreaming about now?”
Grandma’s always interrupting my dreams just like that daughter of hers.
“I was just thinking about a lot of grown-up stuff.”
“Grown-up stuff. Child, you only twelve.”
“Twelve-year-olds worry too.”
She still asking me questions, when she ain’t told me what’s really wrong with Grandpa and why she didn’t go with him to town.
I guess I’m looking at her cross-eyed or something, because I believe she getting ready to tell me.
“I know you’re worried about your granddaddy, but he is fine. He just under the weather, and I thought it would be good for Mer to go with him to Dr. Franklin’s so that she can read the medicine bottle he will give your grandpa.”
Grandma nor Grandpa can neither read nor write. They both sign their names with an “X” when they have to sign important papers or go into town to buy something on credit. Credit they rarely use. They don’t need no credit when my grandpa got money hidden where God can’t find it. Now Grandma can count her money. When I go with her to Mr. Wilson’s grocery store on Saturday, she always let me count her money after she finishes. Just to make sure he don’t cheat her. Grandma don’t trust no white folks. Now that’s something she and Uncle Buddy do agree on.
I sit there and listen to Grandma as she gives me every reason in the world that she didn’t want to go with Grandpa to the doctor.
“I need to be here picking my strawberries.”
“It’s just too hot.”
“I’m tired this morning.”
“Mer can read the medicine bottle.”
I just listen as my grandma goes on and on. But Uncle Buddy says Grandpa is never taking her to Dr. Franklin’s again, because she cursed that white man like nobody’s business when he didn’t help him thirty-five years ago. Grandma is still madder at them white folks than Grandpa. Grandpa said she even swore she would kill him and Sheriff Franklin if they ever stepped on Jones Property again. Uncle Buddy said she didn’t tell them over the phone because Grandma and Grandpa don’t have one. Yes sir, she walked all the way into town and got in their white faces. “Step one foot on Jones Property and I’ll kill you both and go to jail for the next of my life.” They never did.
Uncle Buddy says Grandma has cursed out more white folks in Rich Square than any colored person alive has and lived to tell it. But I’m not going to tell Grandma I know about her swearing, because I know that that’s grown folks business too. If I mention it, she’s going to give me one saucerful of coffee instead of two. With my mouth shut, she fills my saucer so full I can no longer see the white ladies dancing in the bottom of it.
We sit there like two grown-ups, not one, until we are finished our breakfast. Grandma gets up and heads for the strawberry patch and leaves me in the kitchen to do the dishes, of course. Sometimes I feel like the only reason I was born into this world is to wash dishes, pick cucumbers, and chop. Uncle Buddy said that it is all post slaves stuff that I am doing around home and on Jones Property. He’s right. If I didn’t think I would get caught I would put my gloves on that Uncle Buddy gave me to protect my hands from this water.
I have two pairs of dish water gloves. One pair I keep hidden here and the other pair I keep under my bed mattress at the slave house. He said, “Don’t let your hands get old before you do. Men look at your hands first, child.” One by one, I dip the dancing white ladies into the washtub on the oven. I don’t know where Grandma got these plates. Ma said she believe some of them rich folks that use to live on Rehobeth Road gave them to Grandma when she worked for them. They are mighty nice. I am not about to drop one like I did the last time I was here. If I break something I don’t get a special treat from Grandma when I finish the dishes. Even at twelve, I still enjoy Grandma giving me a slice of her orange candy after I finish my chores. Ma said I’m too old for special treats. Under my breath, I say that’s my special treat from my grandma. Besides, Grandma ain’t too good with expressing herself and I know that is her way of saying, “I love you.” A person ain’t never too old for love.
3
The Strawberry Patch
Grandma is already in the strawberry patch when I get there. I take the shortest row and start picking my own basket of strawberries. Whatever I pick, they are mine to sell at the market. I try to pick a lot except what I don’t eat. Every time Grandma looks towards Rehobeth Road to see if Mr. Charlie is coming, I take a bite of the biggest strawberry in my basket. For hours, we pick strawberries and pull weeds without saying a word. Grandma never talks when she’s upset. “Just look at her,” Uncle Buddy says, and he’s right—ain’t nothing wrong with Grandma. She can pick ten strawberries to my every one.
I am relieved when I see Mr. Charlie’s car coming down Rehobeth Road. I drop my basket and run off to meet them. Grandma don’t move. She is just standing there like she was waiting on the Lord. When I get to the Chevy, running as fast as my bare feet can carry me, I don’t even stop for the dust to settle around the car the way I usually do. I have to see my grandpa’s face. See what them white folks done to him. I open Grandpa’s door and God he looks worse than he did this morning. I knew it! I knew it! They done poisoned Grandpa. He looks so pale and tired as Mr. Charlie helps him out of the car. We walk slowly to the edge of the steps that Grandpa built with his hands before they had wrinkles. Ma follows us as I hold Grandpa’s hand without saying a word. Not a word does anyone say until Mr. Charlie sets Grandpa on the side of the iron bed with a picture of Jesus hanging over it. Grandpa’s overalls touch the pink and white bedsheet hard, like a duck splashing in water. The frame rocks back and front as Grandpa lets out a sigh. “Ay, Lordie.”
Grandma comes in through the back door and she looks worried. “Here, Braxton. Drink this water.” Poor Grandpa can barely get the mason jar up to his mouth. Grandma holds it as I watch the frog in his throat go up and down.
I want to ask why he is so weak, but I know that’s definitely a grown folks question, so I say nothing. Ma give me the look. The one she gives me when she wants me to leave the room. I let go of Grandpa’s hand and go into the kitchen and close the door that I lean on before it closes. Then I take me a mason jar and put one end to my ear and the other end to the door. Just the way Uncle Buddy taught me. Now Grandma uses her mason jars for canning and drinking. Me, I use them to ease drop. No one is going to tell me why Grandpa look worse now than he did this morning, so I have no choice but to use my all-purpose mason jar.
“Mer, what did the doctor say?” Grandma asks in a rare soft voice.
I don’t know why she is asking Ma, because when Grandpa left home he could speak for himself. Ma don’t answer for a minute. Then all these big ugly words come flying out of her mouth.
“Dr. Franklin says Poppa needs to go to the hospital. He said he might have some kind of brain tumor.”
“Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!”
Grandma just saying it over and over again.
“Don’t worry, Ma Babe, I made an appointment for Poppa and we are going to Rocky Mount to the hospital for tests on Monday.”
Grandma rarely cries, but she is crying now.
“Shouldn’t we take him today? He looks really bad.”
“No, we can’t take him today. The doctor gave him some medicine for pain and it’s making him sleepy. He said he should rest this weekend. Two days of waiting won’t kill him.”
I can’t believe Ma used the word “kill” when Grandpa looks half dead. I just want to run in that bedroom and stick this dirty dishrag that’s lying on Grandma’s new table in her mouth.
Ma once again has figured me out, because the next thing I know I am looking at Ma’s flowered underwear after falling on the floor in front of her. She pulled the door open without me even hearing her come near, and down I fall. No one laughs and Ma doesn’t even fuss. She just helps me up and rubs my head. She knows I was only listening because I love my grandpa so much.
“Go and finish the strawberries, child, your grandpa is going to be all right.”
I get up with my pride in my pocket, next to my letter from BarJean, and walk closer to Grandpa. I’m not leaving this room until Grandpa gives me a kiss and he knows that. He waves his hand for me to come closer and I almost run. His kiss is so warm, just like I always remember it to be.
Mr. Charlie pats me on the head and Grandma pulls my braids. Ma just looking at me like I ain’t walking fast enough. I go outside and stand at the window outside of the bedroom to make sure he is all right. After they pull the covers over Grandpa’s shoulders and leave the room, I run to the strawberry patch. This time I move over one row to a longer one. The row that Grandpa always picks from. It makes me feel closer to him.
Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) Page 3
