Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824)

by Moses, Shelia P.

  “Anyway, when they got down there, just as we thought, not only did they take care of Tradus, they took him clean to the hospital in Rocky Mount. Tradus shoo should go out to Hollywood and start acting, because he fooled them white boys.”

  “Then what happen?”

  “What do you think happen?” Grandpa answered.

  “The young men folks went to break Buddy out of jail. Had a car waiting to take him to Newport News, then on to Harlem. ’Course they cut through the swamp so white folks wouldn’t see them coming to town. Go through the swamp and you don’t have to worry about white folks; they think it’s filled with hanks and slave bones. Anyway, when the Masons made it deep in the swamp, out of nowhere Buddy jumped. Didn’t have to break him out of jail. Never even made it to town. The KKK beat them to Buddy and by God, he got away from them somehow and made it to that swamp.

  “That boy knows that swamp like I know Jones Property. Brother Boone said they met Buddy midway. He was knee-deep in water and they spotted each other at the same time. They told me every word my boy said.”

  “ ‘Buddy,’ Brother Boone yelled.

  “ ‘Bro Boone. Yes it’s me,’ Buddy yelled back.

  “ ‘Get over here, man. We were on our way to get you out of jail. How in the sand hill did you get out on your own?’ Brother Boone asked.

  “Buddy told the Masons how the Klan took him out of jail. After that, they left that swamp and made it to the cars, and Brother Smitty took him on to Newport News. From there they taking him to New York. He must be halfway to Harlem by now.”

  Grandma drops one of the plates with the dancing white ladies on it.

  Better her than me.

  “You mean my boy out of jail? Jesus to the highest!”

  Grandma throws her hands in the air and starts shouting like she has the Holy Ghost.

  “Thank, thank, thank you, Jesus. Oh, thank you, Jesus. I been praying for my child.”

  This is better than watching a Saturday night movie.

  For a moment, I feel the spirit too. Then I realize it’s Ma hitting me on my behind with Grandpa’s belt.

  “Girl, didn’t I tell you about ease dropping?”

  Grandma is praising the Lord so loud that Ma heard her all the way in the washroom.

  Lick one is painful. Lick two is harder, and three and four are worse. Five, I feel like hell has come to earth.

  “Go and put your Sunday clothes on,” Ma says in between licks.

  I want to cry, but I have made up my mind that almost-teenagers don’t cry. So I hang on to Ma’s waist so that every time she hit me, she hits herself too. Well, that is a mistake.

  She stops and now she is giving me the look of death.

  “You have finally lost your mind! Go to your room and put your clothes on. You ain’t going nowhere but to the fields for the rest of the summer!”

  I am not going to look at her. Surely, she don’t mean I can’t go to Harlem. But this is no time to ask. I run to my room and close the door. Grandpa and Grandma never even heard me getting my tail whipped because Grandma is still calling on the Lord.

  I dress for church.

  Chapel Hill Baptist Church ain’t going to be able to hold the folks today.

  When we drive up, the deaconesses have posted signs on every tree on the church ground.

  “Buddy Bush is free. Thank God.”

  Sore behind and all, Lord what a time we have.

  15

  The Law

  It’s Monday morning and I’m back in the fields.

  Everyone in the fields are talking about my uncle Buddy Bush escape. And the law is all over Rich Square looking for him. Randy said they are bringing in some outside law, from over in Potecasi.

  Chick-A-Boo and me are staying close to each other all day and we ain’t talking very much to nobody else. I don’t even talk to Miss Nora all day. We have witnessed a crime and we are scared to death. Randy acts like nothing even happen on Saturday night.

  “Who’s that?” Chick-A-Boo asks.

  I look up and see something that scares me worse than what we saw two nights ago.

  A white truck with a bunch of white men on the back. Who are they and what do they want? White folks only come on Rehobeth Road if they own land or to see Mr. Bay.

  We aren’t moving a inch as the white men raise shotguns in the air and yell, “We want that nigger, Buddy Bush!”

  “A nigger for a white woman!”

  “Keep chopping. Don’t look up,” Randy orders.

  Randy ain’t afraid of them, or at least he ain’t showing it.

  We do as we are told and the white men keep going.

  When they are out of sight, Randy stops chopping.

  “This ain’t over. We better get out of here.”

  We take our hoes to the end of the field to put them where we always do.

  “Don’t leave nothing out here. We can’t work like this. It’s too dangerous.”

  I want to be there when Randy tells Ole Man Taylor that we ain’t chopping today. The truth be told, Ole Man Taylor might be glad, because the last thing he needs is bloodshed on his land.

  When Randy drops me off, I am so glad to get home. I am tired. Tired from being out all Saturday night. Tired from the whipping I got yesterday morning, and tired from chopping weeds out of white folks’ cotton till noon today. I don’t even remember eating supper, taking a bath, or going to bed.

  • • •

  The law wakes me this morning. Knocking on the door like they crazy. Before my feet can touch the floor, Grandma is at the front door.

  “Stop banging on my door.”

  “Open up.”

  “Open up for who?” she yells back.

  “It’s me, Sheriff Franklin, and my deputies, Paul and Bill.”

  “Didn’t I tell you never to step on Jones Property again?”

  Old Sheriff Franklin must have forgotten that thirty-five years ago Grandma promised him a bullet for hitting Grandpa over the head. Of course, I have made it to the keyhole in time to witness Ma stop Grandma from killing them lawmen.

  “It’s me, Mer, Sheriff. How can I help you?”

  “You know how you can help me. We looking for that brother of yours. Now open up!”

  “He ain’t here. Now, unless you got a search warrant, I can’t let you in.”

  “Gal, you better open this door.”

  Wrong answer! Grandma is furious. She swings the door open, almost knocking the white man down.

  “Get off my damn porch!” Grandma yells.

  Uncle Buddy is right. If you own your own house, you really can say, “Get off my damn porch.”

  I believe old Sheriff Franklin just got his memory back right this second. I run to the door in time to see only the back of the sheriff’s head as he jumps off the porch.

  “I’ll be back with a search warrant.”

  “Damn if you will,” Grandma shouts.

  Yeah for Grandma. She ain’t scared of no white folks and she done lost her religion. She best get to church first come Sunday morning.

  Ma is shocked at Grandma. Me, I am too happy.

  “Lord, Ma, you can’t talk to white folks like that, especially the law.”

  “This is my house, mine and Braxton. Ain’t no law coming in here. Buddy gone and he gone for good.”

  “That may be so, but he’s done ran from the law and they coming back. Please let them in so Poppa won’t be upset.”

  “Upset? Braxton lying in there on his deathbed now because of that Sheriff Franklin. He almost killed him thirty-five years ago, now he trying to kill our boy.”

  Grandpa hears all the noise and slowly walks to the sitting room.

  “Babe, what in the world is going on?”

  “Poppa, the law came by looking for Bro, and Ma Babe she . . .”

  Ma is thinking before she says another word.

  I swear I think Grandma might slap a grown woman with children down if Ma do say something else.

  “All r
ight, all right, settle down, women folks, ’cause they will be back. He ain’t here, so it don’t matter. When they do come back, let them in.” Grandpa has spoken.

  He turns and walks away.

  With all their mouthing and controlling, them women know not to mess with my grandpa. Ma goes about her morning courses; Grandma mouths a few words and goes back to cooking breakfast.

  Me, I just laugh. To myself, of course.

  I’m just glad to be out of the fields again. I get dressed and go back on the front porch and wait for the law to return.

  In less than thirty minutes they are back.

  “Here they come, Ma. Here they come,” I yell.

  I almost turn over in Grandpa’s rocking chair. Waiting for the law is a lot of stress on a twelve-year-old.

  Ma and Grandma meet the law at the door. Grandpa gathers enough strength to get to the door before Grandma shoot anybody.

  “Sheriff Franklin,” Grandpa says with authority.

  “Mr. Braxton, I came to search your house for your boy. Right here is the search warrant.”

  “Don’t need to see that paper. Come in and do what you got to do.”

  “Mind stepping outside while we look around?”

  Grandpa turns to Ma.

  “I do mind. Mer, read that search warrant. If it don’t say we got to go outside, tell me so.”

  Ma, with her smart self, reads that search warrant in less than a minute. “Poppa, it don’t say that.”

  “Fine, we staying. Now Mer, you and Pattie Mae go with them in every single room.”

  Sheriff Franklin is too mad.

  “Mr. Braxton, we prefer you go outside.”

  “Sheriff, I prefer if you weren’t here at all. Now do your business and leave. Unless you plan to knock me out like you did thirty-five years ago, me and my folks ain’t going nowhere.”

  He don’t even wait for the law to respond. He turns and walks away with all that Jones pride glowing through his old feeble body.

  Grandma turns and walks away with a gun in her apron pocket.

  Ma and me take our positions.

  When they move to the left, we do too.

  To the right—we do too.

  The kitchen; us too.

  The sitting room; us too.

  This goes on for an hour.

  Right through lunchtime.

  But who is hungry?

  Finally Deputy Paul says, “He ain’t here, boss.”

  Ma impolitely says, “I told you that an hour ago.”

  They gather their stupidity and out the door they go.

  Ma starts putting the house back in order and Grandma helps.

  Grandpa takes his midday nap after they leave and I go back to my position on the front porch, just in case they return.

  When they are out of sight, I make my announcement.

  “They gone, y’all.”

  Ma shouts back, “Come in this house, child, and peel some potatoes for supper.”

  16

  Have You Ever Seen Cotton Grow?

  Supper sure smells good. We are eating early tonight because we skipped lunch. Chicken pot pie, greens, potatoes, iced tea, and, of course, strawberries for dessert.

  Just as Grandpa is about to pray, someone knocks at the back door next to the kitchen. It’s Mr. Bay. According to Grandpa, he ain’t stepped foot on this land since it belonged to Wynter Waters. Grandpa said he was so prejudice that if Sue never drops another glass of milk, we wouldn’t buy any from Mr. Bay.

  Grandpa speaks to him first. “Evening, Bay. What can I do for you?”

  “Evening, Braxton. I got today’s paper and I thought you might want to read what they saying about your boy.”

  “I do,” Grandpa says with grace.

  “I’ll just leave it right here.”

  He lays the paper on the back doorstep and starts to walk away.

  I leave the table to pick up the paper. Mr. Bay stops again, like someone has shot him. He turns around and looks in our faces like he has never seen us before.

  I freeze at the door, realizing this is the closest I have ever got to his white face. It looks so kind. Nothing like I thought. Almost as kind as Grandpa’s.

  “If it means anything, I want y’all to know that I don’t believe any of that mess they saying about your boy.”

  Grandma smiles for the first time in weeks.

  A tear runs down Grandpa’s face.

  Ma weeps like she did at June Bug’s funeral.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bay,” I say as he walks away.

  A white man has made us feel better.

  It’s TV time, but not tonight. Ma tells me to get that paper and read it to them. We sit in Grandma and Grandpa’s bedroom so Grandpa can lie down while I read the article to them.

  It’s not just any article.

  It’s front-page news.

  GOODWIN “BUDDY” BUSH WANTED

  This male Negro escaped from the authorities on July 10, 1947. He is wanted for the attempted rape of an unnamed white woman in Rich Square, North Carolina. If anyone sees him, please contact your local authorities immediately.

  Next to those painful words is a picture of Uncle Buddy.

  A big picture.

  That picture and those words, surely, are the end of Grandpa.

  His heart is broken.

  I don’t think Grandpa is ever going to get out of that bed again. His yellow skin turns blue and green and Grandma has to change him like he is a baby. He mourns and calls for Uncle Buddy night and day. Grandpa don’t want to see Dr. Franklin. Don’t want him on Jones Property. So last night we call the new colored doctor from Potecasi to come over. Yes, we got our colored doctor after all. Dr. Grant shows up 9 o’clock this morning. I don’t know what colored doctors are supposed to look like, but he is dressed like he is on his way to Sunday go to meeting. He has his doctor’s bag and bad, bad news. He announces that Grandpa will be dead before the cotton bloom.

  Before the cotton bloom. If you ain’t never seen cotton grow, you don’t understand. Lord, when it’s ready it’s just like the babies Grandma delivers. They just pop out.

  “Before the cotton bloom,” I scream and run to Mer’s tree. It seems like all twelve years of my life are running behind me. Hobo run too. I cry. Hobo is making weeping noises like he did when Randy hit him with a beebee gun last year.

  It is a long day and Ma cries late into the night. Hudson is sleeping under the bed, like he has all my life. Grandma ain’t doing much crying. She just keep praying the Lord’s Prayer.

  • • •

  After the colored doctor’s visit, Mr. Charlie starts coming by earlier each day and staying late. Sometime he sits on the porch all alone. Other times he just pulls a chair up to Grandpa’s bed and they look at each other for hours. Miss Doleebuck comes two and three times a day, armored with hugs, kisses, and food. They try to comfort us, but nothing can change what is happening on Jones Property since the colored doctor came. The cotton has started to change. The bulbs that use to be green and soft are turning brown and hard. They will soon bloom and death will come on in. Folks on Rehobeth Road say a cat can sense death before people can. So I keep a close eye on Hudson. Today is the fifth of August and I wake up and can’t find him nowhere. I run to the smokehouse. No Hudson.

  I run to Mer’s tree.

  Buddy’s tree.

  Rosie’s tree.

  Louise’s tree.

  No Hudson.

  Me and Hobo look everywhere on Jones Property. No Hudson. Then we run to the slave house. I run around back to the tree that Hudson likes to sit in when he comes home with me. Hudson’s not here, but something is wrong with this tree. The bell. Mr. Spivey done stole the bell. Wait till I tell Ma. What am I saying? I don’t care about that bell or Mr. Spivey. I have to find Hudson. I run through the cucumber patch that is filled with weeds because we been gone most of the summer. Ma comes here every few days while Grandpa is asleep, long enough to get the new cucumbers, but she don’t have time to chop the
weeds out, too. Down the rows I run until I reach Ole Man Taylor’s cotton field next to the woods. “God, no.” I see the white soft cotton trying to come out. “No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o. Not yet, Grandpa, it’s too soon! The cotton ain’t out yet. Just a little bit.” I start running back down Rehobeth Road, back to Jones Property. I run hard, but it’s too late. I open the door to where Grandpa is surely dying.

  “Babe,” he says. “I’m so tired; you take care of yourself. Mer, you take care of Jones Property, take care of your mama, and my grandbaby.”

  Still managing to smile as he walks to the valley of the shadow of death, just like Reverend Wiggins said folks do when they dying. “Pattie Mae, you in charge now.”

  Then he closes his eyes and heads on to heaven. Grandpa’s last breath feels like forever before, right in Ma’s arms, he dies. If I live to be one hundred years old, I will never forget her scream.

  I can’t cry because I have cried every day since Dr. Grant left. So I just stand there and watch the only daddy I ever had slip away.

  Grandma strong. She ain’t shedding any tears. She reach down and separates his body from Ma’s and lays Grandpa back on the bed. His eyes are still open until Grandma closes them. Then she pulls the sheet over his head.

  “Call Joe Gordon,” she says to me.

  I run to the phone and call the black undertaker.

  Didn’t nobody tell me to, but I’m calling BarJean.

  “He’s gone, sister.”

  She lets out a scream louder than Ma did.

  In between screams, she says, “I’ll be home soon as y’all know the funeral date.”

  I hang up and don’t call nobody else. That is BarJean’s duty to call all the kinfolks up North when something goes wrong on Rehobeth Road.

  Without Grandma telling me, I run as fast as I can to get Mr. Charlie. I see him from the road. He is sitting on his front porch, carving a piece of wood.

  “Mr. Charlie, Mr. Charlie, come quick!”

  He stops carving and stands up.

  He knows his best friend in the world is gone. I look down at the wood and it is a doorplate with the word “Jones” on it.

  I am still looking down at the wood when Mr. Charlie says, “Did you call Joe Gordon?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”