And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  The gin foreman cut an imposing figure wherever he went. Except for a full head of white hair, he was as black as a steam locomotive and almost as big. He was dressed in accordance with his role at the gin—khaki shirt and pants, starched and ironed—just like a white man.

  “Mornin’,” rumbled the locomotive. “What’re you doin’ ’round here, boy?”

  “Tryin’ to git to Louisiana, uncle. Lookin’ for work as I go.”

  “You got no call bein’ ’round this here house.” Roosevelt pointed at two nice homes on the west side of the lake and underlined his authority with the Parker name. “The Parkers is the white folks what owns this lake an’ all the land ’round it, an’ they don’t take to havin’ folks stayin’ the night here ’bouts.”

  “Sorry, uncle. I was on the road an’ just stopped where I figured I could get some sleep.”

  “Where you headed to?”

  The smile came back. “Come from Detroit. Had me a job at that factory where they builds them automobiles—sweepin’ out in the winter, yard work in the summer. I made it through this past winter but couldn’t abide the thought of that cold comin’ back. Told the fella I hitched that ride with I’s comin’ to a job down to Moorin’sport . . . it’s out by Caddo Lake, over to Louisiana. I reckon he got messed up some, ’cause he dropped me off up yonder in that Moores Point town on Saturday night an’ kept on goin’. I asked them folks in town where Caddo Lake was at, an’ they sent me out here . . . so here I is.”

  “Well, you missed it sho’ ’nuff.”

  “Sho’ did.” The man looked mildly troubled. “I’m powerful sorry, uncle. I didn’t aim to bother nobody.” He made a gesture at the lake. “I just had me some frog legs for breakfast. I didn’t fool with nothin’ else.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Among black folks, Roosevelt was accustomed to getting his way; this would be no different. “Put that fire out an’ git on down the road then.”

  “I’ll do ’er, uncle.” Roosevelt watched as the man dug in a burlap bag and came out with a battered coffeepot. He dipped it in the lake, poured the water on the fire, and went back for more. He poured the second potful on the fire and began to bank dirt around the ashes. As he worked he nodded at the houses across the lake. “You reckon them white folks got any day work they needs doin’?”

  “Can you chop cotton?”

  “Well, I might could, but truth be told, I ain’t never done it. I’d hate to take a man’s wages an’ not do him right.”

  Honest black boys who would do what they were told to do when they were told to do it were getting scarce. Roosevelt took a step closer to the man. “Do I know you?” The other man looked Roosevelt in the eye and shook his head. “I reckon not. I ain’t never been ’round here before.”

  Roosevelt nodded. “I seen you in church over in Inverness last night.”

  “Well, yassuh, I was there, but I didn’t see you.”

  “We was settin’ in the back.” A man who’d do like he was told and go to church on Sunday was rare enough. Roosevelt pointed across the bridge. “Stop by the gin yonder an’ check with me after you git done here. Ain’t nobody said nothin’ ’bout no day jobs, but you can’t never tell.”

  The man began to move more quickly. “Yassuh, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Roosevelt went his way while the young man hustled back and forth to the lake, getting water to drown the fire. When he’d made sure the fire was out, he put the bag over his shoulder and moved off toward the gin.

  The sun was up by the time Roosevelt got to the gin office. He stuck his head in the door and said, “Mornin’, Mr. Glenn. Them gin stands gonna be here today?”

  “Mornin’, Rose.” Glenn Hall ran the office for Mr. Bobby Lee Parker; Roosevelt was in charge of everything else. Hall was tilted back in his chair reading the Monday paper and waiting for the ankle-high cotton to get three feet tall and start producing. “The folks in Greenwood just called. Said they’d be here ’fore noon.”

  “Yes, sir.” Roosevelt was pleased. “Well, I’m fixin’ to go get ready for ’em.”

  “Just a minute, Rose.”

  “Sir?”

  “Miz Susan just called . . . said they need somebody to come mow over at Miz Virginia’s.”

  “Where’s Lucas at?” Lucas Johnson was the Parkers’ regular yardman.

  “They took him to the hospital last night with a broke leg. Be in a cast for six weeks.” Hall turned the page on his paper. “Pick whoever you can spare to go over there an’ do whatever needs doin’.”

  Roosevelt frowned; he didn’t have anyone he could spare. Picking season was short months away, and all the worthwhile men who lived nearby would be scattered around the area chopping cotton. He had three hand-picked men waiting to help him set the new equipment . . . but he needed all three, all day. He took his hat off and pushed his hair around while he mumbled to himself; he didn’t have time for that fool Lucas to get his leg broke. Young Mrs. Parker, Mr. Bobby Lee’s wife, was easy enough to please, but Old Mrs. Parker was persnickety about how her yard was kept. The fingers were making their third or fourth pass through the wiry hair when he turned around and almost ran into the young drifter from Detroit.

  “Well, uncle, here I is.” The man was holding his hat in his hand, looking expectant.

  Roosevelt stared at the man without speaking for a moment, then took him by the arm and half-led, half-carried him out onto the gin’s loading dock.

  “What’s yo’ name, boy?”

  “Lavert Jensen, uncle.”

  “You say you done yard work up there to Detroit?”

  “Yassuh, sho’ did.”

  He gestured across the road with his hat. “See them two houses yonder?”

  The closest house was seventy-five or a hundred yards south of the road, a white antebellum; a sprawling ranch-style home was located on the far side of the older home. Lavert shrugged. “Yassuh, they looks real fine.”

  “M’Virginia, Old Miz Parker, lives in that big white one. The Young Parkers, Mr. Bobby Lee an’ Miz Susan, live on the other side of her.”

  Lavert nodded. “Yassuh.”

  “M’Virginia’s a fine white woman, but she picky ’bout that yard . . . an’ her regular yardboy went an’ broke his leg. Can you mow that yard an’ git it done today?”

  The lawn of the plantation home was huge, and Lavert looked doubtful. “I’m gonna be usin’ a push mower?”

  “Uh-uh.” Roosevelt shook his head. “Gas.”

  “Yassuh”—Lavert smiled—“I can finish it by this afternoon . . . do it pretty good, too.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m countin’ on.” He nodded at a paint-deprived shed standing next to the gin. “The mower an’ other tools is in that shed yonder. Take the mower over across the road first an’ see Almeda. Tell her I said you was gonna be cuttin’ the grass, but don’t be startin’ that mower ’til she says.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Git to it.” Roosevelt put his hat on and walked away.

  Lavert opened the doors to find a dust-covered old pickup taking up most of the space in the little building. Two narrow aisles worked their way down the sides of the truck, separating it from seventy-five years’ worth of assorted clutter; additional junk was piled in the truck’s bed. The lawn mower and most of the other tools Lavert would need were situated close to the doors. Lavert pulled the lawn mower outside and looked toward the gin—Roosevelt was talking to another colored man, pointing toward something in the gin. Lavert went back inside and picked up a yard rake and a well-used hoe and carried them outside. When his things were where he wanted them, he checked the gin again—no one in sight. He made another trip into the shed and opened the door of the pickup, being careful not to make any noise. The inside of the truck was well preserved; except for a small place in the middle of the seat—a small, dark handprint—the upholstery was spotless. The yardboy leaned into the truck to examine the stain on the seat and thought, That’s dried blood. Seconds later, he was gathering up
his tools and heading across the road.

  He took his hat off and tapped on the back door of the big white house.

  The black woman was frowning when she opened the screen door. “What you wantin’, boy?”

  He was ten years older than the young black woman. “You Miz Almeda?”

  She was definitely Miz Almeda—and she was definitely the boss. “An’ who’s askin’?”

  “My name Lavert Jensen, miss.” He pointed over his shoulder. “That man at the gin say for me to come over an’ mow this here yard, but to don’t start ’til you said.”

  “He said right. M’Virginia still readin’ her Bible, an’ I don’t want nobody makin’ no racket ’round here ’til she finish.”

  “Yassum.”

  The man looked too thin. “Did you eat yet?”

  “Yassum.” He pointed at the lake. “Had me two frog legs.”

  “Mm-hmm. Wait here an’ I’ll git you some o’ my biscuits.”

  She closed the door but was back in short order with four biscuits, as many sausage patties, and a tin cup full of hot coffee. She pointed at a nearby oak tree. “You can sit on these here steps if you gonna be quiet. If you gonna be hummin’ or such as that, you sit out yonder under that tree.”

  “Yassum.” He stayed where he was. “I generally don’t make no noise.”

  “Good. When you finish, you wait here ’til M’Virginia come out to talk.”

  “Yassum.”

  “An’ you be careful for her. She walks with a cane ’cause she ain’t steady, so don’t you be lettin’ her hurt herself.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “An’ she hard of hearin’, so she talk loud. You do the same.”

  “Yassum. You reckon she be hard to please?”

  “Maybe some, but she fair. You do yo’ job right, you gonna be doin’ yard work here an’ at Miz Susan’s long as you wants. That good-for-nothin’ Lucas Johnson was gittin’ to where he was at that bottle too much—probably got drunked up last night an’ laid down on the road somewheres.”

  “Yassum.”

  Miz Virginia came out after he finished his biscuits and told him what she wanted done.

  He spent the rest of his day mowing and cleaning out Old Mrs. Parker’s flower beds. When suppertime came, Roosevelt walked over and told him it was time to quit. “This here is ten dollars. You earned it.”

  “Much obliged. M’Virginia told me to come back in the mornin’ an’ do Miz Susan’s yard, so I reckon I got me two days’ work.”

  “Fine,” said Roosevelt. “I unlocked that cabin over yonder where you was this mornin’. You can spend the night in there if you wants.”

  “That’d be real fine, uncle. I ’preciate it.”

  An easy chair sat in front of the cabin’s fireplace. Except for a new rats’ nest in the chair’s cushion, the cabin was fairly clean.

  Lavert checked in with Roosevelt at sunup on Tuesday morning and had his lawn mower and tools at Old Mrs. Parker’s back door shortly thereafter. He ate biscuits and fried ham along with a cup of strong coffee while he waited on M’Virginia to tell him to start on Miz Susan’s yard.

  By midafternoon on Friday the yards and trees were neatly trimmed, every flower bed on the place was free of weeds, and Lavert Jensen was ready to be on his way. Roosevelt gave him a ride into town, and he walked from there out to Highway 82 to see if he could hitch a ride to Louisiana.

  He’d just dropped his sack by his feet when an old black man stopped his car and pushed open the passenger door. “Come on, boy. I’ll take you down the road a piece. Just put yo’ sack on the floor back there.”

  Lavert had his head down, stowing his burlap bag on the floor behind his seat, while the old man was watching a car coming toward them from the west. Lavert never saw the approaching car’s distinctive white-on-black Texas license plates, nor did he see the young white couple in the car, but the old man did; they were friends of his. The white couple turned south toward Moores Point.

  When he was settled, Lavert said, “I’m mighty obliged to you for pickin’ me up.”

  “You welcome enough, but it wasn’t my doin’,” said the old man. “The good Lord Hi’self told me to pull over an’ pick you up.”

  “An’ I ’preciate it. My name Lavert Jensen.”

  “I be Red Justin.”

  “How far you goin’?”

  “Greenville.”

  Lavert said, “Mmm,” then busied himself watching the cotton fields go by.

  Minutes later, on the outskirts of Indianola, Lavert asked, “You from Greenville?”

  “No, no.” Red pointed over his shoulder. “I stays back there in Greenwood. I’s just settlin’ down for my after-dinner nap when the good Lord spoke to me an’ told me to go to Greenville.”

  “That’s good.” Lavert smiled. “That’ll git me on down the road some.”

  Red shook his head. “Oh, you ain’t goin’ to Greenville with me. The Lord say take you to Indianola . . . the rest is up to Him.”

  Lavert studied the old man. “Reckon why would He have you put me off?”

  Red took his eyes off the road long enough to meet Lavert’s gaze. “I reckon you’d know more ’bout that than me, son.”

  Lavert made a bad mistake when he said, “I ain’t no troublemaker, uncle, I’m a churchgoin’ man. You can ask them folks out at Cat Lake.”

  Cat Lake, huh? Red nodded. I reckon I’ll do that.

  When they got to Indianola, Red let his passenger out and drove off. Lavert watched the car until it was out of sight.

  Doe’s was open when Red got to Greenville, and he was hungry. He bought half a dozen hot tamales and some iced tea and turned the ground under Doe’s big cottonwood tree into a dining room. When he finished his supper, he knelt by the tree and prayed, “Lord, You was the one what wanted me in Greenville. An’ if don’t nothin’ happen ’tween here an’ Cat Lake, I may not never know why, but I reckon you do though . . . an’ them hot tamales was sho’ nuff fine.”

  Red headed back east—he’d be at Cat Lake before sundown . . . and Missy Patterson and her husband would be there. The timing of his arrival at Cat Lake would be perfect.

  Pat and Missy were committed to spending their first hour “back home” sitting on the porch behind the brick house, visiting with her parents and soaking in the atmosphere around Cat Lake. The young couple’s news that Pat had been selected as the new chairman of the philosophy department at North Texas State University was cause for a minor celebration, but fifteen minutes after the announcement, Missy started to fidget. Bobby Lee let her squirm awhile then said, “Baby, why don’t you take Pat over an’ check on the cabin ’fore it gets dark?”

  She was out of her chair and pulling on Pat’s hand before her daddy finished his sentence. “Hallelujah, I was about to go nuts. C’mon, Pat.”

  The Young Parkers’ favorite—and only—son-in-law stood up and smiled. “It’s good to be back.”

  “Don’t be late for supper,” Susan Parker called after them. “We’re eating at Granny’s.”

  Missy lifted a hand to show she heard, but her track record for adhering to other people’s schedules had never been good; she was holding her husband’s hand, dancing and tugging like a frisky colt on a short lead. The two were across her grandmother’s backyard and almost to the road when they saw Roosevelt walking down the gin steps with Red Justin.

  When they got closer the two black men lifted their hats and spoke in unison, “Evenin’.”

  “Hey, y’all.” The fact that she was “home”—back at Cat Lake and among people she loved—was almost too much for Missy. “It’s really good to see y’all.”

  “Howdy, Rose. Red.” Pat shook hands with both men.

  “Where’s Emmalee?” asked Missy. Roosevelt’s daughter, Missy’s first disciple, had just graduated from college.

  “She’s took the bus to Washington. My boy, Milton, is in the Marines up there, an’ she gone to see him.”

  “Tell her I asked abou
t her. Okay?”

  “Yessum.” Roosevelt nodded. “She gonna be sorry she wasn’t here.”

  “Me too. You tell her I said she’s special.”

  “Yessum, I’ll do it.”

  She turned the smile on the other man. “Red, what brings you to the lake?”

  “Just a visit, I reckon. I was wantin’ to talk to Rose here, an’ I came to check on y’all two.”

  “On Missy and me?” asked Pat.

  “Yessuh.”

  Pat glanced at his wife before asking, “How’d you know we were here?”

  Red ignored the question and asked his own. “Y’all goin’ over to Mose’s place?”

  Pat nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Let me an’ Rose walk along with y’all. I ain’t got to talk to him yet, an’ this way I can tell y’all all at the same time.”

  The four walked abreast onto the bridge. Red told the other three about God’s sending him to Greenville and how he’d picked up the hitchhiker at the precise moment they were turning into Moores Point. The three with the old man listened and believed; Red Justin had a reputation for being the next thing to a prophet.

  They were getting close to the cabin when the old man finished, and Rose spoke first. “How come him to say somethin’ ’bout Cat Lake, you reckon?”

  Pat said, “Because God wanted Red to hear it.”

  Red and Missy nodded agreement, and Rose said, “I just wanted to see did y’all believe like me. Somethin’ ain’t right ’bout his bein’ here.”

  “Amen to that.” Red nodded slowly. “Same reason he claimed to be a churchgoin’ man.”

  “Why did he say he was here?” asked Pat. He and Missy exchanged a look; conversations about strangers being around the lake could lead to words about Mose Washington. Rose and Red were unalterably trustworthy, but Mose’s safety would not be enhanced by their knowledge of his whereabouts.