And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

  “You won’t be needin’ that,” said Crawford. “None of us are gonna be botherin’ you.”

  Mose looked at the girl. “What about that lady?”

  “Mr. Gilmer told us to be her bodyguards. That means we got the job of takin’ care of her from now on.”

  Mose hated to call anyone a liar. “What if you don’t?”

  “Do you know Mr. Gilmer?” Crawford asked.

  Mose shook his head. “I don’t know no . . . uh, any white folks in this town.”

  Crawford cut his eyes at the departing figure. “That there’s a real bad man, an’ he don’t carry that six-gun for show. He’d just as soon shoot one of us as whistle ‘Dixie.’”

  Mose was unsure. He looked at the girl. The young lady hadn’t taken her eyes off her departing hero. “Ma’am?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You reckon these here are gonna bother you again?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Never. That was Mr. Jacob Gilmer. Momma says people do like he tells ’em to.”

  Two of the white boys nodded. Dee Henry had escaped with his life and was trying not to bawl.

  The girl added, “Momma said he’s a gentleman.”

  The boys didn’t comment.

  The girl turned and continued down the dusty street toward her house. What had begun as a dread-filled journey was now a quiet stroll home from school.

  Crawford looked expectantly at the other boys. When they shrugged, he called after her, “You reckon it would be all right if we was to walk with you to your house?”

  She didn’t look back. “I guess.”

  Crawford looked at Mose. “You wanna go?”

  Mose didn’t care. “I reckon. My momma stays down that way.”

  The young lady walked slowly, humming to herself. Mose tossed the stick in the ditch, and the four boys followed silently in the girl’s wake.

  The houses toward the west edge of town were smaller and less attractive than those closer in. As the little parade approached the girl’s house, an attractive woman straightened from her chores to watch their arrival. When she saw the boys following her daughter, the woman left her washtub and walked to the top of the steps, drying her hands on her apron before she rolled down the sleeves of her dress. The girl waved and smiled. The woman shaded her eyes and waved back.

  When the group gathered in the shade of a tree near the porch, the girl grinned at her mother, then turned to her entourage. “These gentlemen walked me home.”

  The lady’s cheeks and forehead were red from heat and exertion; tendrils of light brown hair escaped from her scarf to soften the outline of her face. “Did they, now? Well, thank you, gentlemen.” She walked down the steps, studying the boys. According to the talk, the Crawford boy was bent on trouble, but if he was with her daughter, something had changed. The colored boy had dried blood on his face, the youngest white boy had been crying, and young Harley Crawford had a knot over his eye the size of a hen’s egg. The three white boys all needed haircuts.

  The colored boy’s inclusion sparked the most interest in her. “You go to the white school, boy?”

  Mose thought he could get by without lying. He pointed down the street. “No, ma’am. My momma stays right down yonder, an’ I was just walkin’ with these here folks.”

  The lady smiled and decided not to press the point—more often than not, what happened between boys was better kept between boys; when she and her daughter were alone, the girl would let her know. She included the colored boy when she said, “Well, it just so happens that I have a pan of gingerbread cooling in the kitchen, and we have milk in the icebox. Is anyone hungry?”

  Mose spoke first. He was hungry, but he had somewhere he needed to be. “I ’preciate it, ma’am, but I best be gettin’ to my house. I ain’t allowed to take my dog up to that schoolhouse, an’ she ain’t seen me all day.”

  When Mose turned down the treat, Crawford decided to join him. “Thank you, ma’am, but I reckon I’ll walk a piece with . . . uh . . . Mose here, an’ . . . uh . . . see his dog.” He looked at Mose. “If it’s all right.”

  Mose shrugged. “That’ll be fine.”

  Having one boy put his business ahead of her gingerbread was a new thing for Elise Austin—having two turn it down heightened her curiosity about the events that inspired their choices. She said, “Very well, gentlemen, do what you must.”

  Mose stood spraddle-legged, put his fists by his legs, and bowed stiffly. His effort didn’t quite reflect the polish of Mr. Gilmer’s, but he had been practicing it in his mind and he thought maybe it turned out pretty good.

  Resentment—and panic—attacked Crawford. He jerked one arm across his waist and the other behind his back and snapped over so abruptly he lost his balance and almost went to his knees. He recovered in time to see the ladies’ elegant curtsies.

  Crawford looked at the younger white boys then at the woman. “Ma’am, is it okay if these two stay ’round here till I get back?”

  Could the situation become any more bizarre? “Certainly.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Crawford gave the two appointees a meaningful stare and pointed at a spot under the lady’s chinaberry tree. “You two stay in this yard till I get back.”

  “For how long?” Henry whined.

  “For as long as it takes,” Crawford hissed. He jogged to catch up with Mose.

  The girl’s mother looked at their remaining guests. “Well, gentlemen, there’s gingerbread and milk for those who are so inclined.”

  The younger boy didn’t want anything on his stomach for fear that it would cause him to throw up. He said, “No, ma’am, thank you.”

  Weems was too timid to eat by himself. “I reckon not, thank you, ma’am.”

  The shock of having four adolescent boys refuse her gingerbread was nearly too much, but a background permeated by an emphasis on refinement stood her in good stead—she was spared the embarrassment of having her mouth fall open. Background aside, when she turned to mount the steps, she smiled to herself and whispered, “Lord, send us help.”

  And He did.

  Out in the dirt street Crawford was walking and seeking counsel. “What do you reckon we ought to do next?”

  “Do what that Mr. Gilmer says, act like gentlemen.”

  They walked several more steps before the white boy said, “What if we don’t know how?”

  The boy’s words stopped Mose. “You don’t know ’bout bein’ a gentleman?”

  Crawford shook his head.

  Mose resumed his trek, thinking as he went. Finally, he said, “It’s like that Mr. Gilmer said, the Bible says God gave us men the job of lookin’ out for ladies.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about the Bible.” What Crawford was discovering about what he didn’t know was beginning to make his chest hurt.

  Mose could see it coming. “Lemme ask you this. If that white man kills you, will you go to Heaven?”

  “I don’t aim to have him kill me, ’cause I’m gonna do like he told me, or I’m gonna run off.”

  “Well,” Mose needed to be patient, “if you was to die from a snakebite, would you go to Heaven?”

  Crawford shrugged. “I reckon.”

  “Did you ever become a Christian?”

  Crawford shook his head. “I don’t guess.”

  “To go to Heaven, you gotta be a Christian. To be a Christian, you gotta ask Jesus to forgive you for your sins an’ be yo’ Savior. Did you ever do that?”

  Another head shake.

  Mose had never thought he’d be telling a white person about Jesus, but here it was. Mose prayed, and God answered. The boy smiled at Crawford. “You wanna see a fine-lookin’ coon dog?”

  There wasn’t a boy in the world who didn’t think his own personal coon dog was the finest in the world, and Crawford knew it. “I guess.”

  The last place on the east side of the street was set off by itself; a small shack standing at the front edge of what had been the old livery yard. The corral behind the house was
spread across the level top of a small hill. Rotting posts were all that was left of the corral fence; the only part of the property that didn’t look like it was ready to fall down was a stand of trees behind the dilapidated barn. On the opposite side of the street, Mr. Saucier kept a few milk cows in a narrow pasture. The pasture sloped westward down the hill to a wide expanse of scattered trees; the woods along Big Black Creek were visible in the distance.

  Crawford watched Mose put two fingers to his lips and whistle. Ten seconds later the boy was almost knocked down by a Walker coonhound. The boy laughed while the tricolor dog greeted him—nuzzling, whining, and wagging her tail.

  When the dog quieted, Mose pointed at Crawford and started building a bridge to the white boy. “Lady, this here’s Mr. Harley Crawford.”

  Lady presented herself to Crawford by sitting down and offering her right paw.

  Crawford had never seen anything like it. He laughed out loud and squatted down to shake her paw. “Pleased to meet you, Lady.” He grinned up at Mose. “She’s awful smart.”

  Mose grinned back. “Naw, she just friendly.”

  Both boys laughed. The dog pretended to be disgusted. The eight-year-old boy prayed.

  Crawford was petting the dog. “How old is she?”

  “Five. I was three years old when I got her, an’ I named her Gal.”

  Crawford cocked his head and looked at the dog. “I thought her name was Lady.”

  “Uh-huh. It is now. My Pap said we needs to be thinkin’ ’bout respect when we thinks about women. That’s why Pap got me to change her name—to remind me to show respect.”

  Crawford stood up. “Well, I’ll be . . . that’s real good . . . sorta like rememberin’ to be a gentleman.”

  The boys followed Lady into Mose’s big backyard. A large round water trough, its concrete perimeter long since cracked, its interior littered with trash, stood at the foot of an old windmill. The boys sat on the lip of the trough and raked their toes through patches of grass. Mose thought maybe it was time to start talking. “Pap says a man can’t be a for-sure gentleman without he’s a Christian.”

  Crawford considered that then said, “You reckon Mr. Gilmer’s a Christian?”

  In years past, Mose had prefaced almost all of his important pronouncements with the words “Pap says.” But he was eight years old now, and he was expected to act like a grown man—and if the words he spoke were true, it didn’t matter who said them first. He said, “I reckon that ain’t for another feller to call—that’s ’tween Mr. Gilmer an’ God. The only person I can know ’bout for sure is me.”

  “How come a feller has to be a Christian?”

  Mose thought for a minute then said, “I better read you somethin’.” He unwrapped the Bible and thumbed through it, praying the whole time. Lady rested her head on Crawford’s leg to be petted. “All right, this here is two verses out of Ephesians, chapter five. One says, ‘Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, an’ gave Himself up for it.’ The next one says, ‘So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.’ ”

  Crawford stroked the dog’s ears and grimaced. “I’m not wantin’ to marry that girl, I just want to know how to be her bodyguard.”

  All a boy had to do was stay around Pap for a month or two, and he’d hear the answer to any question that was going to come up—Mose had spent seven years with the wise old man. He tapped the words in the Book and lectured, “The good Lord knows we need to get our minds set on how to treat womenfolk before we get married, not after. We can’t start off right, if we don’t know where we’re headin’.”

  “That’s it! That’s what I said!” Crawford stood up and jabbed his finger at the Book. “I need to know how to start.”

  Mose was praying and thanking the Lord for the boy’s reaction. He couldn’t keep from smiling when he said, “Then I got somethin’ else I needs to read to you.”

  “What is it?” Crawford was too excited to sit down. There was a chance—maybe a good chance—that he would live to be fourteen.

  “This here is the answer.” Mose found the verse and held up a finger for attention. “ ‘For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlastin’ life.’ ”

  The day’s first warm breeze stirred splotches of April-green grass in the barnyard. Crawford watched dry leaves circulate in the bottom of the water trough. “Not perish? Does that mean somebody can’t kill me?”

  “No-no . . . not like that. It means a Christian’s soul goes to Heaven right when he dies . . . his life don’t ever stop. Everlastin’ life means forever an’ ever.”

  The old fan over their heads turned slowly; the greaseless gears in the windmill registered a shrill, off-key complaint. Crawford looked up at the blades and said, “Have mercy.”

  Mose waited a moment before he asked, “Are you prayin’?”

  The blades of the windmill turned; its mechanical parts continued their high-pitched protests. Crawford was neither listening nor watching. Without looking at Mose, he said, “That man knew you’d tell me about this.”

  Mose nodded. “Could be. But comes right down to it, it don’t matter what he knew . . . the good Lord wants everybody to be a Christian. Now, you got to decide what you want.”

  Crawford pointed at the Bible. “I want to do like it says. Can you tell me how to be a Christian?”

  “I can”—Mose held the Bible up—“but this ain’t about keepin’ that man from killin’ you. This is about somethin’ in yo’ heart.”

  “My heart?”

  “Mm-hmm. Lemme read you somethin’.” He searched the Book for a moment. “ ‘That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, an’ believe in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.’ That’s from the book of Romans.”

  “I believe God raised Him from the dead, but I ain’t sure how to believe it in my heart.”

  “But you believe God raised Him from the grave?”

  “I’ve always believed that.”

  “Do you know you’re a sinner?”

  “Uh-huh. I ’spect everybody but the preachers sin a little.”

  “The Book says real clear that preachers are right in there with the rest of us,” corrected Mose. “Do you know He died for your sins?”

  “Yep.” Crawford nodded. “I reckon everybody knows that.”

  “Then all you got left to do is to pray an’ ask Him to be your Savior.”

  “What about believin’ in my heart? How does that happen?”

  “Well, I guess I ain’t for sure, but I think it means it’s more special than just knowin’ in your mind . . . it’s a thing that changes how you feel about Him . . . an’ about yo’self. You’ll see.”

  “Do I pray right here?”

  “If you decided you want to be a Christian, you best pray as soon as you can.”

  “What do I say?”

  “You tell God you know you’re a sinner, an’ you thank Him that He died for your sins.” He thought for a second, then added, “An’ you ask Him to be your Savior.”

  Crawford pointed at a spot by his feet. “How ’bout right here?”

  “Good as any.”

  The two boys dropped to their knees, and Crawford worked his way through a prayer . . . confessing, asking, and thanking. When he finished he looked at Mose. “That’s it, ain’t it?”

  Mose said, “Yep. I reckon.”

  “You reckon this’ll make any difference to Mr. Gilmer?”

  Mose hesitated, then said, “Maybe, maybe not. Mr. Gilmer seems like a fine man, but what he thinks comes a good piece behind what God thinks.”

  “How come?”

  “Lemme read you what counts to God.” Mose took his seat on the water trough and hunched over the Bible. “This is Second Chronicles, the sixteenth chapter. ‘For the eyes of the Lord run to an’ fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong in the behalf
of them whose heart is perfect toward Him.’ ” He closed the book. “Me an’ you are young, but you’re a Christian now, an’ you pretty much know what’s right. Puttin’ what Mr. Gilmer thinks in front of what God thinks is trouble.”

  He might not make it to fourteen after all. “He’s liable to kill me.”

  “Not if God don’t want him to. You got a guardian angel now— one that don’t do nothin’ but watch out for you every minute of every day. All we need is for God to help us make our hearts to be like He wants ’em . . . He’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Is my angel here now?”

  “Right this very minute, an’ every minute from now on.”

  Crawford took his place on the lip of the trough, and the two boys were silent for a while. Finally, Crawford said, “Bein’ a Christian is gonna be a little harder than I thought.”

  Mose nodded. “You sho’ got that right, but it beats the dickens outta what’s easier.”

  Crawford sighed and stood up. “Well, I guess I need to go tell those other boys what happened.”

  “That’d be good, ’cause time’s gettin’ short.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The Bible says a time of great trouble’s comin’.”

  Crawford’s hand went involuntarily to his backside. “More trouble?”

  “Real, sho’ nuff, like in the Bible, trouble.” Mose talked for five minutes—telling the white boy what the Bible said about the Great Tribulation that loomed on history’s horizon and the events that would precede it.

  When Mose finished, Crawford felt both relief and guilt because he had narrowly missed the coming years of suffering. His next thought was for his friends. “If I can’t explain what you told me to Dee an’ Roscoe, you reckon you could help me?”

  Mose considered that for a moment. “I’m colored. You reckon they’d want to hear about Jesus from me?”

  Crawford hadn’t thought about that. “Does it make any difference if a Christian’s black or white?”

  Mose thought it shouldn’t, but he knew different. “It don’t make no . . . uh, any difference to God an’ me, but it does to some.”