Mose didn’t think so. “Cap’n Gilmer didn’t save my life. Them boys might’ve beat me up some, but they wouldn’t’ve killed me.”
“That’s true. But you never would’ve gotten to tell Harley about Jesus, would you?”
“Probably not.”
“An’ if Harley hadn’t’ve been yo’ friend, he wouldn’t’ve been there to keep you from goin’ out in that tornado.”
That made sense. “I guess.”
“Well, then,” said the old man, “if it was me, I’d set my heart on gettin’ to know God better every day . . . an’ I’d make Him known to anybody I could. I reckon that’s as perfect as you can get yo’ heart. After that, you just wait to find out what God wants you to do.”
“But there ain’t nothin’ ever happens out here, an’ I ain’t never gonna leave again.”
“Watch out, now. God’s liable to snatch you outta here so fast you’d forget yo’ ears.”
That was possible. “If you was me, would you be scared?”
“Scared? Boy, gittin’ to raise you is ’bout the finest thing ever happened to me. If I was you”—he pulled himself forward in his chair and tapped its wooden arm with a crooked old finger—“I’d be watchin’ close. I’d figure God was plannin’ for me to do somethin’ that’d stop this here ol’ world an’ make ’er run backwards, an’ I’d want to be ready. When the time hits—an’ you can know it will—you wants to be squattin’ to jump.”
The days passed in peace. Except for trips to the gin and church, Mose and the dog stayed close to Cat Lake. Days became seasons. Cotton was raised, and picked, and planted again. Years passed.
In 1912, four years after Mose came home, they lost money on the farm; 1913 was worse.
The next year they used the last of their cash money to buy cottonseed.
Their crop came up strong, and it was all but ready to pick when a late-summer hailstorm put every smidgen of it on the ground. Pap stood at the edge of the muddy field and surveyed their loss. “There may’ve been folks that went broke bigger than us, boy, but I don’t reckon any of ’em ever did it any faster.” He was eighty-five years old that year, and the loss took a lot out of him.
Mose made a little money picking cotton for other folks, but spent the biggest part of it on medicine for Pap. They had no money left for food, but they wouldn’t starve as long as they could eat fresh dock for greens and go fishing. By the end of September, they had a few teaspoons of coffee left, less sugar, no salt, and precious little cornmeal.
Pap spent the last week of September in his old bedstead. Late on a Friday afternoon, he said, “Moses.”
Mose came to the side of the bed. He was thirteen years old, and Pap had never called him anything but boy or son. “Yessir?”
Pap was propped up a little. He motioned the boy closer. “You ain’t very old, son, but you’re as good a man as ever I’ve known. The good Lord knows what He wants from you, an’ He can get it without me bein’ here.” The old man’s eyes smiled. “I’m fixin’ to leave you here on this earth, but you’re not by yo’self. You understand me?”
Mose had known all day his great-grandfather was dying. He wanted to plead with him to stay, but it wasn’t Pap’s choice to make. He nodded. “I understand, Pap. God’s here.”
“He is here, Moses; He says so.” He closed his eyes and rested. His chest rose slightly and fell . . . and rose again. He opened his eyes and reached for the boy’s hand. “You needs to get closer to Him, son. Me an’ you talked about this . . . He wants yo’ heart to be completely His. An’ you needs be listenin’ real careful. He’s gonna speak yo’ name, an’ you got to go be ready when He calls.”
“I’ll listen, Pap.” He gripped the man’s hand with both of his; tears welled at the edges of his eyelids. He waited quietly while Pap rested.
“I wrote you some things on a sheet an’ put it in the Bible yonder. You keep my words, son. An’ you tell ’em to yo’ children.”
“I will, Pap. I promise.” The boy’s lower lip wouldn’t stop trembling. He was almost a man—he shouldn’t be crying like a young child.
“The devil’s here on this earth, son.” The eyes closed. The chest rose and fell.
“I know, Pap.” He spoke quietly. His eyes filled, and the tears brimmed over his eyelashes and onto his cheeks.
The old man kept his eyes closed. His voice was raspy with exhaustion. “Now, you listen to me. You can tell things about people most folks can’t. You’ve got a gift. You . . . you know things.” He stopped to breathe. He paused for so long the boy grew anxious. The chest rose again. “You spend yo’ life like I’m tellin’ you. You study God to know Him . . . an’ you train yo’self to hear when He calls . . . an’ you raise up yo’ sons to do the same.” Another rest. The ragged voice was earnest with conviction. “You got to have a good woman an’ a good job. Don’t go ’round with a foolish woman, an’ don’t work for a man that’ll cheat you.”
Mose nodded. Tears slipped steadily down his cheeks and dripped from his chin.
The old man pulled his hand from the boy’s grasp and said, “Come close, son.” Mose leaned close, and Pap rested his hand on the boy’s stiff, short hair. “I was blessed by God when He gave me you. I named you Moses Lincoln ’cause those men stepped up to save they people. It comes to my mind now that maybe God has somethin’ bigger in mind for you.” He closed his eyes again. “Moses Lincoln Washington, I bless you in the great an’ mighty name of God. I want you to be in prayer for that day when God will offer you the privilege of takin’ that bold step for the cause of Christ.” Pap’s hand came back to rest on the boy’s. “I’m leavin’ you that book,” he said, nodding at the Bible that lay by his side, “that old shotgun, that mule, an’ you got that dog. The rest is up to you.” He smiled and patted the boy’s hands. “You’ll do fine, Moses. You always have.”
He and the dog slept by Pap’s bed that night and stayed close all day Saturday.
Late Saturday afternoon he helped Pap out to the porch to watch the sun go down. Pap drank the last of the coffee out of his beat-up old china cup, and the two talked about Heaven and angels and living right. When the sun went down, Pap lectured him gently. “Boy, you need to do two things for yo’ whole life. You got to know God better every day, an’ you got to make Him known. If those two things cost you food an’ shelter, then go hungry an’ sleep in the cold, but you spend every day of yo’ life knowin’ Him an’ makin’ Him known . . . an’ you bring up yo’ babies to do the same.”
Mose said he would.
“I reckon you will, boy. I reckon you will.” After he finished speaking, Pap settled himself comfortably in his rocker and died.
Sunday morning Mose and Lady buried him by the rosebush on the south edge of the yard.
After the funeral the boy spent the rest of the day on the porch with the dog and cats. He prayed and cried, and he asked God not to let him miss His call.
Mose was up early Monday morning. He didn’t have time to catch and cook a fish so he did without. The coffee was gone, but he had plenty of water. He let the dog follow him to the far side of the bridge, then sent her home and told her not to get too far from the house.
Cat Lake was five miles south of Moores Point. The road, mostly gravel and some dirt, turned back and forth to wind its way past the cotton fields. Mose walked for a while until a Klondike Plantation cotton wagon came along and the driver gave him a ride to town.
When they got to the Parker Gin, Mose jumped down and found a spot in the grassy area out of the way of the wagons. The scene around the gin was familiar to him, but today he was seeing it from a different perspective—he was looking for a job. He reasoned if he was going to work at the place, he’d better know what went on there.
Mule-drawn wagons moved slowly toward a two-lane covered area where the sucking tubes were. When a wagon pulled under the shed, a quick-moving black man scrambled back and forth over the white fluff, using the big tube to send the cotton to the gin machines. The man would
empty that wagon, the next wagon would pull up, and the man with the tube would start over. Inside the gin, after the big gin stands got the trash and seeds out of the cotton, the pressing machinery took the cleaned cotton and packed it into five-hundred-pound bales. When the bales were fully compressed, they were wrapped tightly and released to slide down a shiny steel incline to the gin floor. A lean black man wearing a tattered undershirt and baggy blue pants stood at the foot of the steel ramp. He sang a silent song and nodded to himself while he waited for the next bale to slide down to him. When the cotton got to him, he’d pick it up on a big dolly and roll it out onto the dock to wait for the train.
Willie Edwards saw the young boy get off the wagon and move over to stand behind the Busy Bee. Willie was probably the strongest—and close to being the smartest—black man in Moores Point. His position as Mr. R. D. Parker’s overseer at the gin was almost a sure guarantee Willie would be able to feed his family year-round. The overseer made two unnecessary passes up and down by the outside row of gin stands while he watched the boy watch the gin. The boy stood in one spot with his arms crossed, feet unmoving, and studied what he could see from his vantage point. When he left the grass and began to wend his way through the wagons, making his way toward the loading platform, Willie moved up to the front of the gin.
Mose mounted the short set of stairs running from the ground up to the loading-dock level, and Willie intercepted him midway. They met under a gray board with faded white letters declaring they were outside the “GIN OFFICE.”
Willie Edwards had the height advantage. He stood on the same step with the youngster, and peered down a full foot into wide-set brown eyes . . . calm eyes. “Where you goin’ to, boy?” The man’s voice sounded like it came from deep within a cavern.
The slender thirteen-year-old took his time and weighed the question while he measured the eyes of the man who asked it. Pap was right—Mose could tell about most people . . . what they felt and thought. He saw nothing in the eyes to warn him off so he decided to answer the big man. He moved up a step to bring equality to the conversation and responded without smiling. “Mornin’ to you. I reckon I’ll be seein’ about gettin’ me a job,” he gestured at the office wall to show the big man who the deciding authority would be, “with the bossman here.” He didn’t bother to smile ’cause Pap said, God gave us village idiots to stand about an’ smile for no good reason.
The boy was thinner than was good for him, but times were tough. He wore a long-sleeve khaki shirt, buttoned at the neck; it was frayed around the edges, but clean, and showed evidence of being ironed. Hand-me-down khaki pants had been taken up to fit him; the needle handler who did the tailoring job was careful but not experienced. The pants were too short to cover the fact that he wore no socks . . . but no one did; a trimmed-down belt held up the pants. High-top shoes, each boasting enough surplus space to accommodate a small rabbit, finished out the wardrobe.
Willie, still five inches taller in spite of the younger man’s maneuver on the steps, continued his thorough appraisal of the boy. “You’re Preacher Washington’s boy, ain’t you?”
“Was. His great-grandson,” said the boy without changing expression. “Pap died Saturday night.”
Death was an accepted companion of the Delta’s black folks. Willie’s expression reflected concern, but the frown that came was bidden by curiosity, not sadness. “I didn’t hear nuthin’ ’bout no funeral.”
The older man’s offhanded inquisition wasn’t really a transgression of privacy, and the boy was patient with it. “Pap didn’t want none,” he said. “I buried him out by the lake yesterday mornin’.” The boy offered no further explanation.
While Willie studied the boy’s face, the boy turned his gaze slightly, looking past the older man’s shoulder to follow a handful of pigeons circling over the gin. The multicolored birds landed, arranged themselves on the ridgeline of the tin roof, and began to preen their feathers. Their cooing was lost behind the noise from the gin.
Willie turned his head to see what drew the boy’s attention. The two stood silent and contemplated the birds for a moment while Willie was making up his mind about something.
The boy was still looking at the roof when the overseer turned to face him. The big man took some of the khaki shirtsleeve material in his fingers and tugged slightly. Mose followed Willie’s eyes as he looked directly above their heads at the open window of the gin office . . . the office where the white men worked. Willie jerked his head and motioned silently with his hand for Mose to follow him. With the boy trailing, they moved up the stairs and away from the office to a point about halfway down the big loading platform. White bales of cotton, wrapped in brown burlap netting and black steel bands, were arranged in groups around them. The cotton-picking season was running at its peak, and the machines in the gin told everyone within a radius of two blocks they were trying to keep up with the steady influx of loaded wagons.
Willie feinted casualness while he glanced back in the direction of the office and turned to Mose. “Cain’t hear nuthin’ ’round the machines less folks is yellin’,” he explained. Then he told Mose why he drew him away from the office. “Mr. Hoot Washburn, he runnin’ the gin while Mistah R. D.’s gone, an’ he don’t take to hirin’ no boys. He’s—”
“I ain’t no boy, I’m—”
Willie frowned and made a chopping motion with one of the huge hands. “Hush now.”
The man’s hat, his eyebrows, and the stubble on his face were frosted gray-white with the lint from the gin. The white-covered stubble on his cheeks moved back and forth as he shook his head. Willie was more insistent than Mose, and considerably bigger, so Mose waited. Willie said, “You lookin’ at the head nigger o’ this here gin, boy. I’m tryin’ to help you ’cause I thought yo’ gran’daddy was a fine Christian man. Now, step over here an’ pay attention.”
Willie turned and moved to a line of cotton bales, looked around furtively, and pushed at a bale as if to rearrange it. The headman was nervous about taking so much time with the boy because if Mr. Hoot caught him standing around there’d be a ruckus. Willie was the overseer and stood around some because he was the boss; he just didn’t want to have Mr. Hoot see the boy standing about today and come back next week and find him working there. It was too easy to keep things simple.
Mose followed and Willie spoke without looking at him. “You needs to talk to Mr. R. D. Parker. Mr. R. D. an’ his daddy owns this here gin, an’ he ain’t here today. You come back on Saturday . . . Mr. R. D.’ll be here, an’ Mr. Hoot won’t. Mr. R. D.’ll hire you for the day ’cause he know’d yo’ gran’daddy . . . an’ he’s a fine white man. He’ll work you some an’ see how you turns out. If’n you works hard, he’ll be havin’ you back. If’n you don’t, we ain’t got no time to mess wit’ you. You understandin’ me?”
Mose looked around him at all the men working at the gin. These men would earn money for five days while he waited at the cabin to ask for a job. He couldn’t hide his impatience. “I reckon I do, but I’m needin’ me some money right now.”
Willie nodded. “We all needin’ some money, boy, but there just ain’t much of it. You do like I say . . . you go on back home an’ pick cotton, then you come in here Saturday mornin’ at first light.”
Mose thought for a moment then made his decision. “I reckon I will. I reckon I’ll work too.” He looked at Willie for a moment then stuck out his hand. “I’m Mose Washington.”
Willie was surprised by the move, but recovered. “They calls me Willie.” Mose’s hand disappeared into the hard fist of the big man, and they shook hands. Or at least Willie moved his fist up and down, and Mose’s hand went along for the ride.
When Mose turned to leave, Willie spoke again. “Wear you a hat when you comes back.”
Mose turned back with a question. “How come?” There was the mildest hint of distrust in the words. He was becoming weary of being told what to do by a man he didn’t know. He tried unsuccessfully not to frown.
Willie was tolerant of the boy’s attitude. He could remember being thirteen years old . . . and he had been twice this boy’s size. He knew that under the same circumstances he would have reacted more forcefully. “So’s you can take it off an’ show respect when you sees Mr. R. D. He notices such as that.”
“I ain’t never worn no hat, ’cept in the field. I don’t plan on bein’ in the field.”
“If’n you wants a man’s job, you best wear a man’s hat.” He touched a large finger to his own hat brim. “Have you got one where you stay at?”
“I don’t know.” There was a short stack of delapidated brown felt hats in the old chifforobe in the bedroom. Pap was never outside the house without one. “I reckon Pap’ll have one somewhere around.”
“I’ll be gettin’ here to the gin come daylight Saturday mornin’; Mr. R. D.’ll be here soon after. You can come an’ find me before you goes up to the office, an’ I’ll show you what to do. Now you git on off from here ’fore Mr. Hoot say somethin’.”
The boy nodded and turned away.
“Hey!” The big man stopped him. “You got any money, boy?”
Pap’s words came to him as Mose turned around: Don’t be tellin’ other folks yo’ business, boy. You keep yo’ counsel with the Lord, an’ let others do the same.
The headman didn’t wait for an answer. “Here, now.” Willie’s hand was coming from his pocket as he spoke. He looked down at a hand holding two dimes. “You take this here.” He held one of the coins out to Mose and put the other one back in its hiding place.
The long fingers looked almost stubby because of their breadth. The wide palm of the man’s hand was almost completely calloused from edge to edge. Mose stared for a few seconds at the single ten-cent piece resting like a small island in the middle of the brick-hard palm. He told his eyes to stop looking at the money that could take away his hunger and nodded his thanks at the man. “I’m obliged to you, but I got all I need.” The man who would give up half of his pocket money to a boy he didn’t know kept the hand extended. Mose knew he would be hungry during the coming week, but he also knew he would eat. He shook his head again.
And If I Die Page 17
