Crow

by Barbara Wright

  While I scrambled up the bank, the second policeman walked along the river’s edge and stopped at the tree with the overhanging roots. He was practically standing on Tommy’s head.

  I prayed that Tommy would keep quiet. He did. The only sound was the lapping of water at the bank.

  The fat policeman asked me my name and age. I stood there, buck naked and dripping, with my shirt balled up in front of my privates.

  “Ain’t you Jack Thomas’s boy?”

  I looked down and nodded.

  “Look at you, naked as a yard dog. You should know there’s an ordinance against such.”

  I looked down and didn’t answer. The sand was so hot, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

  “Now put on yo’ shoes so you won’t be hopping around like a hen on a hot brick,” he said.

  I wriggled into my short pants and put on my shoes without doing up the laces.

  The other policeman returned and said that he hadn’t found anyone else. I felt relieved. Tommy was safe.

  “This here’s Jack Thomas’s boy.”

  The other man looked at me and said, “I don’t see what a boy of yo’ stability would want with breaking the law.”

  The fat policeman said, “Now, it pains me to do this, but I’m gone have to write you up. Ah ’spects yo’ daddy gone have some choice words ’bout this.”

  “Yessir.” I hung my head in shame. It made things so much worse that these men knew my father.

  He wrote out the ticket and handed it to me. “Who is with you?”

  “Huh?” I said, as if hard of hearing.

  “If you’s smart like yo’ daddy lets on you is, you gone tell me the truth, ’cause I got the distinct intuition you ain’t come here wearing two pair shoes.”

  I looked over and saw Tommy’s muddy shoes and pants in a pile. I took in a loud gulp of air. The shoes were tied with bright orange shoestrings.

  “Those are my shoestrings,” I said, thinking of the tree by the swimming hole where I’d left the secret gifts.

  “Appears to me you ain’t got a thimbleful of sense, lying the way you is.”

  “That’s not a lie, sir.” I knew I should look him directly in the eye, but I couldn’t.

  “Who they belong to?”

  I stalled, afraid to move my eyes from their spot on the sand.

  “Now I’m asking you tereckly, son. Who do those shoes belong to?” the fat policeman said. “They reek worse’n week-old mullet.”

  Still, I didn’t answer.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’m gone have to give you two citations.”

  That was ten dollars. It was an impossibly huge sum. I didn’t know how I was going to work it off. But I couldn’t rat out my new friend.

  “Yessir, I understand.”

  He handed me the second citation and motioned to follow him on the path. Before I had gotten far, the second policeman said, “Ain’t you gone take the extra clothes you brought?”

  He nodded toward Tommy’s pile. I gathered up his clothing, but when no one was looking, I dropped his shoes and pants in the trail so Tommy wouldn’t have to walk through town jaybird-naked.

  At home, I waited around for Daddy to get back from work. When he found out, he was going to tan me good. He didn’t do it often, but when he did, it was memorable. I hardly ever got crossways with him, and I hated disappointing him. The last time was when Lewis and I stole one of Mr. Henderson’s prize watermelons and replaced it with one from Lewis’s garden. Mr. Henderson’s melons were known for being juicy and sweet, with few seeds. I should have known we’d get nabbed, since Mr. Henderson’s melons were round and the one we left behind was oblong. Daddy did not buy the argument that it was all right because we left him a bigger one, since Mr. Henderson had not agreed to the switch.

  I left the citations on the kitchen table so Daddy would see them when he came in. Boo Nanny asked what they were, and I told her.

  “That ain’t hardly worth fretting about. It be a dumb law to start out with—cheating young folk out of one of summer’s great pleasures. That river be free as the air we breathe.”

  I knew Daddy would see it differently. I vowed to take my punishment like a man. My worst fear was that I might betray Tommy. It had been easy to keep Tommy a secret from the policemen. But Daddy wielded a huge power over me, and if he asked me, I was afraid I would break down and tell him, and I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to protect my friend.

  By the time Daddy got back from work, he already knew what I’d done. He had sources in the police department. Without looking at the citations, he called me into the parlor.

  I stood in front of him. He was such a towering figure to me that I sometimes forgot how slight he actually was. But someone of small stature could do a lot of damage with the aid of a sweet-gum switch.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I hung my head and could see my reflection in his shoes. “Nothing.”

  “You broke the law.” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone indicated that it took all his discipline to keep from exploding.

  “It’s a stupid law,” I said.

  “You may not agree with the laws, but we can’t govern a city if people pick and choose which laws they want to follow.” As a leader of the community, he was always thinking about the greater good.

  “But the river is as free as the air we breathe,” I said, repeating what Boo Nanny had said.

  “What if there were no laws on the river? Laws help keep order for public safety. There would be chaos—boats crashing into each other, people getting hurt.”

  I hung my head. We were silent for a while, and I thought I was home free. Then came the moment I had been dreading.

  “And the other boy who was swimming with you. You didn’t tell the police who he was.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s my friend.”

  Daddy took off his glasses and rubbed the corners of his eyes, as if trying to rid them of the crusty bits that collect in sleep. “I need a few moments to think about this,” he said. “Wait for me in your room.”

  I lay down on my bed and tried to read, but I couldn’t. When he finally came to my room, he sat on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t look at him, afraid I would break down, for despite my bluster, shame clung to me like the tunnel stink on my clothes.

  “What you did was wrong.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You knew it was wrong, and I can’t let that pass.”

  I leaned against the iron bedpost and waited for the next part.

  “But I can’t see my way to punishing you for protecting your friend. So I’ll cover the second fine. But you will have to get a job and pay off your part of the fine. I’m going to switch you for your part, and your part only. So meet me at the shed in five minutes.”

  At that moment, I burst into tears, catching myself completely by surprise—and Daddy, too, by the looks of it. What did me in was the fairness. I had steeled myself against anger, even disappointment, but I hadn’t expected fairness, and suddenly the shame and tension and fear that had been building up in me broke forth, and I found myself in front of Daddy, eyes screwed up and chest heaving. In a pathetic attempt to keep the tears inside, they came out through my nose. I was so ashamed and didn’t know what to do. Daddy didn’t, either, and quickly left the room.

  After the switching—he had aimed at my bare legs and not my hind end—my calves stung, but I felt strangely spirited. With Daddy, it was the opposite. He went directly to bed after supper, as if the punishment had been his rather than mine.

  Daddy didn’t mention the incident again. A neighbor helped me get a job picking okra. The first day, I got to the field early, anxious to make a good impression. While I waited for the others to arrive, I sat under a tree and read a book. Soon a wagon of Negroes pulled up.

  “Lookee there. Scholar Boy’s got his nose in a book,” said a man called Old Walt. I quickly stashed th
e book away before the others could see.

  A white farmer in overalls and a straw hat announced that a fifty-cent prize would be given each week to the person who picked the most okra. He paired me with an eighteen-year-old named Ernie, a dark, handsome boy with the muscles of a man.

  In the row to my other side—I couldn’t believe my luck—was Julie, the prettiest of all the girls. She had bright eyes and wore her hair caught up in a yellow cloth. Some strands escaped and corked down her long neck. I felt clammy stealing a glance at her.

  “You be de new boy,” she said, and I felt my insides burn, as if the sun were shining from the inside out. “You gots youself the best teacher around.” She smiled at Ernie.

  The okra pods grew straight up, with the tips toward the sun. Ernie showed me how to cut above the cap with a knife, leaving a little bit of the stalk. “Now, don’t go messin’ with the flowers. They be prime for pickin’ in a few days,” he said.

  I followed his instructions, but the work was harder than it looked. I wanted to awe Julie with the amount of okra I could pick. My slow, clumsy hands embarrassed me.

  As the pickers set to work, there was bickering and boasting along the rows. “My fingers ain’t near like as supple as they used to be. But I can pick more than Scholar Boy over there,” said Old Walt, who was as old as Boo Nanny.

  “Who that be?” Julie said.

  “De one that talks like he’s voluntary white folks,” he said.

  I buried my head among the leaves. Crouched down, I glanced at Julie through the stalks. She bent over to reach some low-growing pods, and her dress gaped at the neck. Keeping my eyes on her, I slit my thumb with the knife. “Ouch!” I cried, and whipped my hand back and forth. It stung something awful.

  Julie stopped. “You okay, Scholar Boy?”

  When she called me that, it sounded like music. I wanted to be Scholar Boy for the rest of my life.

  She came over to see if there was any blood. “This’ll fix you right up.” I felt her soft, warm mouth on my thumb. My entire insides felt weightless. She returned to her row. I was in high spirits. I could do this for the entire season, no problem.

  A woman at the far end of the field started singing, and soon other voices joined in. We worked all morning under the high blue sky.

  By midday, Julie was far up the row, and Ernie had already moved on to another part of the field. The high spirits of the morning had faded. Now I was stuck working next to a fat girl who had been hit with the ugly stick. My back ached, and my fingers were red and itching from the whiskers on the outside of the okra pods. I hadn’t brought gloves or a hat like the rest of the workers.

  When the others broke for lunch, I kept on going. “That boy ain’t lazy,” I heard someone say.

  Truth was, I wanted to catch up to Julie. It made me happy to work beside her. The next day, I planned to bring her a bouquet of flowers from our garden.

  After lunch, Ernie came over and said, “You ain’t had a thing in yo’ stomach all day.”

  “I’m behind,” I said.

  “I’ll fix that,” he said, and took over for me.

  His hands flew over the plant, cutting the pods with incredible speed and putting them in my basket, not his.

  After I wolfed down a couple of pieces of corn bread and returned, Ernie gave me back my row. But even with his help, I fell behind and didn’t see much of Julie until the end of the day, when I stood in line behind her and Ernie while the farmer’s son weighed each basket.

  It was sunset, and the clouds had turned golden. “They’s fine as Sis’ Julie’s skin there,” said a worker Ernie’s age.

  “Go way, niggar. You better not be casting sheep eyes at my gal’s skin,” Ernie said.

  I felt my stomach seize up. Of course. Julie was Ernie’s sweetheart. What a fool I had been. I should have guessed it.

  I emptied my basket into the wagon, disappointed to see that I had picked less okra than Old Walt. I’d have given anything for Julie to be somewhere else instead of looking on.

  Ernie patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry. This be yo’ first day.”

  He and Julie left together, giggling and horsing around. I trudged home, stiff as an old man.

  The following days were pure drudgery. By week’s end, it was clear that Ernie was the top picker. No one else came close. On payday, I made sure to be near the front of the line. When the farmer’s son paid me, I pocketed the coins and smoothed out the crinkles in the bills. I couldn’t wait to deliver the cash into Daddy’s hand, to pay off part of my debt. As I strutted down the line, Ernie pulled me aside. “I ’spect the boss man be shavin’ me,” he said in a low voice, not wanting the others to hear. He glanced around him, then said even lower, “If you could see your way fit to check his figures, I’d be mighty obliged.”

  “Well, you worked six days, so at sixty cents a day, you should get three-sixty, plus a fifty-cent bonus for best picker. So he owes you four-ten,” I told him. I wished Julie was there to hear me, but she had already collected her pay and was waiting for Ernie under the tree.

  He returned to his place. I hung around the wagon and waited for him to get to the front of the line. He shifted his bare feet in the sand as the farmer’s son counted out the money.

  “Here’s three-twenty, including the bonus,” said the scrawny white boy.

  “But I worked from de rising to de setting of the sun.” Ernie held his hat in his hand and hung his head low.

  “And we ’preciate your work, we do.”

  “So dat be three-sixty, plus the prize money.” He got flustered, forgetting the numbers. I whispered the amount to him and moved away. “Four-ten, all told,” he said.

  The farmer’s son glowered at me. Ernie held his head down so far that the knob at the top of his spine stood out, glossy brown, like a pine knot on a well-worn floor. “I just want my due,” he said, keeping his eyes on his feet.

  “You take what we give you, or find work elsewhere,” the son said.

  At that moment the farmer came up behind his son. “Are you out of your mind?” the older man said. “That buck picks twice the amount of a regular field hand. You give him his fair wages.”

  The son frowned and handed Ernie another dollar. “There’s a little extree,” he said.

  Ernie took the money and made a deep bow. Hat in hand, he walked backward and made several smaller bows, thanking the farmer again and again as he bobbed like a county fair water decoy, waiting to be shot.

  I tried to blend in with the other pickers by the wagon, but the farmer’s son pointed at me. “There’s your troublemaker. That smarty right there.”

  “Get over here, boy,” the farmer said.

  I was shaking as I approached. I reached in my pocket and felt my money. He couldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t let him.

  “We won’t be needing your help anymore,” the older man said. The son gave a smug smile.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I won’t do it again,” I said, desperation in my voice.

  “It’s a little late for that,” the son said. “Now get out of here. You’re a lousy picker anyway.”

  I left without saying good-bye to Ernie or Julie. Old Walt followed me to the gate. “Scholar Boy, you ain’t got the sense God gave a stump,” he said. “You gots to learn to humble down and lay shut-mouth.”

  The money in my pocket that had made me feel so rich now made me feel poor, because it was half of what I needed and now I had no job. I was such a good-for-nothing worker that I had been fired. On the way home, I dawdled to delay the moment I had to tell Daddy.

  But when I did, he was completely understanding. He said that I had learned my lesson, and he would forgive the rest of my debt.

  When I told Boo Nanny, she hummed under her breath as she listened, the way she did in church in response to the preacher’s sermon. “Bad times a-comin’,” she said.

  “Things aren’t so bad,” I said. Now that Daddy had let me off the hook, I didn’t coun
t getting fired as something bad, not on the scale she meant.

  “Don’t crow till you get out de woods. There might be a bear behind the last tree,” she said.

  FIVE

  “I got a hankering to see the ocean. I reckon I’s earned myself some time off,” Boo Nanny announced, and I knew that the day I looked forward to every summer had arrived. She worked seven days a week, but every year she took one day off and we went to the beach together.

  She put on a floppy straw hat and got her walking stick. I carried a tin pail full of corn bread, beans, ham hocks, collard greens, and two pieces of blueberry pie.

  It took the entire morning to reach the shore. Once we passed through the dunes, Boo Nanny unlaced her cracked leather high tops, knotted her long skirt at the knees, and walked toward the ocean. Her toes were as bent as her back and left misshapen claw prints in the sand, like a creature from one of her ghost stories.

  We ate lunch, then she combed the beach for shells. Even though her bent back put her head closer to the ground, she still leaned even farther to look for shells.

  I never found anything. I didn’t have the patience to look. While she sifted through a drift of crushed shells at the high-tide mark, I plopped down on the wet sand where the waves washed up. Minnows flickered, silver at the edge of the sea. A group of willets played in the yellow foam, hopping about as if in a bubble bath.

  As the water pulled back, I dug and came up with a handful of wet sand that contained dozens of tiny butterfly shells, closed like praying hands. The creatures inside burrowed against my palms, tickling. I let the water run through my cupped hands and wash away the sand, leaving only the beautifully colored shells—orange and pink like the beginning of a sunset, purple and gray like the end. I put them in the tin pail. Back home, when we boiled the shells for soup, they would open up in the shape of butterflies.

  My family ate almost everything from the sea—crabs, oysters, mussels, clams, fish, and shrimp. But we were never, ever to eat a turtle egg. On that point, Boo Nanny was perfectly clear. The giant sea turtles laid their eggs on the shore in the full moon of June, and the eggs, considered a delicacy, sometimes found their way to the market. “How’s that mama gone keep her family alive if the likes of you is snacking on her babies?” she said.