“Did he chase you?”
“Yes. But I ran faster. Climbed a tree.”
“Can’t have Rooster Ugly pecking at Peanut.” He shakes his gray head. “Not right.”
“That’s right.”
“What else’d you do?”
Mister Beale’s eyes have clouds inside them. He sees me, but not so well. One day he says I’ll disappear; the clouds will make his eyes see nothing but white. He says when that happens, my tales will comfort him.
Missus Thornton walks by. She sniffs. Her hips boom back and forth like sticks beating on a drum. Mister Petey, who’s almost as nice as Mister Beale, tips his hat. Missus Thornton still sniffs as if he’s done wrong.
I scoot closer to Mister Beale. “I laid a cage for a skunk. I’m going to catch one!”
“What’re you going to do with it?”
I mumble.
“What?”
I mumble louder. “Give it to Missus Thornton.”
Mister Beale falls down laughing. “She’ll be cleaning her house for a week.” He sits up, wiping tears from his eyes. “You know you’re not supposed to be playing pranks on grown folks.”
“I know. I can’t help myself. If Ma were still here, I’d be a worry to her.”
“A fine worry,” Mister Beale says. Then he looks far off, with his blurry, bleary eyes.
I know he’s missing his children. Late at night, missing children is all Mister and Missus Beale talk about. They wonder what it’s like up north. If their children are happy, earning money. If they made a mistake not traveling north.
I don’t think they know I can hear. But the wall between us is thin, and, most nights, I stay awake for hours imagining me, Ma, and Pa together again.
Missus Beale always speaks the last words. “I wonder if our children have children.”
I scoot closer to Mister Beale. “Were you spunky, too?” It’s hard to imagine Mister Beale as a boy, as young as me.
“Snakes,” Mister Beale says, nodding. He roars with laughter, and I see all his upper teeth. Some white, some yellow, some just gone. “I put snakes everywhere. Clothes. Baskets. Huts.”
“In Africa?”
“Yes. Before I was captured.” His hands grip his knees. “Slaves have no time for play.” His eyes look sad again.
Wanting to distract him, I say, “Tell me a tale. About Hyena and Rabbit.”
“I’ve told you a hundred times.”
“All the more reason for you two to get to work.” Missus Beale is standing in the doorway, an apron covering her skirt and tummy, and a drying cloth in her hands. “Sugar already has too many fancies in her head. It isn’t natural.”
Me and Mister Beale both sigh.
“I’d like to hear a story,” says Lizzie.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask.
Lizzie is standing right before us, in her best shift, the one without any holes. She has a bundle in her arms. Something wrapped tightly in her shawl.
Mister and Missus Beale look funny at each other.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Mister Beale clears his throat and says, “Story time.”
I clap. Lizzie sits beside me on the step. She holds my hand. It feels good. Before her crush on Mo Johnson, we used to hold hands all the time. Play jump rope and tic-tac-toe.
“Br’er Rabbit was a trickster. Liked to think he could outwit anybody.”
Like magic, folks start gathering. Everybody loves Mister Beale’s stories.
“Now, you all know this here tale came from Africa,” says Mister Beale. “In Africa, there’re hyenas. Bigger than a fox, wilder than any rabid dog. My father told me this story. Now I’m telling you.
“Hyena and Rabbit were fighting, fussing brothers. Hyena even wanted to eat Rabbit. But Br’er Rabbit wasn’t perfect. He thought he was the center of the world. Too, too proud.”
“Like some folks I know,” says Missus Thornton, staring straight at me.
“Hyena made a Tar Baby. A rag doll with big eyes. Curly hair. And floppy ears like Rabbit. He painted it with sticky tar and turpentine.”
“He set a trap,” shouts Lizzie.
“That’s right. A trap for proud Rabbit!”
“Rabbit walked by Tar Baby,” says Missus Thornton.
“And said ‘hello,’ ” calls Reverend.
“But Tar Baby didn’t answer back,” I shout.
“No, sirree,” says Mister Beale. “Br’er Rabbit says to Tar Baby, ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me? I said, “Hello.” ’
“Tar Baby said nothing.
“ ‘Maybe you’re a stranger here? Maybe you don’t know it’s rude not to speak when spoken to? I’ve got good manners. You should, too!’ Br’er Rabbit punched Tar Baby, right in the mouth. His hand stuck!
“ ‘Let me go,’ screamed Br’er Rabbit. Hyena was rolling on the ground with laughter.
“The harder Rabbit fought, the more he stuck to Tar Baby. They rolled and rolled in the dirt. ‘Pity, pity poor me,’ cried Rabbit.
“ ‘Got you, got you at last,’ crowed Hyena, jumping out from his hiding place. ‘I’m going to eat you for supper.’ ”
“What Rabbit do?” shouts Lizzie.
“On his hind legs, Rabbit drew himself tall, his front paws clasped together. He would’ve looked dignified, if tar hadn’t smudged his gray fur black, if Tar Baby wasn’t wrapped around his body with a silly smile.
“ ‘You’ve won, Hyena. You’ve won. Cook me with carrots and onions in the pot. I’ll go down easy. I promise not to upset your stomach.’
“ ‘That’s mighty kind of you, Br’er Rabbit.’
“ ‘I know when I’ve been bested,’ Rabbit sniffed. ‘But whatever you do, please don’t throw me in the briar patch.’ ”
“Can I tell this part? Please, Mister Beale?” I leap onto the top step. “The briar patch was Rabbit’s home. Rabbit was used to all its thorns, its prickly plants. Prickly like sugarcane. ‘Just have mercy,’ he said.” I clutch my hands in prayer, just like Br’er Rabbit clutched his paws, and with all the drama I could muster, yell, “ ‘Please, please, pleassssse, don’t throw me in the briar patch.’ ”
Lizzie claps.
Mister Beale crows, “Hyena was dee-lighted! He’d finally caught Br’er Rabbit!
“ ‘Br’er Rabbit, you’ve fooled, tormented me for years. Time for you to pay for all your tricks.’ He gripped Rabbit by the neck and tossed him in the briar patch.
“The briar patch was just what Rabbit wanted. Soon as Br’er Rabbit landed in the prickly patch, he twisted and twisted until the prickles stuck hold of Tar Baby’s head, arms, body, and legs. Then Rabbit pulled himself free. ‘Unstuck,’ he chortled to Hyena. ‘You silly fool. Can’t catch me. I’m free!’
“Hyena stomped and stormed, howled and growled. For, once again…” Mister Beale pauses.
Everybody chants, “Trickster Rabbit outsmarted the powerful but dumb Hyena!”
We all laugh, some holding stomachs, some slapping thighs, me giggling, and Lizzie using her hands to cover her smile.
“That was fine, Mister Beale,” I say. “Real fine. Tell another. Please. Please. Pleassssse.”
“Time to go,” shouts a voice, sounding from far, far off. I turn my head, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. Lizzie’s not smiling. Mister Beale hangs his head. It’s like all the joy got sucked right out of the yard.
“Time to go.” It’s Lizzie’s pa. He’s stout with bowlegs, and he’s walking toward us. The crowd in front of the porch parts. I can see Lizzie’s ma on the wagon perch. Her brothers are in the back, leaning against mattresses, a wooden chest, empty kerosene lamps, and stacks of quilts and linens.
Mister Wright extends his hand.
Lizzie stands, clutching her shawl against her chest.
“What’s in there?” I point.
“My things. Clothes. Hair ribbons.”
“Come on,” says Mister Wright.
My eyes widen. “You’re leaving?”
“We’re going to St. Louis.”
“Where the Johnsons went?”
“Lizzie!”
She clutches her pa’s hand. “Got to go,” she says.
Then she breaks from her pa’s clasp, dashes up the steps, and hugs me tight.
I hold on to her. Tight, tighter. I feel her body trying to move away, and I can’t let go. “What will I do without you?” I whisper.
Missus Beale grabs my shoulders and gently pulls me from Lizzie.
“Be happy for me,” says Lizzie.
There’s a big rock in my throat.
Lizzie scampers onto the wagon. Filled with straw baskets of food. River Road folks always give what they can—preserves, biscuits, dried beans—to folks going north.
How’d I miss it? The loading of the wagon? They must’ve been doing it all last night and this morning.
How did I not know what everybody else knew? Lizzie, her ma and pa were leaving. Going north.
I holler, “Mister and Missus Wright! Please take me. Please. I’ll be good.” Mister Beale is holding me back. “Better than good. Please.”
Lizzie’s ma looks straight ahead.
“Hey ya,” says Lizzie’s pa. The mangy horse jerks, the wagon wheels roll. Lizzie’s body rocks forward and back. She is holding on to her shawl. There’s a ribbon in her hair. I didn’t notice that, either.
I twist from Mister Beale’s grasp, leap off the steps, and start running. “I’m happy for you, Lizzie. I’m happy.” As fast as I run, that old horse runs faster. Just keeps going while I lose all my breath.
“I’m happy,” I shout. But I’m crying, too.
Lizzie waves and waves. I stop running. She keeps waving, her body rocking with the wagon. I watch until I can’t see her no more.
Lizzie is gone forever and ever.
Like everybody else who went north. Like everybody else who left me behind.
Okra for the Chinamen
I miss Lizzie. I haven’t seen Billy all week. Maybe Mister Wills found out we played? Maybe Billy no longer likes me?
Missus Beale comes onto the porch, flapping her dishrag at me. “Get busy, Sugar. Tend the garden.”
“I hate it here.”
“Hush, Sugar.”
“Why didn’t you go north?”
“Don’t question me. You’re a child. Do as you’re told. Be hush. Work.”
“I can’t,” I insist, my heart racing.
Missus Beale glares sternly and crosses her arms. How come grown folks always win?
I feel an imp overtaking me. I jump, stomp. “Nobody asked me if I wanted to be here.”
Missus Beale looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, like I’m a chicken running around the yard with its head cut off.
“Mister Beale,” she hollers. “Come tame this child.”
Arms flailing, I kick up dirt, making dust. I know I’m behaving badly, but I can’t help myself. Unhappiness, like a wildfire, is burning inside me.
Even Mister Beale has a “pity-pity” look on his face. His look scares me.
How comes start spilling out of me: “How come no one tells me nothin’? How come Lizzie’s got to go? How come north is far? How come it can’t be close? What’s so good about the North, anyway?”
“You’re not making any sense,” says Missus Beale. “North is what it is.”
I scrunch my lips. What I really want to say is I’m tired of staying at River Road. How come I can’t fly away? Cruise the river on a steamship?
Instead, I fuss. “How come Mister Wills pays after harvest? How come I make less?”
“ ’Cause you’re a child,” Missus Beale says flatly.
“How come I’ve got to pay rent? I hate this old shack.” I toss dirt at the steps.
“That’s what freedom is,” says Mister Beale.
My eyes fill with tears. Everything’s a blur. I can’t see. “Nobody asked me if I wanted this kind of free.”
“Time to garden,” grunts Missus Beale. “Folks got to live. Shelter, food, that’s more than some got.”
Mister Beale, on his beanpole legs, walks down the steps and holds me. I wiggle, squirm. But he keeps holding me.
“Sugar, Sugar, Sugar.”
I can’t move. Can’t twist away. His arms remind me of Ma’s arms, strong, tighter than a braid.
“I’m fine,” I say.
His arms release me.
I wipe my eyes and nose. Mister Beale looks worried. Like it’s his fault that I’m so sad.
I swallow. Mister Beale is the nicest person I know. Seeing myself in his cloudy eyes, I think I’m a too, too sad picture.
Missus Beale is frowning, flapping her apron like a flag. I know she’s worried about me, too.
I breathe deep. Mister and Missus Beale have enough sorrow.
“I’m going to go bald,” I say.
“What?” squeaks Missus Beale.
“My hair is going to fall right out! That’s what Ma used to say. That’s what comes from complaining. ‘Your hair falls right out.’ ” I scratch my head. “Any day now, I suspect I’ll wake up bald.”
Mister Beale laughs.
Missus Beale says, “Fancies. My word. Your head is full of fancies.” She wraps her arms around me and nearly smothers me.
She holds me at arm’s length. “Your ma was a fine woman, and she loved you.”
I blink, about to cry again. I fling myself into Missus Beale. I cling to her waist, pressing my face against her, all soft and warm.
“Now, now,” says Missus Beale, pulling away. “Time for work. No more foolishness. Got to get our spring garden in. Humph.”
Her face is all frumpy-grumpy again. I don’t feel bad. Missus Beale hugged me. She never hugged me before.
“Gardening isn’t hard,” I say. “It’s easy compared to cane. I’m not going to complain no more.”
“That’s my Sugar. My sugar girl,” says Mister Beale.
“Look at me, Missus Beale.” I try to spin my legs high in the air like Billy did. My knees bend like a bug’s.
Missus Beale claps. Then, ever practical, she grunts, “Get to work.”
“I’ll tell you a story later,” says Mister Beale, picking up his cloth bag filled with seeds.
“About Chinamen?” I blurt.
He spins, looks at me fierce. I clap hands over my mouth. I’ve never seen Mister Beale so angry. Missus Beale’s lips press thin, tight.
“Where’d you hear about Chinamen?”
“Don’t be mad at me. Please.”
A look passes between Mister and Missus Beale. I don’t understand it. But Missus Beale’s shoulders slump, and she looks older than the old she is.
“I’m not mad at you, Sugar,” Mister Beale says softly.
“Get the garden in,” says Missus Beale, her voice like a stone.
Mister Beale nods at Missus Beale. He extends his hand. I take it. We walk toward our garden. I’m itching with disgust. I’m no good. I didn’t keep Billy’s secret. More awful, I made Mister Beale angry. I worried the Beales.
“Sugar, let’s make a fine garden. What vegetable do you want most?”
“Extra peas, please.” But I don’t really care. I know Mister Beale is just talking to talk. Grown folks do that—talk when they’re upset. Or else don’t talk at all, if they’re worse than upset.
I guess this is good. Mister Beale is talking.
But underneath his chatter about peas, beans, corn, I hear, even though he doesn’t say it, Chinamen are not a good thing.
But are they bad?
I wonder if Chinamen are anything like Africans. I wonder if they’ll look like Mister Beale. Or me? Does China have hyenas? Rabbits and lions?
To Mister Wills, Chinamen are important—more than “less-than-nothing” folks. Better than me?
We walk closer and closer to the garden dirt. I can see the cane fields, dirt that will grow green shoots, cane stalks waving i
n the breeze.
Awful, awful days of work to come!
I squeeze Mister Beale’s hand. He squeezes back.
I wonder if Billy will ever play with me again.
“Let’s get to work.” Mister Beale hands me seeds. “No garden, and we won’t have enough to eat.”
I look at all the patches. Everyone has one. A tiny share of dirt to grow food. It isn’t fair.
Mister Beale squats, planting peas. The Beales share their garden with me in exchange for work. When Ma died, Reverend and Missus Thornton took my garden. She said, “A child doesn’t need so much! We’ll share with those in need.”
Reverend believes in sharing, but Missus Thornton, I think, eats too much. Her hips are wider than a gator.
I collapse onto my knees. Scrape away dirt, poke my finger down, and plant a seed.
When the Chinamen come, I’m going to give them nasty okra.
In the Briar Patch
I can’t escape. Missus Beale watches me close, makes sure I do my chores. Every step I take, she’s beside me. Every day, she’s got new chores.
Every day, she asks, “How’d you hear about Chinamen?”
I squirm, hem and haw, but I don’t tell. Unsmiling, Missus Beale peers at me like she can see straight into my heart.
Three mornings in a row, she’s met me on the porch steps before I can run off. Maybe Lizzie told her about me and Billy? Maybe she thinks I’ll repent and tell her who told me about Chinamen?
“Soap today.”
I hate making soap.
“Get the tallow pail,” says Missus Beale, tying her blue apron.
Nasty! The tallow pail is filled with grease and pork fat. It’s thick, grayish white.
A pot hangs over the yard fire. I hand Missus Beale the tallow. She pours the sluggish gopply-goop into the pot. It smells rancid, even worse than sugar.
“I hear Mister Beale calling,” I say.
“No one’s calling. Stir, Sugar.”
I lift the rod and stir.
“Afterward, we’re going to sew you a new shift.”
“I really think Mister Beale’s calling me. There. Can’t you hear?”
“Sugar, stir!” Missus Beale pours in lye. Lye burns; my eyes water, my nose runs. If it gets on me, I’ll scar.
Sugar Page 3
