All the Days Past, All the Days to Come

by Mildred D. Taylor

  I had Papa all to myself. Big Ma was in the kitchen, already planning a special supper for the boys’ last night here, and Mama was at her desk, seeing to bills. Stacey, Christopher-John, and Man had taken care of chores before breakfast, then they packed up several dishes Big Ma had prepared and took them over to the Turner farm. They wanted to see Moe’s father before heading back north tomorrow. Uncle Hammer had gone with them. When they returned, the boys and I would go to Jackson to attend Medgar Evers’s funeral. The wake had been on Friday and after the wake there had been a protest march from the funeral home to downtown Jackson with protesters demanding Medgar Evers’s killer. Little Willie had called and told us. Dr. Martin Luther King and Dr. Ralph Bunche, Nobel Peace Prize recipient and the first Negro to be appointed United States ambassador to the United Nations, were among the marchers. Dr. King and Dr. Bunche and other notable black leaders were to be at the funeral, which would be held at the Masonic temple on Lynch Street, approximately a mile and a half from downtown and right in the heart of the Negro community. Medgar Evers’s NAACP office was located in the temple.

  “You know what, Cassie girl, you know what I’d like to do?” Papa said, his eyes still on the forest.

  “What’s that, Papa?”

  “Later on, or maybe in the morning before the boys leave, like to take a walk down to the pond. You, the boys, and me.” He nodded, gazing across at those old trees. “Yeah, I’d like to do that.”

  “We’ll do that, Papa,” I said, squeezing his hand again, and turned my gaze toward the forest too.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We headed for Jackson. Passing the fallow fields, which for years had been planted in cotton, and the old oak still standing tall on the hillside separating our land from the Granger plantation, Stacey’s Oldsmobile sped along the dusty road. As we approached the Wallace store and the crossroads, Stacey slowed. Several vehicles were parked in front of the store, one of them a sheriff’s car. As usual for this time of year, white men sat on the porch. Several others, including the sheriff and his deputy, stood in front of the store. As we eased past, the men watched us. We turned onto the road leading to Strawberry without acknowledging them. Stacey kept at the slow speed and kept glancing in the rearview mirror. We passed the Negro school. No one was on the grounds. Stacey seemed to relax and sped up, then suddenly slowed again.

  “What is it?” I asked. I was sitting next to him.

  Stacey’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. “They’re behind us.”

  I turned. Christopher-John and Man looked too. In the distance was the sheriff’s car. Behind the sheriff’s car, two trucks followed. “Could be they’re just headed to Strawberry.”

  “Maybe.” Still, Stacey was cautious.

  One of the trucks came from behind the sheriff’s car and sped up, coming fast up the road. Stacey swerved the Oldsmobile toward the side of the road to avoid being hit, then slammed on the brakes as the truck passed and stopped abruptly in front of us. Statler and Leon Aames stepped out. In the back of the truck were four of their boys, all grown. The sheriff’s car stopped behind us. Behind the sheriff’s car was Charlie Simms and his sons. The sheriff, his deputy, and Charlie Simms joined Statler and Leon at the driver’s side of the Oldsmobile. The sheriff tapped on the window. Stacey rolled it down.

  “Where y’all headed for in such a hurry?” the sheriff asked.

  “I didn’t realize we were speeding,” Stacey said.

  “Not speeding exactly,” the sheriff said. “Just in a mighty hurry. Where y’all going all dressed up?”

  Stacey was silent a moment, then answered. “Jackson.”

  “Y’all mighty dressed up all right,” commented Charlie Simms. “Must be something important, big doings going on in Jackson.”

  “Y’all wouldn’t happen to be going to that Medgar Evers’s funeral, wouldja?” asked the sheriff.

  This time Stacey didn’t answer.

  The sheriff took his silence as a yes. “Well, we won’t hold you long. Just got a few questions for y’all.”

  “Questions?” said Stacey.

  Statler gave no time for the sheriff to answer. “Yeah, more questions!” He stepped past the sheriff and closer to the car. “Seems like we just seen y’all at a funeral. Funeral for that Turner boy.”

  “Yeah,” continued Leon, “seems like a lotta folks dying round here.”

  “Like our brother Troy,” Statler said. “Course now, that was some while back, but seems to me, that friend of yours, nigger name of Moe Turner, was the cause of it. He done killed our brother! Now look what done happened since. Our brother’s dead, now his brother’s dead!”

  “Yeah,” took up Charlie Simms, “funny thing. Seeing that the Turner boy dead, we expected that Moe Turner to turn up, show his respects.”

  Statler agreed with his uncle. “There’s been talk that he’s been seen through here. But so far we ain’t seen him. Been watching for him, but ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.” He leaned down and peered into the car. “By any chance, any y’all seen him?”

  None of us spoke.

  Statler pulled back and straightened. “Maybe you’d better ask them, Hank. Seems like they don’t want to answer my questions.”

  “Maybe they don’t like the way you’re asking them, Statler,” suggested Leon. “They step out the car we can put them questions somewhat more direct.”

  “You boys calm down,” the sheriff said, then again addressed Stacey. “Now, we want to know if y’all helped that Moe Turner get back down here.”

  Stacey solemnly answered. “No, sheriff, we didn’t help him get back down here.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sheriff studied Stacey, then, as Statler had done, leaned down and peered into the car. He took a long look at each of us before stepping back. “Well, we believe that boy’s back here. Believe he had help getting here. Talked to his family, but they ain’t had much to say.”

  Statler again moved close to the car. “Y’all know where that nigger is, and we figure we can persuade y’all to tell us. Get on out that car, boy!”

  “Hold on now, Statler,” cautioned the sheriff. “You too, Leon. I think they’d best go on into town with Roger and me.” He looked back to us. “Got a few more questions for y’all. Won’t keep ya long.” Then he turned again to Statler and Leon. “Y’all go on ahead. This boy’ll follow in his fine new car here, and we’ll follow him.”

  Statler started to object. “But, Hank—”

  “Just do like I say. We’ll talk about it once we get to the jail.” He glanced over at Charlie Simms. “Charlie, you and your boys follow me.” The two Aames brothers and Charlie Simms went back to their trucks. The sheriff and his deputy went back to their car and, once in, honked the horn, and we all drove to Strawberry. When we reached the jail located across the street from the town square, several colored men were gathered on the square. We knew some of them. They all stared as we stepped from the car. Stacey gave a nod to one of the men. The man nodded back with understanding. My brothers and I looked at each other. At least other colored folks knew we were here. The sheriff took note but said nothing as he ushered us inside.

  We were not jailed. Instead, we were seated in wooden chairs in the one-room office that faced onto the street. We sat there and waited. It was hot in the office. There was no air conditioning. There was a fan, but the sheriff did not turn it on. Sweat poured down our faces and dripped along our bodies. We were scared, and the sweat pouring down was as much from our fear as from the sweltering heat. The sheriff and the deputy took their own good time about questioning us. After telling us to be seated, they stepped outside and stood on the sidewalk for some time talking to Statler and Leon and Charlie Simms. We watched them through the large plate-glass window. They were in deep discussion, which we knew was about us. Twice we heard Statler’s voice rise and twice we saw the sheriff’s hand pat his arm,
as if to calm him. When the sheriff and Roger, the deputy, came back inside, they kept questioning us for more than an hour. Finally, the sheriff said abruptly, “Y’all can go now. Mr. Simms’ll see y’all out.”

  We stood to leave, and Stacey said, “Thank you kindly, sheriff, but we know our way out.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the sheriff, and opened the office door. He walked out in front of us. We stepped outside with the deputy following. Statler and Leon and their boys were gone, but Charlie Simms and his sons remained, their truck parked behind the Oldsmobile. Across the street on the square, the same colored folks who had been there when we entered the sheriff’s office were still there. The sheriff looked across at them and hollered, “Y’all nigras gathered yonder, ya get goin’! Don’t be loitering on that square! Get on ’bout your business!”

  Reluctantly, slowly, the men dispersed. The man to whom Stacey had given a nod nodded back once more and we went to the Oldsmobile and got in.

  “Y’all drive safe now,” said the sheriff.

  Stacey glanced over at the men leaving the square and pulled out. Charlie Simms in his truck pulled out behind us. The sheriff and his deputy stood on the sidewalk watching. We rolled slowly through the town, barely meeting the speed limit.

  “What do you think?” asked Christopher-John, glancing back at the Simms truck.

  “What do I think?” repeated Stacey, checking the rearview mirror. “I think we’re in real trouble now.”

  Within minutes we were out of Strawberry and on the rural road that led to the highway. All around us were fields. Soon there would be only woods, dense, dark woods. “We could make a run for it now,” suggested Christopher-John.

  I looked back at him. “What, and have them shooting at us?”

  “Better them shooting at us than they take us over and we end up on one of those back roads. What you think, Stacey? We going to make a run for it or not?”

  Stacey did not reply. He sped up. Charlie Simms and his boys sped up too.

  “We can easily outrun them,” Little Man said.

  “Not hardly,” said Stacey. “Look who’s parked up yonder.”

  I sighed. “Oh, Lord.” Up ahead was the Aames truck.

  “They’re going to try to block us in,” said Christopher-John. “They’ll do it before we hit the highway.”

  As we neared Statler’s truck, it swung out in front of us. This time Statler didn’t stop, but his speed was slow. Stacey had to slow down too. We rolled on for more than a mile. Our fear mounted. Forest was all around.

  Man leaned forward, his right arm resting on top of the front seat. “Stacey, we can still outrun them. Up ahead where there’s that crossroads, then that store and the gas pumps, there’s enough room you could swing right in front of those pumps, round that space, and get in front of Statler. He won’t be able to keep up with this Oldsmobile.”

  I glanced at Man. “You know they’ve got to have guns.”

  “Course they do,” Man acknowledged, “but we’re going to have to take that chance before they force us off onto one of these back roads.”

  Christopher-John and Clayton were right and we all knew it. The knot of fear that had begun to swell since the sheriff first stopped us was about to burst. I wanted to throw up. We approached the crossroads. Stacey made his move. Suddenly ramming on the gas, he turned sharply and sped toward the store. Statler stopped his truck. Charlie Simms followed us toward the store. Stacey rounded the pumps and got in front of Statler’s truck. At that, Leon leaned out the passenger window. A shotgun was in his hands. He shot right at us and hit the trunk of the car.

  “What the—”

  “Lord have mercy!”

  “Good God A-Mighty!”

  “Get down!” Stacey shouted, and jammed the gas pedal to the floor.

  “But what about you?” I cried.

  “I’m going to drive like a bat out of hell! Now, get down, Cassie! All of you, get down!”

  We all followed his orders. There was no terror greater for black folks than being chased by white folks on a back country road. I bent down, my chest to my legs, and wrapped my arms around my knees. I could see the rusty dust rising and billowing around the car as Stacey drove at a reckless speed, and I prayed that Stacey’s skills as a big-rig driver all those years ago were still intact. If we could just reach the highway maybe we would have a chance. I wanted to see how close Statler and Leon were behind us, but I kept down. I turned my head, looked at Stacey. His hands were gripping the wheel as if they were glued to it. His face was like stone, his eyes straight ahead. I said nothing to him, not even to ask him to slow down. He didn’t need that from me right now. Stacey had been at the wheel when we sped through the mountains of Wyoming, and he had been at the wheel when we had fled the wrath of white men while taking Moe to Memphis. He had our lives in his hands and he knew that. As we fled toward the highway, our terror swelling like a coming thunderstorm, I thought of Morris, of what his fear must have been as he was chased into the Rosa Lee. After several long minutes, the car began to slow—not much, but enough for me to know we were merging onto the highway. I heard other cars whizzing past. Then Stacey changed lanes and sped up again. “Can we get up now?” I asked.

  Stacey glanced at the mirror. “Wait until we’re closer to Jackson.”

  “Are they behind us?”

  Stacey shook his head. “Don’t see them.”

  I sat up. So did Christopher-John and Little Man. “Jackson’s too far,” I said. Stacey just glanced at me, then looked back to the highway. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I looked behind us, checking for ourselves that the trucks were no longer following. We began to breathe easier. All of us were shaken by the ride and none of us spoke as Stacey, hands still tight on the wheel, drove toward the city. The time seemed endless, but there were no sirens, no trucks following us. I continued silently to pray.

  Finally, we reached Jackson.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We headed toward Capitol Street. It was far too late for the funeral. We were on Farish Street, which intersected with Capitol. From there we planned to turn up Capitol toward the Old Capitol building at the end of the street and head for Little Willie’s. Traffic was slow as we neared downtown. Then it moved to a crawl. Then it didn’t move at all. The south end of Farish going north toward Capitol was a one-way street with three lanes. All of them were jammed. We were in the curb lane.

  “What’s happening?” I said.

  Stacey tried to peer around the car in front of us. “Don’t know,” he said.

  It was hot in the car. The air conditioner was not working. We rolled down our windows. We could hear shouting up ahead. People in their cars, stuck just as we were, began honking their horns, as if that would get the traffic moving again, but it was of no use. None of us were going anywhere. We were all blocked in. We just had to wait it out. A few white people got out of their cars to see if they could detect what the problem was. We all kept on waiting. After some time, we heard people coming, then saw them as they filled the sidewalks on both sides of the street. All the people walking were white. We rolled up our windows. As the people passed, they talked loudly, taunting the Negro passengers in cars stuck in the traffic snarl. A small group stopped beside the Oldsmobile. “Got us some northern niggers here!” one of the group announced, as he and several others took a closer look at the Oldsmobile. “Just check out them plates! Ohio!”

  Another man spoke and slammed the hood with the flat of his hand. “Damn outside agitators comin’ down here! We oughta show them how we feel ’bout their meddlin’. Show them some real southern hospitality and send them back to Ohio with something they ain’t ’bout to forget!” He pushed on the side of the car. A few others joined him.

  Little Man exploded. “That’s it!” He reached for the door handle to confront them.

  “Keep that door locked!�
� commanded Stacey.

  The car rocked back and forth. Stacey revved the engine, but there was no place for us to go. The white men pushing on the car laughed and pushed harder, trying to overturn us. A white man leaning against the hood of his truck in the next lane smoking a cigarette put a stop to it. “No need for that,” he said in a calm, deep Mississippi drawl. The men rocking the car stared across at the man. He was a big man, red-haired, and towering. He looked like a logger. Inside the cab of the truck a young boy was leaning out the open window. He looked to be the man’s son. “They just sittin’ in their car, stuck here just like the rest of us, mindin’ their own business,” the big man said. “Don’t need trouble here today. Y’all boys jus’ keep on walkin’.” His steely gaze rested on the men. He expected to be obeyed.

  The men hesitated, then took their hands off the Oldsmobile. They moved slowly away, but not before one of them spat on the car. The big white man who had come to our defense watched them go, then flipped his cigarette in the street, walked to the driver’s side of his truck, and, without even looking at us, got in while his boy kept staring. Some colored people came walking up the sidewalk. We rolled down our windows and asked them what was happening. They told us hundreds of protesters were marching after Medgar Evers’s funeral. The police were waiting for them and stopped them at Farish Street.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The traffic began to move. We came to the intersection of Capitol and Farish. The crowds that had held up the traffic had dispersed. We kept on driving. Once out of the downtown area, we managed to make it over to Little Willie’s. A lot of neighborhood people were standing on the street, talking. Most seemed to be dressed in funeral clothes. All spaces for parking on the curbless street were already taken. Little Willie was standing in front of his house along with a group of men, among them Solomon Bradley. Little Willie saw us and motioned Stacey to pull into his driveway. Little Willie left the group and came over to the car as we got out. “What happened to y’all, man?” Little Willie asked Stacey. “Y’all get caught up in that march?” He didn’t give Stacey a chance to answer. “Was looking for y’all at the funeral. Course now, there was so many folks—”