All the Days Past, All the Days to Come

by Mildred D. Taylor

  “Didn’t make it to the funeral.” Stacey took off his coat and slung it across one arm. His shirt was drenched.

  “Didn’t make it?” Little Willie looked around at all of us and knew something was wrong. Then he took a closer look at the car and saw the holes. “Lord, what happened!”

  “Got shot at,” Stacey told him.

  “What! When?”

  “Tell you inside,” said Stacey.

  Little Willie started across the lawn to the house. “Got news for y’all too.” Solomon met us at the steps and we entered the house together. Inside, two large fans were blowing at opposite corners of the living room for a cross breeze. Another large fan was in the dining room, which opened into the living room.

  Dora and her eldest daughter, Maylene, were setting the table. They gave us big smiles and Dora said, “See y’all finally made it in. Just about to set food on the table. Y’all’s names in the pot. Sit on down in there and we’ll call you soon as we get it on.” We thanked her and sat down. My feet were killing me. By now, Christopher-John and Man had taken off their coats, and they were as sweat-drenched as Stacey. I was drenched too, but I wore nothing I could take off but my shoes. I kicked them off and set them beside the sofa.

  “So, what’s your news?” Stacey asked Little Willie.

  Little Willie looked at us with a wide grin. “Our boy’s here.”

  I leaned forward, looking from Little Willie to Dora. “Moe’s here? Well, where is he?”

  “Right here, Cassie,” said Moe, entering from the kitchen.

  Christopher-John jumped up. “Well, we’re all sure some kind of glad to see you!”

  The rest of us stood to greet Moe as he came into the room. Solomon shook Moe’s hand. “It’s really good to see you, Moe. Haven’t seen you since Memphis.”

  “Long time ago,” said Moe.

  “You were on the run then too.”

  “Never seems to end.”

  Solomon nodded. “Sorry to hear about Morris. We did a lot of work together. He was a good man.”

  “Yes . . . yes, he was. He felt the same about you.”

  We all questioned Moe about what had happened with him after Morris’s funeral. He had made it to Strawberry walking, then had gotten a ride with a colored man headed for Jackson. The man was going only as far as downtown Jackson and had let Moe out near Capitol Street. “There I was,” Moe said, “just walking toward Capitol when I saw a lot of our folks coming down the street. Looked to be hundreds of them. I asked somebody what was going on and they told me that right after Medgar Evers’s funeral, young folks started gathering and singing protest songs and talking about the killing of Medgar Evers. They were angry and they started marching, marching right toward Capitol, and other folks joined along the way.

  “I was standing near when they met up with the police over on Farish. There was a bunch of white folks too standing round near the police. Some of the police roughed up the marchers, rest of them didn’t make a move. They just stood there waiting. They had their dogs and they had their guns. Some of our folks had bottles and some had bricks and they began throwing them at the police.”

  “Calvin was in that march!” interjected Little Willie. “Told Dora and me we almost had a riot on our hands!”

  “That’s the truth,” Moe confirmed. “Would’ve been one too if this white man hadn’t gotten between our folks and the police. He got on a bullhorn and began begging everybody to just stop where they were. Told us his name and said he was a federal agent. Said a lot of folks in the colored community knew him and knew he stood for right. Said nobody wanted a riot in Jackson, didn’t want anybody getting hurt. He begged folks to go on home. Colored man then took the bullhorn and said pretty much the same thing ’bout being peaceful. Then folks began to turn around and leave Capitol. I turned with them and came over here. Now I’ve got to get over to the other side of town, where I left my car. Like I said, left it with the family of a friend of mine works at the plant with me.”

  “Well, I’ll take you over,” volunteered Little Willie. “And why didn’t you just bring your car over here in the first place?”

  “Didn’t want you mixed up in it. Don’t want them coming after you—”

  “You wait until early morning to leave before light,” interrupted Stacey, “maybe we can get on the road at the same time, watch out for you.”

  Moe shook his head. “No. No way. Who knows what could happen before we get out of Mississippi? Could be some by-chance thing and the police get involved, see our northern plates, run a check, and then you’d be in trouble. No, I’m going alone. Like I said, don’t want y’all mixed up in this.”

  “Well, too late for that,” declared Little Willie. “We been mixed up in it since we took you to Memphis more’n twenty years ago. More’n that. We been mixed up in it since we been born, that’s how long we all been mixed up in it. And one more thing. I’m taking you over to get your car and that’s the end of it. You done enough walking.”

  Moe didn’t say anything.

  “Anyways, one thing you gotta do ’fore you get on the road is change your plates. You still got those Michigan tags on your car they can spot you. I can get you some Mississippi plates.” Little Willie gave a confidential wink. “I know people.”

  Throughout the time we had been talking, we had been standing. Now Little Willie ordered us to sit down, and once we were seated, he wanted to know what had happened to the boys and me to keep us from getting to the funeral. We recounted the events of the morning, about the sheriff and Statler and Leon Aames and Charlie Simms, about our flight from them and finally making it to Jackson and getting stuck in traffic.

  “Well, y’all sure ’nough been through it,” commiserated Little Willie. “That traffic y’all got tied up in was ’cause of the march.”

  “Know that now,” said Stacey.

  “You’re just lucky to have made it in,” observed Solomon. “But seems like to me, you’ve got yourselves another problem now.”

  “About going back home, you mean?” I said.

  Solomon nodded.

  “We know they’ll be watching for us,” said Man.

  “If we were smart,” said Stacey, “we’d head right on to Toledo when we leave here and not go back down there right now. Course, we can’t do that. We’ve got to get back and see about our folks.”

  “What time you going back?” asked Solomon.

  “We want to get there before dark. We don’t want them catching up with us in the middle of the night.”

  “Heard that,” said Solomon.

  Little Man grunted. “No telling where we’d end up.”

  Solomon pursed his lips and was silent. I knew him well and I knew that look. He was figuring something. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking, Cassie, you need a bit of security to head back down there with you, a bit of security that’ll make that sheriff think twice before bothering you again, and he in turn can make these Aames brothers and their kin back off.”

  Stacey’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of security?”

  “Federal marshals.”

  The boys and I looked at each other, and I said, “Federal marshals? For us? Now, Solomon, how in the world are we going to get federal marshals to protect us?”

  “A number of them are already here in Jackson. Some were just over in Alabama to secure that enrollment at the university, and with the killing of Medgar, they came here to monitor things. I know a couple of them personally, met them over the last years at protest events.” He took a moment. “I know where some of them are staying. I can talk to them.”

  “You really think they’d come?” asked Christopher-John.

  “Yes, I think they will. I’ll explain the situation. They go down with you, they can talk to the sheriff, and once the sheriff knows he’s gotten the attention of the federa
l government, I think he’ll back off a bit. He has no official cause to harass you, and the marshals will put him on notice that the federal government is aware of the situation.”

  Stacey gave Solomon a pointed look. “You think you can do this thing, Solomon, we’d be most appreciative. We don’t want any trouble coming down on our folks.”

  Solomon got up and headed for the door. “Soon as I know, I’ll let you know what they say.”

  I went over to him as he pushed open the screen door. “Thanks, Solomon.”

  Solomon put on his hat and smiled. “Anything for you, Mrs. Cassie Logan de Baca.”

  As I came back to the sofa, Moe said, “They’re after all of you because of me.”

  I sat beside him and took his hand. “Little Willie’s already been through all that, Moe. We’ve been in this thing with you since we were born and they’re after us because we were born.”

  “I need to leave.”

  “Not ’fore you eat!” Dora declared from the dining room. “Y’all come on to the table. My food’s been ready!”

  Moe took time to eat and for Dora to pack food for his trip north. Then it was time for him to leave. He was eager to get on the road. He got up before dessert was served, and we got up with him. We all went through the kitchen to the backyard to say good-bye. Little Willie brought his car around back and Moe got in. “See you back north,” he said. His elbow was resting on the lowered car window.

  I squeezed his arm. “I’ll see you there, Moe.” Moe’s eyes rested soft on me. He was smiling as Little Willie pulled away.

  Soon after we went back inside, Solomon called and said the marshals had agreed to go down home with us and that they would be at the house within the hour. Solomon would be going with us. While we waited for their arrival, Dora persuaded us back to the table for her desserts and coffee. Little Willie returned not too long after and said Moe was already on the road. “Tried to get the boy to stay ’til nightfall, but he wasn’t having it. He just put on them Mississippi plates and said he wanted to hit the highway and get out of Mississippi.”

  “Don’t blame him for that,” said Clayton.

  “Maybe not,” said Stacey. “But he should’ve waited ’til dark.”

  “Oh, he’ll be all right on the interstate,” Christopher-John stated optimistically. “No more rural roads to go down. He’s made it this far, he’ll get back home okay.”

  “Yeah, the boy’ll be just fine,” Little Willie agreed, and sat down for his dessert.

  The phone rang. Dora went into the living room to answer it. When she came back into the dining room, her face was grave. “Stacey,” she said, “it’s Miz Logan. She sounds upset.”

  We were all quiet as Stacey left the table and went to the phone. His voice was low and with the fan blades whirling, we could not hear what he said. Stacey spoke only a couple of minutes, then returned to the dining room. He did not sit down. “We’ve got to go,” he said. “Mama said to come right home.”

  I trembled with my worst fear. “It’s Papa?”

  Stacey nodded and quietly said, “It’s Papa.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We waited for Solomon and the marshals. When they arrived, the marshals followed us in their car, one driving, the other in the back seat. Solomon sat up front beside the driver. We had already decided that once we reached Strawberry we would turn off on the first side street, then follow the street parallel to the main street until we had to turn back at the other end of town. It was risky taking the second street. It was residential and white, and any early-evening porch sitters could spot us and report us to the sheriff. Colored folks weren’t expected to be driving down an all-white street. Still, the main street was riskier, for it would take us past the sheriff’s office and we did not want to confront the sheriff, not right now. Even with the marshals with us, we knew we could be detained and we didn’t want to risk that.

  We got through Strawberry, got past the school, and as we approached the Wallace store, we saw Statler and Leon and Charlie Simms. The sheriff and his deputy were not there, but we knew they would probably be coming soon, now that we had been seen. Statler and Leon and ole Charlie Simms all hollered at us as we passed, but they did not head for their trucks. We knew they had taken note of the car behind us, of the U.S. government license plates and the two white men. They did not follow us and we kept on going. Right now, all that mattered was getting home to Papa.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  It was still light when we arrived home. The long days of summer had settled over the land. We left Solomon and the marshals by their car parked behind ours in the driveway, and the boys and I hurried across the side yard to the house. Uncle Hammer opened the door to Mama and Papa’s room. Papa was in bed. His eyes were closed. Mama was seated on the edge of the bed closest to the kitchen, holding his hand. She looked up as we came in. “He’s sleeping,” she said, then looked back at Papa. “He just collapsed.”

  Big Ma stood at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped, staring down at her youngest son. She put one hand on the footboard to steady herself. “He come to, but he ain’t wanted to go to the hospital, so we ain’t took him.”

  Mama glanced at Big Ma, then back at us. “Didn’t call you sooner, knew you would be at the funeral and your papa didn’t want us to. Called the doctor in Strawberry and he came out.”

  Uncle Hammer moved closer to Big Ma. “But he ain’t done nothing.”

  Mama looked at Uncle Hammer, and her voice was quiet. “Nothing for him to do, Hammer.” Uncle Hammer didn’t argue the point. He just looked at Mama, then, without another word, looked at his brother.

  “After the doctor done left, David done gone back t’ sleep,” said Big Ma, gripping the bed. “Ain’t opened his eyes since.”

  I sat on the bed opposite Mama and took Papa’s other hand. I held it tightly. “Don’t hold too tight, Cassie,” Mama cautioned. “It could be hurtful to him.”

  I looked across at Mama, then back to Papa and softly called to him. “Papa . . .”

  Papa did not respond.

  Stacey and Christopher-John echoed my call. “We’re all here, Papa,” Stacey told him as he reached over my shoulder to touch Papa’s arm.

  “Yes, sir, all right here, Papa,” Christopher-John repeated. He was beside Mama now, one hand on her shoulder, the other outstretched to Papa’s face. “Man too, he’s here.” But there were no words from Little Man as he stood beside Stacey. Little Man, who never cried, was silently crying now, his tears saying all.

  We talked softly, all of us gathered there by Papa’s bed. Man brought a chair for Big Ma and she sat down. Her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on Papa, Big Ma sat in silence for a long time, then she began to pray, and after her, Mama prayed. We held hands and we each prayed in turn, Uncle Hammer, Stacey, Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and me. We prayed in a circle, holding hands, and Papa was the center of the circle as Mama and I each held one of his hands. The circle was unbroken. We held tight to each other. We prayed and we waited.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  We heard a car drive up. I glanced out the window. It was the sheriff. Solomon and the marshals were smoking, standing next to the government car. The sheriff and Roger, the deputy, got out of their car and walked over to them. The lawmen and Solomon stood there talking for several minutes, and although the bedroom windows were open, we could not hear what was said. The sheriff looked toward the house, then gave a nod, and he and the deputy got back into their car without coming to the house and drove away. Neither Solomon nor the marshals came to the house either. They continued smoking their cigarettes and patiently waited.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Papa stirred and his eyes opened. We all began to talk to him, each of us wanting to say so much. Papa smiled. We continued to talk and Papa continued to smile. Then
Papa’s eyes closed. The smile was still on his face. We went on talking, but Papa did not open his eyes again. Mama called out Papa’s name. Uncle Hammer tightly grasped the bedpost at the foot of the bed with one hand, and put his other arm around Big Ma. I left the bed without a word and hurriedly crossed to the front door and fled onto the porch. I sat down on the porch steps, bowed my head to my knees, and buried my face in my hands. For long, endless minutes, I sat unmoving, my mind and my soul numb. I removed my hands from my face. I looked with dry eyes to the field once planted in cotton and to the old oak guarding the land from its eastern hilltop. The sun would be setting soon. I heard the door open behind me.

  “Cassie . . .” It was Stacey.

  I did not turn around.

  “Cassie,” he repeated.

  I held up my hand. “Don’t say it,” I said.

  Silence.

  “Then I won’t,” Stacey said.

  I stared at the lawn, now bathed in shadows. I stared at the road, at the redness of it, even as dusk was settling. I stared at the forest, still holding streamers of sunlight. I stood up, took a step down, then looked back at my brother. Stacey stood by the door, one leg bent, the sole of his shoe resting against the door trim, his head leaned back against the wall. He looked at me. I looked at him, then I took the final steps to the lawn. I glanced over at the driveway. Solomon and the marshals were seated on benches under the pines. They all got up when they saw me. Solomon took a step forward, then stopped. Without a word to him, I crossed the lawn to the road and walked into the forest.

  I followed the winding trail to the pond and sat down on one of the trees felled during my childhood so many years ago. I sat there just gazing up at the trees, up at their needle-laden branches, up to the peaks of their majestic splendor as the sunlight quickly faded, and I murmured, “Dear, dear old trees . . . dear old trees . . .” There was so much, so much I wanted to say, and that’s all I could think to say. A gentle wind stirred and the branches began to sway, swaying like giant green fingers strumming at a guitar. I felt Papa with me. I looked around, remembering all the days past, all the days sitting here with Papa, all the days of walking to the pond with Mama and Big Ma, all the childhood days of running and playing in the forest with Stacey, Christopher-John, and Little Man. I would be staying now, but nothing ever again would be the same. Finally, I stood, my hands clasped together, looked upward once more, and, as the teardrops flowed, I watched as the last slivers of sunlight slipped from the trees.