A Thousand Never Evers (22 page)

Of all the awkward moments, the strangest comes when I’m leaving the court. There, in the doorway, stands Mrs. Tate, her legs splattered with mud. I’ll tell you one thing: she’s going to need a heck of a lot of carbonated water to get the mud stains off her shoes today! Folks stare at Mrs. Tate, eyes wide. Some nod with admiration. But most are less than cheery.

Mrs. Worth has an all-out hissy fit. “Penelope Tate, I thought we was friends,” she shrieks, “but you sold me down the river. Mark my words, Penelope, I will never speak to you again! Never!”

Mrs. Tate blinks back her tears.

I always thought Mrs. Tate wasn’t too mean for a boss lady, but till today, I never knew she was brave. Now I see while she stood up for herself, she also burned down part of her community. More than anything, I want to thank her, but I’m not sure how I can talk to her in public without shaming us both, so I pass through the courthouse door and leave my thanks unspoken.

Uncle Bump, Mama, and me walk hand in hand down the seven courthouse steps. At the bottom, I
tweet, click, click
for Flapjack, but after all he’s done today, it’s no wonder he’s gone off to find himself something to eat.

It’s only after Uncle Bump, Mama, and me cross the tracks that I
tweet, click, click
again and my cat comes running. I pick him up, hug him tight, and turn down Kuckachoo Lane, where my neighbors shout out congratulations.

Even though I’m twelve, I reckon I just cut my baby teeth. I grew up more in the last four months than in the four years before that. I’d call it something of an inside growth spurt, but I reckon everyone can see it as much as if it was an outside one.

The second we step into the Montgomerys’ house, Uncle Bump shouts out, “Not guilty!” We find my brother in the pantry, Bible in his hand, tears rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t even swipe under his nose to stop them. After everyone hugs a couple hundred times, Mrs. Montgomery brings Elias a pillow and a blanket, and my brother curls up on the pantry floor. Wouldn’t you know it, in seconds flat, he’s snoring into the night.

And soon as Uncle Bump collapses onto the Montgomerys’ couch, he falls fast asleep too. Mama and me don’t want to wake him, so we take our blanket to the backyard, where we sit in the October night, stare at the ashes of our old lives, and cry. When at long last we’re tired out from crying, we lie back on the charred leaves and count our blessings, one for each star in the sky.

CHAPTER 33

October 26, 1963, Morning

Mama says, “We need the money. That’s that.” And that’s how come Mama and me, we’ve got no choice but to go back to the Tates’ house to see if we’ve still got our jobs.

Mama raps on the back door, fixes her eyes on her feet. I do the same. But Mrs. Tate doesn’t answer right away with Ralphie in her arms.

I look up to see tears filling Mama’s eyes. She bites her lip, and I know it can’t be easy for her to go begging on the white side. She knocks again. Again we wait. “I reckon we better go,” Mama says.

But there’s no way I’m leaving this place without feeling Ralphie’s soft skin or hearing him laugh. “Just wait,” I say.

And right then, the door pulls open. There’s Mrs. Tate, looking all different than usual. First, she’s got black spider splotches running from her eyes to her chin. Second, she’s not holding her son, ready to push him into my arms.

I hear Ralphie crying like a siren inside the house. I can’t wait to kiss his tummy and make him smile.

“Good day,” Mrs. Tate says.

“Morning, ma’am,” Mama and me say.

Mrs. Tate pushes open the screen door.

My heart jumps inside me. I’m about to run inside and find Ralphie, but Mrs. Tate doesn’t step aside to let me through.

And it’s like what I’m hearing isn’t real. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “but we can’t be using your help no more. Wouldn’t look right,” she says, and sniffles. “As you can imagine, my husband’s not very happy with me now, so I’ve got to do what I can to keep this family together.”

Inside the house, I can hear Mr. Tate yelling. Now Ralphie cries even louder.

Mrs. Tate glances over her shoulder, then back at us lickety-split. “I’ve got to tend to my son,” she says. “I’m sure y’all understand.”

Understand? I’d like to, but Mrs. Tate still doesn’t know how to fix up the bottle real warm the way Ralphie likes it, not too hot to burn and not too cold to make his tummy turn.

My insides scream. I barely hear Mama say, “Yes, ma’am. May God bless you.” I hardly feel her grab my arm and pull me down the front steps, the walk, and Honeysuckle Trail.

While Mama and me trudge along Magnolia Row, back to our side of town, all I can see is that little boy lying in his crib, reaching out for me to pinch his nose and make him laugh. And Mama, she knows no matter how hard it hurts her to think about where the next dollar will come from, right about now it hurts me more. That’s because the day I started work for the Tates, I took that little one into my heart.

Once we’re back at the Montgomerys’ place, Mama stirs up chocolate milk, and Uncle Bump drapes a bedsheet across the kitchen window. Then Elias joins the three of us at the kitchen table. Wouldn’t you know it, here’s my family at long last together and I can’t do anything but throw a double-duck fit. Ever since my brother told me the real story of our family, I knew the anger was inside me. But I didn’t have time to feel it. Till now.

My lip quivers.

Mama takes my hand. “What is it?” she asks.

I pull my hand back from hers. “You lied,” I say. I take a sip of that chocolate milk but it goes down no better than tar.

At long last, my brother breaks the silence. “Some say the truth sets you free and others say hate drags you down, and which one it would be for you, we never were sure,” he says.

“You just got old enough to take this all down,” Mama says.

And I reckon in the past few months I sure did grow old fast.

“We noticed your new maturity,” Mama says. “You’re not a baby no more.”

Uncle Bump grins. He’s been waiting for Mama to catch on.

“I suppose it’s all because of that Mrs. Jacks,” Mama says.

I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Jacks and Medgar Evers and the man from the NAACP and Martin Luther King and Elias and Ralphie and those kids who marched in Birmingham and those four girls who died there and the burning cross and our burning house and the fire inside me,” I say.

After I deliver my sermon, I’m calm enough to drink the rest of my chocolate milk. But it’s cold as the ache in my heart. And I’ve got to confess my own little fib.

I bite my lip and work up the guts to say it, and when I do, it comes out plain, like toast without cinnamon or butter. “I went to the picking.”

Mama stares at the table.

“I skipped out on school.”

And who could believe after all Mama’s been through, she’s still got enough vinegar in her veins to get mad at me? But when she looks up from the table, I see it bubbling in her eyes. “That ain’t right. That ain’t right!” she says. “Look at this mess!”

Sitting here spilling out all our truths really is a mess. “Sorry, Mama,” I say. I tell her I didn’t do it to hurt her. I went to the picking to stand up for us all.

The more we run over it, the more Mama says she can understand me. “But that don’t mean I’m giving permission to disobey, you hear? You got an issue with my rules, you come to me up front, no matter how hard it might be.”

I nod.

“Now what’re we gonna do?” she asks. “What’re we gonna do?”

“Well,” says Elias, “I’m thinking of going to Hattiesburg to help with the Freedom Vote. I can finish up high school there.”

I picture the map on the wall. My state, Mississippi, and my capital, Jackson. And beneath it, I see Hattiesburg. “That place is south of Jackson, clear across the state!” I say. My lip quivers again, but this time I don’t put up my hand to hide it. I don’t mind Elias knowing I hate for him to go.

“Just for a while,” he says. “Thousands of us are gonna prove that if the court clerks would let Negroes register, we would. We’re gonna hold a pretend election. We’re calling it the Freedom Vote.”

I see how Elias, he’s not all tore up about where he’s got to go. I can see by the look in his eyes, he’s already left Kuckachoo. It’s no longer home.

“I reckon we’ll always be running,” Uncle Bump says.

Then Mama puts her hand over mine. “I’m just not sure we belong here,” she says.

“What?” I ask.

“Here, in Kuckachoo,” she says. “Maybe we ought to go.”

It’s hard to breathe let alone speak, but somehow I find the words. “West Thunder Creek Junior High School,” I say. “I need to stay there.”

“But we can’t stay here in this county,” Mama says gentle.

Uncle Bump leans forward. “Your mama wants you to be free to be what you can in this world,” he says. “As for me, the law says I’m free, but since when do white folks look to the law to tell what’s right?”

“Your uncle and brother ain’t safe here no more,” Mama says. “They need to get out of town.”

And I don’t call Flapjack. He knows I need him. He jumps through the window onto my lap. I stroke his back and wet him with my tears.

Mama, Uncle Bump, and Elias look at each other, not knowing what to say next. So I take Flapjack in my arms and head down the hall to Delilah’s room, where her parents are letting her catch up on sleep while they visit cousins down the road in Jigsaw. I pull her out of bed. I tell her she doesn’t need to wear a dress. Some jeans and a T-shirt will do.

After Delilah pulls on her clothes, I lead her to the window before she gets a chance to start fussing in front of her handheld mirror. And even though it’s not the middle of the night, and even though we could just walk right out the front door, we sneak out. It’s tradition, and besides, it might be the very last time.

While we wander down to the bayou, Flapjack weaves round my calves and I tell Delilah everything—about Mrs. Tate and Ralphie and Elias and what all Mama said.

And I can’t believe it, but soon as we get there, she sits right down on the dirt. “Now how am I supposed to get on?” she asks.

I hate to think of leaving Delilah at all, but thinking about leaving her back here with Cool Breeze is even worse. I know she’ll hold his hand, they’ll stroll by the bayou, and one day, they’ll get married.

“I’ll take the bus to see you wherever you go,” she says.

Just speaking one word is harder than lifting a boulder.

“Bus?” I ask.

“Wait here,” she says, and runs off.

I hold Flapjack on my lap and stare across the water, where I once feared my brother drowned. I see how the cypress roots twist above the surface, and I wonder what turns my new life will take. I used to think I couldn’t go on without Elias but I did. Then I lost Uncle Bump for a short time that felt like forever. Now I’ll have to create a new life without Delilah. And without Mrs. Jacks. And I can’t help but think it isn’t fair. Why can’t I ever have everyone I love with me at the same time? Why does life only work in pieces, like a puzzle that’s never whole?

When Delilah runs back, she’s out of breath. She pushes a sack from the Corner Store into my arms. I peek inside it and see the colors of her gift.

“You sure?” I ask.

She nods, but in her eyes I see she’s drowning in questions of her own, questions she’ll never ask out loud:
What if I can’t find another friend to love me like you? What if I never get to model in New York City? What if I’ve got to raise my children to clean clothes for white folk right here in Kuckachoo?

So we sit without talking, the way we did the night Elias was gone too long. But this time I hang my arm over her shoulders, and we stay like that for hours till we’re both so hungry we drag ourselves back.

While we walk, the sweet times wash through me. I remember Elias pitching his baseball down the lane to whoever would catch. I see Mama embroidering stars and suns on the sheets. I hear Uncle Bump playing his raggedy harmonica tunes.

As soon as we turn onto Kuckachoo Lane, we can’t believe our eyes. The electricity’s come on! Lights are flickering on and off inside the homes. We’re so excited, we run all the way to the Montgomerys’ place. I’ve got to admit, I have a pang in my chest because today’s the day I would’ve been able to watch my television set if it hadn’t been kicked in and burned up, and if Uncle Bump had been able to find an antenna for the roof.

But soon as we get inside, I forget all about my television. Much as I’d like to watch a few shows, some things are more important. There’s Uncle Bump, Mama, and Elias, still sitting round the Montgomerys’ kitchen table where I left them. They’re not jumping for joy about the electricity.

Delilah takes one look and says, “I’ma see ’bout Cool Breeze.” Then she slips back out the door, leaving Flapjack and me in the kitchen to hear our fate.

Once I sit down, Uncle Bump lays out the plan. “Maybe tempers will calm,” he says. “In the meantime, I’ll head to Hattiesburg with Elias and try to find work. I’ma send my money home.”

Me? I’m sadder than a sunburned billy goat.

But then Mama says, “You’ll finish up seventh grade at County Colored.”

And I’m gladder than an escaped farm hog.

And I’m about to tell Mama for the four thousandth time, but I don’t have to because Elias and Uncle Bump say it for me: “It’s West Thunder Creek Junior High School!”

“You’ll finish the school year there. Then we’ll find a way to be together,” Mama says. “Meantime, the Montgomerys are kind enough to let us stay on their couch.”

The kitchen light shines down on all our faces. And I reckon everything looks bright, the same way it does when you leave a dark house and crash into the blazing sun.