Gone Crazy in Alabama (9 page)

Vonetta and Fern didn't stay mad at each other for long. They never did. Even Vonetta and I got back to the way things were. Not completely, but enough. We didn't really talk about things.

Still, I braced myself to answer their questions about the baby, but no one asked me anything. Vonetta didn't say a word about it, but Fern went to Big Ma to ask why Pa and Mrs. needed to have a baby. Big Ma said, “Never you mind. That's your father and his wife's business,” and then she sent Fern out to the coop with a pan of chicken feed. Fern mistook the chickens clamoring about her for their need to talk, so whatever she had to say about the new baby she said to the chickens.

There was nothing I could do to stop Miss Trotter from telling her history to Vonetta, or to stop Vonetta from telling Ma Charles. Even when Miss Trotter got the best of Ma Charles there was a gleam in Ma Charles's eyes when Vonetta “repaid” her with Miss Trotter's words. One sister said her father knew every flower, leaf, and root, while the other said he never messed with that stuff, but instead went to the colored doctor and dentist in town and bought penny candy for her. They might as well still be in Miss Rice's classroom pulling each other's pigtails.

The dueling between the two sisters went on and on, from one side of the creek and, thanks to Vonetta, back over to the other side of the creek. It seemed the sisters shared their father equally but they were determined to prove which one was the right and true daughter of Slim Jim Trotter. Vonetta was sure to soak up every word, every expression, to reenact later.

Miss Trotter began the latest round of family history and pigtail-pulling. “So, you see, dear one,” she said sweetly, “it was her mama's fault the law went looking for my father on the charge of bigamy.”

Fern's eyes popped when she heard the new word.
Bigamy
. I'd have to tell her later it wasn't the singsong word she might have imagined.

“Found him and jailed him. Took his government work
papers. They were going to send him to the Creek Nation in Oklahoma. State capital is Oklahoma City.” She threw that one in like she was back in Miss Rice's classroom. “Send him back to the reservation. But first there would be a trial at the courthouse in town.” She stopped to chuckle. “What they didn't know was my father walked between worlds. No jail could hold him. And he became a crow and flew between the bars and flew to me and became himself and said, ‘Chickweed'—that's what he called me. ‘Chickweed.'” Vonetta nodded like Miss Trotter did. “‘Papa's gotta fly away. But I'll come back to you, my chickweed. I'll come back.'”

When we asked Miss Trotter if he came back she said no, and Vonetta matched her sorrow when she retold it to Ma Charles. “Never did.”

“Hmp,” Ma Charles said at the end of Vonetta's retelling. “Is that what she told you? Hmp.”

“Ma, don't start,” Big Ma said.

Ma Charles waved her away. “Hush, girl. If someone tells it, I'll tell it. I have a right.”

“Right on,” Fern said.

“That's right,” Ma Charles agreed. “Now hear this—especially you,” she said to Little Miss Ethel Waters. “My father was a God-fearing colored man. He didn't turn into a crow like some demon. No sir!”

“Ma, please,” our grandmother pleaded, but Ma Charles was determined to tell her family history, so Big Ma's
pleas turned to anger. “This is your doing,” Big Ma said to Vonetta. To me she said, “And you keep bringing them over the creek.”

I shrugged. “Nothing to do here. So we help milk the cows.”

“Nothing to do?” Big Ma repeated. “Is that so? Well, I thought I'd let you have the vacation your Pa and stepmother wanted for you. There's plenty of ironing if you're bored. Teach you what wash day is all about.”

But Ma Charles wanted her say and told our grandmother to hush and gave her side of the story.

“My papa didn't turn into a crow. He knew what these colored trials were for. Entertainment! White folk would get wind of colored trials and would come into town dressed like they were going to the theater with President Lincoln and fill all the seats in the courthouse. The coloreds were allowed to sit up in the balcony or in the back if they were a footman or maid. And the county attorney would ask questions in such a way as to encourage the colored person in the witness box to roll their eyes and shuck about and say words they didn't know the meanings of. And the judge would allow the people in the gallery to laugh a bit before banging the gavel and calling for order. They couldn't just take away my father's work pass for good and put him on a train to the Oklahoma reservation. Not a half-colored man with two colored wives. No sir! They had to bring them all in court. Have the wives make
grand Negro spectacles of themselves, calling each other ‘that over-the-creek woman.'

“I might not remember everything about my father, but I knew he stood taller than most men. So instead of making a mockery of my mother and me, and our holy union as a family under God, my father spared us from being the town joke. He even spared that over-the-creek woman. He waited until the sheriff went home and he unhinged the door to the jail cell with a pocket blade they didn't bother to take from him. He unlocked the front door and made his way over to us. He kissed me on the head and told me to mind my ma. And
I'm
the one he called Chickweed. Me. Not her. And that was the last I saw of him. My papa.”

She took out her handkerchief from her bra and dabbed her eyes.

“See that?” Big Ma said. “No one needs to know this. You all just had to upset my mother.”

We didn't hear the end of that for a week.

Still, Vonetta told Miss Trotter Ma Charles's side. Using all of Ma Charles's expressions. She even took a hankie she tied to the strap of her undershirt and cried into it.

To all that Miss Trotter said, “He called me Chickweed first.”

When Ma Charles had told her side of the story, Vonetta had no pity for her own great-grandmother's tears. But when Miss Trotter's tears fell, Vonetta placed her hand to
her own lips, as if to tell herself to hush, to stop carrying their tales back and forth. I didn't see it often, but I recognized a true look of sorrow and regret on my sister's face, and for that alone, I was glad.

When Sophie gave all that she had for the afternoon, JimmyTrotter said, “Let's make a run to town to deliver the milk. Last stop will be Aunt Naomi's and her two quarts.”

“That's right,” Vonetta crowed. “My milk for my cornflakes.”

“
Our
cornflakes,” Fern said. “As long as it's all right with Sophie, it's all right with me.”

“You can drive a car, cousin?” I asked. I couldn't hide my awe and envy.

“Do you see a subway train around here?”

Vonetta and Fern screamed their excitement about going into town. We hadn't seen anything but pine trees, a bloodhound, chickens, and two cows. Even the kick
we got out of having our own pecan tree or gathering peaches and lemons from Mr. Lucas's trees waned after a short while.

“I guess it's okay,” I said. “Let me call Big Ma to let her know we're going.”

“She knows you're with me,” he said in that easy way of his, “and that's as good as her knowing. Come on, girl. Let's load up and hop in the chariot.”

I knew better than to not call my grandmother but I was tired of being a killjoy, and my sisters and I were back in step with one another. We helped JimmyTrotter fill his crates with the quart bottles and he and I lugged them to the station wagon.

“We're gone to town,” he called out to Miss Trotter.

She waved and said, “Then get going. If you call that gone.”

“We'll circle around,” JimmyTrotter said as we pulled away from Miss Trotter's. “First we'll drop off at the Prestons', the Owenses', the Browns', and the Newells'. Then we'll hit town and deliver to the grocery store, the bakery, and then last stop, Aunt Naomi.” It always took a second to remember his aunt Naomi was my Ma Charles, but we cheered the delivery route like we knew where we were going.

Town wasn't a whole lot of town, but as long as there was a candy store it was town enough. We found
everything we'd been missing. Candy, Royal Crown Cola, potato chips, comic books, and magazines. I was just glad for the change in scenery.

JimmyTrotter tucked the bills in his wallet after making his deliveries. Not everyone paid him, but most of his customers did, like the grocery store owner and the bakery. He explained that he wasn't their main milk supplier, but the bakery used only family-farmed milk and the grocery store still had a few customers like Ma Charles, who didn't trust big dairy farms. They gladly paid for what they could get from family farmers like the Trotters.

“I suppose Miss Trotter wouldn't mind if I treated you all to—” Vonetta and Fern screamed before he could get it out.

“Calm down,” I told them, although I was thrilled at the possibility of talking my cousin into treating me to a magazine.

JimmyTrotter smirked. “Brooklyn girls. Act like you all never been off the farm.”

We strolled down to the candy store, arm-in-arm-in-arm. My sisters and I broke our arm link apart to let the man with his dog coming toward us pass, but he didn't. The white man whose tan shirt had a star fixed on its pocket stood in front of JimmyTrotter and us and didn't move. His hat was like a cowboy hat with the same star pinned smack in the center.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” JimmyTrotter said. The girls parroted him, but I said nothing.

The white man, the sheriff, looked straight at JimmyTrotter. He didn't return his easy smile. “Boy, what did I tell you about driving that wagon into town without a license?”

My cousin stiffened under the sheriff's questions and rebuke and could only say, “Sorry, Sheriff Charles.”

“If you were sorry you wouldn't be driving that vehicle down my roads until you turned sixteen.”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff Charles.”

“Charles?” Vonetta asked. “Isn't that—”

I gave her a quick “Hush,” and she sucked her teeth at me.

Fern was busy petting and hugging the bloodhound. He seemed to like it.

“Get from that dog,” the sheriff told her. “That vicious attack dog'll chew you up and swallow you whole.”

But Fern didn't move from the dog.

“Didn't you hear me? That dog's trained to attack Negroes. Now get from that dog.”

The dog looked up to Fern with eyes as sad and droopy as Caleb's and panted for more love. I pulled Fern away from the sheriff's dog. As sure as I looked up at that man's face, I knew I had better.

The sheriff turned his attention back to JimmyTrotter. “You drive that vehicle back, son. But don't let me find
you behind the wheel till you're sixteen and got a card in your wallet.”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff Charles.”

“And don't you be sneaking around driving at night, son. Lots of things happen at night to Negroes you don't want to know about.”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff Charles.”

“You driving that vehicle day or night, you already breaking the law. Nothing I can do for you if you break the law.”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff Charles.”

Each time JimmyTrotter said “Yes, sir,” I felt my scalp baking. I heard Papa telling me to mind my mouth. I did what Papa said but I only grew hotter inside. The sheriff eyed me good and hard, probably knowing I was struggling to keep it in.

When the sheriff let us by, the girls still wanted their comic books and candy but I wouldn't take anything from JimmyTrotter. If I asked him for
Seventeen
magazine, I'd have to keep silent about the sheriff, and I had things to say. On the ride back I decided that I'd stayed silent long enough.

“Why'd you let the Man oppress you?”

“Oppress me?” JimmyTrotter laughed, finding his old self.

“‘Yes, sir, Sheriff Charles.'”

“‘No, sir, Sheriff Charles,'” my sisters joined in.

If JimmyTrotter was embarrassed he didn't let on. He just said, “Sheriff Charles is the law.”

“The people are the law,” I said.

“Power to the people,” they chorused.

We hit a bump. JimmyTrotter tossed his head back and laughed. “Aunt Ophelia told me about you all flying out to Oakland to be with that Cecile woman.”

“Our mother,” I said.

“And a poet,” Fern added.

Vonetta cleared her throat. “A black revolutionary poet.”

“Auntie told me all about it,” JimmyTrotter went on. “She said that Cecile got you all mixed up with the Black Panthers.” He laughed some more.

“Best summer of our lives was at the People's Center,” I said.

“Better if we went to Disneyland like we were supposed to,” Vonetta said.

“Even better if we shook hands with Mickey and Minnie.”

“Well, keep making a fist and shouting ‘Power to the people!' around here. Keep it up,” he warned.

I heard how JimmyTrotter meant it but Vonetta and Fern didn't. They did what they heard and raised their fists and shouted “Power to the people!” and “Seize the time!” and “Right on!”

When we were done being loud and revolutionary we
asked JimmyTrotter about the sheriff.

“Why does he have the same name as Ma Charles?”

“And the same dog?”

“And now that I think of it,” Vonetta said, “the same eyes as Big Ma.”

“That's your blood cousin,” JimmyTrotter said. “Yours. Not mine.”

“That white man?” Vonetta asked.

“And his dog?” Fern asked.

I felt my cousin once again standing over me. Knowing more than I knew. We drove along.

“Ma Charles's husband—your great-grandpa Henry—was kin to Sheriff Charles.”

“Ma Charles married a white man?” Vonetta asked. I would have asked the same question but Vonetta was awfully quick these days. Either that, or I at least thought before letting stuff fly out of my mouth.

“Not Uncle Henry,” he said. “His daddy's father, Rufus Charles. Back then,
Master
Rufus Charles.” He said it like,
Don't yawl know anything?
“The Charles family owned a good deal of the cotton around here, way back then. And the slaves.”

“And the slaves? Like his own son? How can you own a member of your family?” I said. “That's just wrong.”

“Calm down, cuz,” JimmyTrotter said. “It's just history. Or don't they teach that in Brooklyn?”

“Down with slavery,” I said, my fist in the air.

“Get down, slavery. Get down and stay down,” Vonetta agreed.

Fern pointed her finger as if she was commanding a dog. “Heel, slavery!”

JimmyTrotter shook his head like we were ignorant lunatics. “You know slavery's been over a hundred years, cuz.”

I could see Vonetta counting backward in her head and on her fingers. “One hundred and four years.”

“Didn't seem like it to me,” I sang back.
“‘Yes, sir, Master Charles. No, sir, Master Charles.'”

After no one said anything, Vonetta broke the silence. “So we're white too?”

When we neared Ma Charles's house, Caleb was already making a ruckus. Big Ma came outside and scolded him to hush, probably because she didn't want Elijah Lucas to step out on his porch. Fern was the first to jump out of the station wagon. She raced over to Caleb, who sniffed and licked all over her and sang his sad dog song. She threw her arms around his neck and sang with him.

JimmyTrotter gave Vonetta one of the last two milk bottles and told her not to drop it. I had the other bottle.

“Are you kidding me?” she sassed. “I'm going to have a bowl of cornflakes with milk as soon as I get inside!” Vonetta said. If she cared as much about hurting Fern's feelings or finding her missing watch as she cared for a
bowl of cereal swimming in milk, most of her problems would be solved.

To Big Ma's consternation, Mr. Lucas stepped out on his porch and called out, “Ophelia! Ophelia!” like her name was a song. Big Ma didn't wave to him. She waved him off, like,
Stop that!
I don't think it made a difference to Mr. Lucas.

“Don't know why he makes a big noise of himself.”

“Caleb?” Fern asked.

Big Ma seemed mad, embarrassed, and tickled all at once. She said, “Um-hmm,” but I knew she wasn't talking about the bloodhound.