The Land (22 page)

“Agreed,” I said. “But I'll tell you right now, Mister Sawyer, there'll be no need for me to chop wood.”

“How long you figure it to take you?”

I looked again at the picture. “I can start today, finish in about a week, maybe less. After that, I'll have to put a finish on. If I use linseed oil, it could take several weeks for a nice finish. Just a couple of days if I use shellac.”

“Shellac'll do,” said Luke Sawyer. “You got a place to stay?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you stay the night here, if you want. There's the fireplace over there in the corner you get cold, and some firewood out back. Just don't burn my place down.”

“It'll be here in the morning,” I said.

Luke Sawyer grunted and left me to my work.

It had been late afternoon when I arrived at Luke Sawyer's store. I cleared away the dust, then settled down to making the night table. I worked the evening and into the night, slept a few hours, then woke before the dawn and started on the work again. It had been some time since I had set my hands to finished wood, but the touch of it, the smell of it, was the same as it had always been, and it was satisfying to me. I worked the morning long without any food or drink, except for some water from Luke Sawyer's pump out back. About noontime I stood up from my workbench and went outside.

The day was crisp and sunny, and I took my first food of the day in the outdoors. I had bought some cheese and bread from Luke Sawyer's store, and I ate on the bench that set next to the door of the shed. I ate my fill, wrapped the remainder of the cheese and bread, which I figured to save for my supper, then went to stretch my legs.

Now, Luke Sawyer's store was set on a large triangular piece of land, with roads on every side. It was a good location. Folks came from every direction to the store. There was no way a body could have missed it. I walked midway down the stretch of the store's side yard and stood looking out at the surroundings. The greenery of Vicksburg was all around, and I breathed it in, feeling good in the sunshine of that springtime day. But then I heard a commotion rising near the front of the store, and I walked a bit farther to see what it was. Before I got to the road, I stopped beside a big oak tree that bathed me in shadow.

On the road were five boys about the ages of eight or nine, four of them white, one a boy of color. The white boys were circling the colored boy and yelling obscenities. The colored boy stood with his head bowed, crying and wordless. Though I chose to stay out of other folks' business, it bothered me to see those four boys taunting that one, and I started from the shadows to stop it. But then I heard someone yelling at the boys, and I stayed put. Turning, I saw that the yelling was from two young women coming up the road. “Y'all leave him be! Y'all leave him be right now!” cried one of the young women, and the white boys grew silent. At first they seemed startled by the order; then when they saw from whom it came, they began to laugh.

The young women kept their stride. One wore a light-blue dress. The other wore a similar dress, but in gray. They were no more than girls, actually, looking to be in their mid teens or so. I couldn't tell which was older. Both were tall and stately, with pretty faces and skin the reddish brown of pecans. Both wore long braids, and they each carried a covered basket and bore one between them. I figured them for sisters. There was no laughing from either one as they approached the boys and stood before them.

“So, what y'all want?” asked one of the smart-mouthed boys. “This ain't y'all's business.”

“You messin' with this boy here, it is,” said the girl dressed in blue.

“Gal, you best stay outa this.”

“I'm not a gal. I'm the person tellin' you to leave this boy be.”

“You best be watchin' yo' mouth!”

“You best be watchin'
yo's,
” warned the young woman, undaunted. “I said leave this child be and I mean it. Come on with us now, Henry.”

Another one of the sassy-mouthed boys stepped forward in front of the boy of color. “He ain't goin' nowheres 'til we say so!”

The young woman glanced away for a moment, and the expression on her face told me she was tired of fooling with these children. She set down both of her baskets, then looked again at the boys. “Now, look here,” she said, “I know each and every one of y'all's mamas.” She stared each boy right in the face. “Lloyd James, you know my daddy just saved your cow in birthin'. And Harold Thomas back there,
yo'
mama been buyin' pies from my mama for years. Jamie Struthers and Conrad, I see y'all too, and you know I know your mamas, and I know for a fact not a one of 'em would 'low y'all to be down here doin' such a thing, makin' fun of this here child.” The young woman then placed long-fingered hands on her hips. “Now, go on and get 'fore I have to go tell them 'bout y'all.”

“And if this girl here don't tell y'alls mamas, y'all can rest assured I will!” hollered someone from the porch of the store. I turned. It was Luke Sawyer. He stood in the store doorway, a large forbidding presence holding a bloody butcher knife.

The boys looked up fearfully. The young woman, however, without looking around at Luke Sawyer, had the last word. “Now, y'all get!” she ordered once again.

The boys took off.

The young woman watched them go; so did Luke Sawyer. Then he said, “Girls, them baskets for me?”

Both girls replied, “Yes, sir.”

“Got some more of them good pies and cakes from your mama?” Luke Sawyer grinned. “Well, bring 'em on in.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Sawyer, in just a minute,” said the young woman who'd done all the talking. She put her arm around the boy, Henry. “Soon's we tend to this boy here.”

“Suit yourself,” said Luke Sawyer, turning back to his store, then stopped and looked around again. “Where's your papa? He bring y'all into town?”

“Yes, sir, he did,” answered the same young lady. “He over at Mister Crane Cooper's place.”

“Tendin' to that ole mule of his, I reckon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Um. Cooper oughtta just shoot that mule and be done with it. But long's your daddy can keep fixing him up, I s'pose he won't.”

The sisters laughed. “S'pose not,” said the one.

“Well, y'all come on in when you ready,” said Luke Sawyer, and went back into his store.

The young woman then turned to the crying boy. “Now, hush up, Henry!” she ordered. “Don't you be cryin' 'bout them ignorant boys. Don't you know their words can't hurt you none, 'less you let them! They tryin' to make you feel little, but they can't make you feel little if you feel big inside. No matter what they do, they can't do that. You hush up that cryin' and go on home to folks who care 'bout you, and don't you be hangin' round this here store where these ignorant boys can make fun of you. You hear me?”

The boy nodded and wiped at his eyes with his arm. He turned slightly, but his arm hid his face. He started down the road.

“Wait up just a minute there, Henry!” the young woman called, stopping him. She dug into her basket and pulled out a good-size cookie. “This here's for you, Henry, and can you carry yo'self a pie without droppin' it?”

The boy spoke for the first time. “Pie?”

“That's right. A pie.”

The other young woman now spoke up. “Caroline, you can't go givin' this boy one of these here pies!”

“Hush up, Callie!” snapped Caroline. Then in a softened voice she said to the boy, “Now, you take this here sweet-potato pie to yo' mama and tell her that's yo' pie. But you be sure and share this pie with yo' mama and yo' sisters, ya hear me?”

“I hear,” said the boy, Henry, and turned full toward me. Now I could see his face clear. He had a bad cleft lip, which no doubt had been the object of the boys' taunts. But that didn't seem to matter to him at the moment, as his lips curled into a wide grin. “Thank ya.”

“Well, you sure 'nough welcome,” said Caroline. “But you better make sure that pie get all the way home! Yo' mama can bring me back that tin come church time Sunday.”

“Yes'm, I make sho'.” The boy headed down the road, and the two girls picked up their baskets and started for the store entrance.

“Owww, girl,” said the one called Callie, “Mama's gonna whip the livin' daylights outa you 'bout givin' 'way that pie! You know we s'pose t' be sellin' these here pies!”

“Well, you know what, Callie?” said Caroline. “I don't care! That boy needed somethin t' make him feel good 'bout himself, and if a little ole sweet-potato pie can do that, then that's what I give him. Mama can jus' whip me if she wanna!”

“Well, she'll wanna, all right!”

Caroline shrugged off her words. “Ya know what, Cal? I've gotten my share of whippin's before. 'Spect I can take another one.” With those words she entered the store, and her sister followed. I headed back to the shed with a smile on my face.

 

I went back to my work. I labored steadily on the night table the rest of that afternoon and several days after that, sanding it, making the edges rounded and smooth, making it perfect. When I finished, I was satisfied. I got some shellac from Luke Sawyer's store and he looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “You done already?”

“Soon as it's stained,” I said, and returned to the shed. I brushed on the first coat of shellac, then settled back waiting for it to dry before coating the table with another. While I was waiting, Luke Sawyer came out to the shed. “It's not dry yet,” I said.

Luke Sawyer nodded and walked around the night table without touching it. He studied the drawers sitting separately on a shelf, and I could see admiration in his eyes. “If these drawers fit in that table as good as they look, Paul Logan, then I don't figure you to be chopping wood.”

“They'll fit,” I assured him.

Two days later, with an additional coat of shellac dry on the night table and the drawers smoothly slid inside, Luke Sawyer had me bring the night table into the store. Soon after, he sent a boy over to the house of a Miz B. R. Tillman, wife of one of the bankers in town, with the message that a night table like the one she'd admired in the catalog was available if she'd like to take a look. Miz B. R. Tillman came late in the day, just before closing, with her husband, Mister B. R. Tillman. Luke Sawyer called me from the shed, and I stood aside as the Tillmans looked over my work.

“I understand you're a colored boy,” said B. R. Tillman.

I looked at him in silence.

“That right?” he questioned, looking for confirmation.

“I'm a man of color,” I said, quietly correcting him. I was no longer a boy.

B. R. Tillman nodded. “Well, I've heard some mighty good things about your woodworking from Mister Sawyer here. Some mighty good things. Now, if this be the kind of work you do, those good words were true, all right.” He walked around the table inspecting it. “Say you made this in just this last week?”

“That's right.”

“Um-hum,” murmured B. R. Tillman admiringly, and continued his inspection.

Meanwhile, Miz B. R. Tillman had already made up her mind. “Benjamin Roy,” she said, “I want this night table! Best work I've seen in a while by anybody around here. I want a chifforobe with the same design. Get them, please!”

B. R. Tillman protested a bit. “Now, Miz Tillman, that's going to be depending on what Mister Sawyer here is asking for it—”

“He'll be reasonable,” said Miz Tillman.

“Now, precious—”

“Won't you, Mister Sawyer?” she asked.

“Well, Miz Tillman,” said Luke Sawyer, “I always try to be.”

“Well, if that's your attitude,” said B. R. Tillman, “we ought not have a problem. What you asking?”

The haggling over price took more than an hour, and both men seemed to enjoy it immensely. Finally a deal was struck, with B. R. Tillman paying what Luke Sawyer had already told me he would for the table, and a price agreed for the chifforobe if the piece met the Tillmans' approval. The Tillmans, especially Miz Tillman, went away happy with their purchase. Luke Sawyer locked his store and turned to me. He picked up the money the Tillmans had paid and said, “I suppose now we need to determine how we're going to split this. I wanted you here because I wanted you to know exactly how much I was getting for this piece of furniture. I mean to treat you fair.”

“I believe that.”

“But you know I've got a lot of expenses connected with this woodworking plan of yours. I've got the wood to pay for, the tools, and don't forget the shed you're working in—and staying in, I might add. So seeing that you're using my tools and my shed and customers who come through me, as well as the fact that I'm supplying the lumber, I figure that I'm heavy on the expenses end. Now, you talk like an educated young fella. You understand percentages?”

I nodded.

“Good. Well, I figure to pay you twenty-five percent for your labor, and I'll keep seventy-five percent for my overhead and profit.”

I looked at Luke Sawyer, and had he been a man of color, I would have laughed, and he no doubt would have laughed with me. Instead, I shook my head somberly. “I'm afraid those terms won't do, Mister Sawyer. I'm a master craftsman and I've been at my trade for some years now. Without my experience there'd be no night table worthy of selling to the likes of the Tillmans, or a chifforobe on order, so I figure my investment of time and skills are as important as your investment of your tools and your supplies. Thing is, I figure any piece that's made, the cost of supplies needs to already be figured. As for my staying in your shed, I appreciate your offer, and it would be convenient for me, but I believe it would be convenient for you too. I'm the kind of man who, once I make a commitment, I stick to it. If I stay in your shed and I say something is going to be done by a certain time, I can work through the night if need be. If you want to charge me rent for the shed, we could do that, or if I need to find a separate living space, I can do that, but I figure fifty percent of any transaction is the least I can take.”