The Sittin' Up (2 page)

Sang.

Shouted.

There was nothing I could do for Ma, so I lay down beside the door just in case my papa needed me to get her a glass of water. Papa lay on the floor on the right side of the bed.

“Please come on down here with me, Wife.” Ma didn't move. She kept sitting in the chair, watching the storm. Every now and then she would stand up and stomp her feet.

“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you for the life of Mr. Bro. Wiley,” she said. As I watched Ma carrying on, I thought about how upset all the Low Meadows folk would be when word got out that our friend was gone.

Now, if Miss Lottie Pearl Cofield was at the house when death knocked on the door, it would have been a mess as sho' as you born. She was Ma's best friend and our neighbor that lived right up the road on Stony Hill. Stony Hill wasn't a real big hill, just high enough for me and my best friend, Pole, to slide down when the snow came each winter.

Pole is Miss Lottie Pearl and her husband Mr. Jabo Cofield's youngest child. Their only son, Willie, is a porter for the railroad and lives up North in a place called Chicago. Pole's real name is Martha Rose, but we called her Pole because she didn't have no meat on her bones. Skinny as she can be. Skinny as one of them poles in our string bean patch in the backyard. I didn't care nothing about Pole being skinny though. She been my friend all our days on this earth and that's why they nicknamed me Bean. Folk in Low Meadows said me and Pole act as if we couldn't live without each other. Mr. Bro. Wiley said we stick together the way a bean vine stick to a pole. Mr. Jabo thought that was some kind of funny, so he decided we were officially Bean and Pole.

He was Papa's best friend. Papa said you could search the world over and you wouldn't find a better man than Jabo Cofield. He was quiet and gentle. I never heard him raise his voice in my whole life.

Miss Lottie Pearl was the closest thing Ma had to a sister 'cause all her sisters dead and gone, except the baby girl, Aunt Juanita, who lived up North. Everybody knew they weren't really sisters. Ma was a pretty woman, and Miss Lottie Pearl was not fit to look at. She had a long nose with a lump on it and her skin just as rough as a potato sack. She had good hair, but she was shaped up like a man. I reckon the worst thing of all about Miss Lottie Pearl was she talked too much to be a so-called Christian. She would say “Amen” every time the preacher opened his mouth, but she talked about folk before she got outside the church good. She had ugly ways.

Yes, a blind man could see that Miss Lottie Pearl and Ma didn't have the same blood running in their veins, but they surely loved each other. They both loved Mr. Bro. Wiley too. We all loved him. We loved him because he treated us as if we were his children and grandchildren. Nobody in the Low Meadows made one move without getting advice from the old slave man. Folk asked him how to heal the sick and folk talked to him about the dead. Mr. Bro. Wiley taught us children to fish and put us in our place when we forgot our home training. He taught the menfolk to coon hunt and he taught the women how to make molasses cakes. Even Miss Lottie Pearl admitted she couldn't out-cook the old slave man.

I peeped in the room filled with death one more time and wondered who would break the news to Ma's best friend. I suppose she felt she could do no more for Mr. Bro. Wiley, so Ma finally lay on the floor beside Papa, where they slept all night.

Lord have mercy! I knew Ma would do some shouting with Miss Lottie Pearl when she got word that Mr. Bro. Wiley had met his Maker.

C
ome Saturday morning, Ma and Papa woke up at five thirty just like they always did. I was still lying in the hallway when they walked past me. I pretended to be asleep because I wanted to hear them talk about the funeral plans. I wanted to know when they would have the sittin' up for Mr. Bro. Wiley. Papa went on the porch to get some water for them to wash up. Then they disappeared into the bedroom. When they came out Ma headed to the kitchen. She was wearing a black dress. Papa had on his Sunday-go-to-meeting white shirt and the black pants to the only suit he had in the world. I closed my eyes again when Papa turned towards me.

When I peeped, I saw Papa carrying some of the dead folk fabric that Mr. Joe Gordon's wife, Mrs. Duvall Gordon, gave Ma. Mrs. Gordon was always giving the women on Low Meadows Lane leftover funeral fabric. I appreciated her kindness, but I wanted her to keep the fabric they used to line the caskets with. Ma used that dead folk fabric for everything. She made curtains, clothes, and tablecloths with it. You name it.

“What you gonna do with the dead folk fabric?” I asked Papa as I jumped to my feet, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

Instead of giving me an answer, he handed me one end of the fabric.

“Hold-hold this,” Papa said. Then he covered the mirror in the hallway. He reached in his pocket, got his knife, and started cutting the fabric at the bottom.

“Why you doing that, Papa?”

“Well, folks say it's bad-bad luck to look at yourself when someone dies in your house. So-so we got to keep the mirrors covered.” I followed Papa to the mirror in my room.

“For how long?” I asked.

“Till-till after Mr. Bro Wiley's funeral,” he said, covering my mirror.

If my folks had let me go to just one sittin' up I would have seen the mirrors covered and knowed all this stuff I was nagging him about. The Low Meadows rule was you had to be twelve to go to a sittin' up and a funeral. Not a soul had died since I turned twelve.

“How am I gonna get dressed if I can't see myself?”

“Just-just wash up and put your clothes on, Bean. I want you-you to look out for your ma while I go to town to get Joe Gordon.”

“Yes, sir.” I didn't say nothing else 'cause Papa's light brown eyes were filled with tears just saying Mr. Bro. Wiley's name. He tried to hold up but water was already running down his dark face and gray mustache.

I followed Papa to the back porch, where he covered the mirror that he used for shaving each morning. I watched and wondered how in the world he was gonna shave with no mirror.

“Pump you-you some bathwater and come to breakfast,” Papa said as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mama,” I said as I walked past her, holding my face tub.

“Mornin', Bean. You all right this morning?”

“I feel sad in my heart, Ma. Real sad.”

“Death is a sad thing, child,” Ma said.

I went to my room to wash up. I put on my Saturday clothes since Papa told me I would be staying home with Ma and not working in the field. We always worked till the clock struck twelve on Saturdays.

But when I got back to the kitchen, Mama made an announcement.

“Husband, soon as y'all eat breakfast I want you and Bean to go get Mr. Gordon.”

“Wife, I-I ain't leaving you here by yourself.” Mama kept on taking the hot biscuits out the pan and putting them on my plate with one egg and two pieces of fatback from the hog we killed last winter.

“You hear me, Wife? I-I ain't leaving you here by yourself.”

“Mr. Bro. Wiley is gone to be with the Lord. I ain't scared of the dead. Now, take Bean with you. He'll be thirteen come December. It's due time that he learned the ways of a Low Meadows man. We bury our own. Bean needs to know what to do when death comes for us.”

I could hardly eat after Ma mentioned dying. That would hurt worse than anything in the world, including losing Mr. Bro. Wiley.

After Ma said her piece, we ate in silence. She wept from time to time. As soon as my belly was full, I started cleaning off the table. I wanted to be ready when Papa got his last piece of fatback in his mouth. I somehow felt grown up because I was going along with Papa.

Ma kissed me good-bye as I walked onto the porch where Mr. Bro. Wiley would sit after breakfast. She gave Papa a kiss right on the lips, and he walked out the door. That tickled him. My papa loved Ma and they loved me. Together we shared our love with Mr. Bro. Wiley. I felt sad knowing I was leaving him in the house dead, but I still had my folks.

Ma stood in the door watching me and Papa walk down to the barn to hook Mule Bennett to the wagon. Mr. Bro. Wiley gave Papa that mule when he moved in with us.

“Why you giving me your mule?” Papa asked Mr. Bro.Wiley.

“That's my rent, boy.”

“You-you know good and well you don't owe us no rent.”

“Ain't nothing free in this world, Stanbury Jones. Don't you ever forget that. Ain't nothing free.”

Nobody argued with Mr. Bro. Wiley, so Mule Bennett belonged to Papa from that day on.

Mule Bennett was old and couldn't do much fieldwork, but he could get us to town and back. That morning when I opened the barn door, Papa's mule never raised his head. He just kicked his left leg like he was mad or hurting inside.

“Papa, Mule Bennett looks some kind of sad. You think he know Mr. Bro. Wiley is dead?”

“Don't know, Son. He-he might. Mules are smarter than us humans give them credit. They love their owners and this here mule knew he belonged to Mr. Bro. Wiley long before he belonged to me.”

“I think we should leave Mule Bennett and take the truck. Surely Mr. Thomas wouldn't mind,” I said. Thomas Wiley was the white man Papa worked for. Mr. Thomas got the same last name as Mr. Bro. Wiley 'cause his grandpa owned the ole slave man and all of his kinfolk during slavery time. He claimed he thought so much of my daddy but he didn't let him drive that truck unless it was for Low Meadows work.

“No, Son, it ain't all right for us to use Mr. Thomas's truck. I give-give Mr. Thomas my word that I only-only use his truck when I'm working. A man's word-word is all he got. Mule-Mule Bennett will be fine.

“Ain't that right?” Papa asked the mule like he was going to answer.

While Papa was talking, I stared down at the riverbank and thought about Mr. Bro. Wiley in heaven with his kinfolk—the kinfolk that were buried at the river. It's 'bout twenty graves down there. Us Low Meadows folk call the spot under the willow trees “Slave Grave.” Most of the graves got the name “Wiley” carved on them. Some have nothing at all. Mr. Bro. Wiley told me that everybody buried down at the river are his kinfolk and he knows who is buried where. Sometimes when he was feeling good, me and Mr. Bro. Wiley would go to the riverbank just to look at the graves. If Pole saw us, she would come running down Stony Hill.

Mr. Bro. Wiley held his walking stick with one hand and my shoulder with the other. Pole walked in front of us, carrying his spit cup. I don't know why Mr. Bro. Wiley carried that cup with him 'cause he never chewed 'bacco at Slave Grave. He said the riverbank was holy ground. That meant no drinking, no smoking, and no chewing 'bacco.

He would point to the biggest rock that was stuck deep in the ground. No headstone, just a rock.

“My grandpappy buried over yonder right beside the pecan tree,” Mr. Bro. Wiley would say in a sad but strong voice. We walked on. “My mammy over yonder next to Cousin Paul.”

Them yellow eyes that I reckon used to be white would fill all the way up with tears. Pole's eyes would fill with tears too. I would stick my chest out real far to show Mr. Bro. Wiley my strength. I had to be strong for him and Pole. Before we could take another step, tears were all the way down to Mr. Bro. Wiley's white shirt that he wore under his bibbed overalls.

“Don't cry,” Pole said, standing on her tiptoes to wipe his tears away. Pole thought the world of Mr. Bro. Wiley, just like the rest of us did.

“I'm all right, gal. I have seen the worst of times. This ain't gonna kill me.”

When we were done walking in the Slave Grave, we would go back to Mr. Bro. Wiley's house and help him sit down in Miss Celie Mae's chair. Me and Pole would sit on the stoop and look at Ole River.

We would throw rocks across the water. Pole was always trying to throw her rock the farthest. I knew she was smarter than I would ever tell her, but that didn't make her the best rock thrower. Just sassy is what she was at the end of the day. She asked a million questions too.

“Why the river make you so sad?” Pole asked Mr. Bro. Wiley on one of our trips.

“That ain't just any river, gal. It is my people's final resting place.”

“But I thought they was all buried under the rocks?” Pole directed her bright gaze into Mr. Bro. Wiley's tear-filled eyes to get all the truth out of him. That was just her way. She wanted the details, because she said she was gonna be a doctor one day and doctors knew everything according to her. I wanted to be a lawyer, so I tried to be a good listener too, mainly when Mr. Bro. Wiley was talking.

“Children, this is your home now, but when I was your age it was a plantation. During slavery, my kinfolk tried to get away from here. Tried to get to freedom. Late at night, slaves would try to make their escape. They wanted freedom so bad they'd try to swim across Ole River. If they could make it to the other side, they thought they could get to the main road and go north.”

“Then what happened? What happened to your people?” Pole focused in like she had a surgical knife on a patient.

“Well some made it across the river. Some didn't. My folks would rather be dead than be slaves. If they got caught trying to make it to freedom, they would swim to the middle of that wide river and drown. Ole River would pull them to the bottom like it was waiting for them. Take them right on to their resting place.”

Pole did some crying when he told us that. I tried to hold back my tears, but I cried too.

“It's all right, children. It's a fine day when a colored man gets to die on his own terms,” he said.

• • •

I looked towards Ole River and Slave Grave while Papa finished hitching the wagon. Seem like I could see Mr. Bro. Wiley and all his people gathered there. I thought about what he told me and Pole. The white folk had surely mistreated his family. They didn't belong at the bottom of the river. I was kind of mad for a minute. Then I thought about how happy Mr. Bro. Wiley must be when he saw his mama, pappy, and Miss Celie Mae face-to-face in heaven.