The Sittin' Up (3 page)

“P
apa, I want to spend them final hours with Mr. Bro. Wiley just like the grown folk. I want to go to the sittin' up.”

“I reckon you-you old enough. You are about to be a teenager. Them years went by so fast,” Papa said as we headed out of the yard. “Low-Low Meadows men take care of our own—the living and the-the dead. Your ma's right. It's time you learn how to take care of the dead. I won't always be here.”

I tried not to listen to Papa talk about not being around. I just couldn't think about him dying after watching Mr. Bro. Wiley leave us the night before.

“Well, I think it's only right that Pole come to the sittin' up too,” I said.

“Yeah, Pole too. If her folk-folk say it's all right.”

Ain't no way in the world I wanted to go to my first sittin' up without Pole. We'd done everything together all our lives since I didn't have no sisters and brothers. Willie was so much older than Pole that she barely knew him. Pole was surely the sassiest girl in our school and smart too. Most of all she was my best friend in the world.

Sometimes, I tried to sneak away to do stuff with the menfolk, but not my first sittin' up. Pole had to be with me. It wasn't gonna be easy to tell her that our Mr. Bro. Wiley was gone to glory.

I looked back at the house where Ma was still standing in the kitchen door.

Papa threw her another kiss as he turned Mule Bennett towards Stony Hill.

“Why we headed to Stony Hill?” I asked.

“'Cause-'cause, Son, I got to-to get Lottie Pearl. I heard what your ma said, but we-we can't leave her alone with Mr. Bro. Wiley. Up-up, Mule Bennett, climb up,” Papa said.

“How long do you reckon she gonna be sad?” I asked. I really wondered how long we all would grieve for Mr. Bro. Wiley.

“Son, you can't put-put no time on a grief. Death is a heartbreak that will keep you up at night. Wife will heal by and by. We all will.”

When Mule Bennett finally made it up Stony Hill, I could see Miss Lottie Pearl sweeping her wide front porch. A slight breeze had a hold of her big flowered beige dress. She wore that dress to the field every day.

Pole was in the yard, picking up sticks that the storm left behind. Even in her field clothes, she looked pretty. Her white blouse was always ironed and her little denim britches were rolled up neatly around her ankles. The future doctor had on a pair of Mr. Jabo's gloves to protect the hands that she swore would be those of a surgeon one day.

Pole was always helping her mama keep their home place clean. The Cofields' house belonged to Mr. Thomas as did all the houses in the Low Meadows. They worked for him like all coloreds who lived on his land had to do. Their house had the highest porch I had ever seen. Papa said Mr. Thomas built the porch high off the ground 'cause he was scared of the water. He had stayed there one year and then he said the water was still too close for his comfort. He said he got tired of the storms that came often. He asked Papa about moving in the nice house first, but we couldn't live there with all those steps and Papa's bad leg. Happy to leave their old stack down at the river, the Cofields moved in that winter Mr. Thomas took his family and moved out to town with the rest of the white folk. He took everybody except his boy, Christian. They didn't get along worth a nickel because Mr. Thomas said his son was lazy. Mr. Thomas gave him a little house across the road from us and went on about his business. Christian Wiley was the only white person left in the Low Meadows.

I waved at the womenfolk when we got closer.

“Mornin', Lottie Pearl. Mornin', Pole. Have-have Jabo left for the 'bacco field yet?” Papa asked.

“Lord, yeah. Jabo been gone. The ground so wet he told me and Pole to wait awhile. Why ain't you in the field?” Then Miss Lottie Pearl stopped her sweeping. She dropped her broom and raised her hand over her eyes to block the sun that had finally stopped hiding behind the clouds. She walked to the end of the porch and looked at Papa.

“Stanbury, is that death I see in your eyes?”

“It-it is death, Lottie Pearl. Mr. Bro. Wiley went on to glory last night. I wanted to catch you 'fore you went to the field. Need you-you to go up to the house with Wife, while I get Joe Gordon.”

“My Lord, my God!” Miss Lottie Pearl yelled out. She threw her arms in the air. She shouted like she saw Jesus coming down Low Meadows Lane to take
her
to heaven. Pole threw the gloves to the ground and rushed to her mama's side.

I wanted to get down from the wagon to hug the women but I had to take care of the menfolk business with my papa.

“Lottie Pearl, it-it gonna be all right. Mr. Bro. Wiley was old and tired of this here earth,” Papa said. “He was ready to go on home.”

“Lord Jesus. I should have known he was gone. Last night I dreamed I was lost in this big house. That's a sho' sign of death,” she said.

While Miss Lottie Pearl was talking, I reckon the Holy Ghost got hold of Pole because she stomped her feet a few times like she wanted to shout. Her big ponytails went up and down and she was doing some crying. It hurt me to my heart to see her broke up that way.

It took them a few minutes, but the womenfolk pulled themselves together and wiped the tears from their eyes.

“You all can leave. I'll take care of Mama,” Pole assured us as they held hands.

“Yes, Stanbury, Pole is right. Y'all go on.” Miss Lottie Pearl paused and walked back to the edge of the porch. “Would you please ask Mrs. Gordon to call Pullman Railroad in Chicago for me? Tell them to get word to Willie that Mr. Bro. Wiley is dead,” she said. “He pay half price for train tickets and he sho' gonna want to come South for the funeral.”

“I'll make sure she calls for you,” Papa told our neighbor. It sure would be nice for Willie to come to the funeral. He always brought me and Pole candy that the porters pass out on the train. Most of all he had stories from all over the country to tell us. We could travel with Willie without even leaving the front porch.

I wondered what Mrs. Gordon would say to them important white folk up in Chicago. In school we read all about George Pullman's first sleeping car carrying the body of President Lincoln from Washington. We learned about how all the coloreds that worked for George Pullman Company were also called “George” by the white passengers, even after he died.

“Pole, come on in this house and put your Saturday clothes on 'cause we got to go see 'bout Sister.”

Miss Lottie Pearl turned to walk in the house then.

“Lord have mercy, Jesus,” she told the Lord as Pole followed her inside.

Papa seemed fine with leaving the Low Meadows now 'cause he knew she would take care of Ma.

We headed down Stony Hill. Heavy from all the rain, the weeping willows were leaning on Low Meadows Lane. With water still dripping from the leaves the trees appeared to be crying too. The leaves had fallen all over the ground. It felt like everything in the Low Meadows wanted to come alive and walk with us to town to tell Mr. Gordon that the angels came and got Mr. Bro. Wiley.

I couldn't keep my eyes off the sky. The clouds were dark again and sad, as if they were crying too. Mr. Bro. Wiley leaving was something to cry about.

“Look like the storm is coming back, Papa.”

“Well, I-I sure hope not, but the wind getting high again. White folk in town say a big storm is coming all the way from Jamaica.”

“Where's that?”

“I don't know. I send you to school every day when it ain't 'bacco and cotton season. You-you need to look at the globe and tell me.”

“I hope the storm don't get here 'fore the sittin' up.”

“Now-now, that ain't in the books. Only the Lord knows that,” Papa said.

• • •

Mule Bennett finally made his way down to Low Meadows
Lane. The first person we saw when we got back on Low Meadows Lane was Ma's only brother, Lionel. Everyone called him Goat. He was all dressed up like he was going to church with a nice straw hat that covered his gray hair and slightly hid the patch over the eye he lost in an accident at the sawmill.

My uncle lived down on the riverbank in one of the old slave cabins that he fixed up. He even put a new floor in his house—a tile floor. He got the tile real cheap at the factory he used to work at over in Woodland. He got fired from there just like he did at the sawmill. He claimed he was sick with the flu, but his boss saw him over in Weldon shopping the same day. Now he can only work for Mr. Thomas and I reckon Papa keeps his brother-in-law's lies a secret from his boss.

Ma swears Uncle Goat is the biggest liar in Northampton County. Papa said that ain't so. He said Uncle Goat is the biggest liar in the state of North Carolina. That's how he got the nickname Goat. Ma said he eats the truth up faster than a goat eats grass. One day while we were picking butter beans from the garden that Ma loved so much, I asked her, “Is Uncle Goat as big a liar folks say he is?”

“I'm afraid so, child. I don't know where Goat got his lying from 'cause our daddy and ma were God-fearing folk that never told a lie a day in their lives that I know of. Goat lies to hear himself talk. It's the way he is.

“One day I reckon all my brother's lies gonna catch up with him. One day real soon.”

“Well, how do you know when he's lying, Ma?”

“It ain't what he says. It's this crazy look he gets in that one eye the Lord left him with. You want to see him mad, just catch him in a lie. Catch Goat in a lie, and he's ready to fight.”

“That ain't right.”

“N'all, Son. That ain't right,” Ma said. She kept on filling the old rusty bucket up with butter beans.

“I reckon that's why he ain't got a wife?” I said.

Ma wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand and laughed.

“I reckon that's the main reason. Now get back to work.”

• • •

“Mornin', Stanbury. Mornin', Bean,” Uncle Goat called out when we got close.

“Hey, Uncle Goat.”

“Mornin', Goat. You need a ride?” Papa asked. I knew he was wondering why Uncle Goat wasn't in the field working.

“I'll walk. I'm gonna go to Jackson to see my gal.”

Papa slowed Mule Bennett down so he could get a good look at my lying uncle.

“Jackson? Gal? What gal?” I thought to myself. He supposed to be working.

“Fine, but-but stop by and see your-your sister when you come back. Mr. Bro. Wiley died last night and Wife tore all to pieces.”

Uncle Goat threw his arms in the air.

“Lord, I didn't know. I'll go to the house to see about Baby Sister when I get back.” Uncle Goat should have been ashamed of himself. He probably went to the fields and when he didn't see Papa, he went home, changed clothes, and started walking to Jackson. He'd done that kinda mess before. Soon as Papa turned his back, folk in the Low Meadows started doing as they pleased. Even kinfolk. Uncle Goat didn't much like the fact Papa was in charge of the colored folk in the Low Meadows. Mr. Thomas paid Papa twenty whole dollars a week to make sure everybody worked. He paid Papa an extra five dollars a month to make sure all the farm equipment in the Low Meadows was fixed. One day when Mr. Bro. Wiley was sitting on our front porch with me and Uncle Goat eating peanuts, Uncle Goat started talking evil about my papa. I'm not old enough to speak my mind, but it sure made me mad enough to spit.

“Stanbury make me sick. He always bossing Low Meadows folk around. He act like it's still slavery time and he the overseer,” Uncle Goat said.

Mr. Bro. Wiley 'bacco almost fell out his mouth.

“Shut up, Goat, with your lying self. You were born free. You don't know nothin' 'bout slavery. Stanbury ain't no overseer 'cause slavery is over. That man is taking care of his family. Now shut your lying mouth.” Then Mr. Bro. Wiley took his walking stick and pushed Uncle Goat in the back. He almost knocked him off the stoop.

“Go home, boy,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said.

Uncle Goat got up and walked away 'cause he knew he was wrong. He knew better than to talk back to Mr. Bro. Wiley. Nobody talked sassy to Mr. Bro. Wiley, no matter how old they were. Uncle Goat got the crazy look with wide eye and his nose turned up as me and Papa left him standing on the side of the road.

• • •

“Get 'em up, Ole Bennett,” Papa shouted. I turned around and waved bye to Uncle Goat.

Uncle Goat loved Mr. Bro. Wiley too, even if the ole slave man did call him a liar to his face. He loved him the way we all did. Mr. Bro. Wiley would be fussing at Uncle Goat one minute and they would be playing checkers the next minute. The men would play all night if Ma didn't start carrying on for Mr. Bro. Wiley to go to bed. They did more talking than playing checkers though. They talked about fishing, white folk, and women.

“Papa, are you mad that Uncle Goat ain't in the field this morning?”