The Sittin' Up (4 page)

“No-no, I ain't. Every man got to answer to God, not to Stanbury Jones. Mr. Bro. Wiley taught me years ago how to handle the folk that live in the Low Meadows. ‘Don't let these folks run you crazy, Stanbury,' he would say. ‘Tell them what they need to do and you go on with your day. You need to guide them, not stand over them like it's still slavery time. If Thomas Wiley don't agree with the way colored folk doing things, let him come back here and fire them himself.'”

Papa listened to Mr. Bro. Wiley 'cause he said the ole slave man had more sense than every man in the Low Meadows put together. He understood people and how they thought about things.

Mr. Bro. Wiley taught us all something about this world and the folk that lived in it. Now the time had come for us to live without him.

M
ule Bennett was moving so slow that it took us one level hour to get into town. It usually takes forty minutes according to the gold pocket watch Mr. Bro. Wiley gave me. Out of all the folks in the Low Meadows, he chose to give his watch to me last Christmas.

“Oh, Mr. Bro. Wiley, I can't keep your watch,” I'd said when I opened the cigar box that he had wrapped in newspaper and tied with string.

“Keep it, child. I can't stay on this earth forever. I want you to have it to remember me by,” he said. It was as if he saw death standing right beside the Christmas tree that was decorated with strung popcorn.

“I don't need nothing to remember you, Mr. Bro. Wiley. I could never forget you,” I told him. Then I gave him my gift—a box of shelled pecans. He loved pecans mixed with hard candy, but his hands were too weak to crack them open.

“I'ze going to have to hide these from myself.” He chuckled while trying to chew one with the few teeth he had left.

• • •

“I will never forget Mr. Bro. Wiley,” I thought as we headed to town. Mule Bennett must have felt the same way. He was slowing down and barely lifted his head. Papa kept saying, “Get-get, get up, mule, get up.” But Mule Bennett took his own sweet time.

When we got to the main road running through Rich Square, I reached over and touched Papa's leg.

“Mule Bennett's heart is surely broken, Papa.”

“I believe you-you are right, Son. Did I ever tell you the whole story about the mules and Mr. Bro. Wiley?” Papa asked.

“No, sir, but I sho' want to know.”

“Well, after-after slavery the law said that every slave owner was supposed to give each family forty acres of land and a mule. Mr. Thomas's folk weren't about to give nobody they land, but they did give Mr. Bro. Wiley's family a mule and the old log cabin. Told them they could stay in the Low Meadows free the rest of their lives. Mr. Thomas's folk been giving Mr. Bro. Wiley a mule about every fifteen years since slavery ended. When one mule died, they'd give him another one.

“Low Meadows folk said it was because Mr. Bro. Wiley's mama birthed most all the white babies and even gave them milk from her own bosom.”

“Ain't fifteen years a long time for a mule to live?” I asked.

“It-it is a long time. But mules are different from most farm animals. If you-you work them hard in the field, they'll last about twenty years. If a farmer ain't too hard on they mule, he'll last about thirty years. Since Mr. Bro. Wiley was a blacksmith, he had no reason to work his mules hard.

“Ain't that right, Mule Bennett?” Papa said. He was always talking to that animal like he was a person.

By eight o'clock, we were turning onto Main Street where the Gordons lived. A few colored folk had little houses in town, but not on Main Street. Seems as if it was reserved for “Whites Only.” That was until the Creecys and the Gordons came along.

Mr. and Mrs. Spence Creecy lived about half a mile from the Gordons in a pretty white house that sits right beside the school building. He became our principal when his daddy, William Spence Creecy Sr., died in 1932. Mrs. Creecy was the school secretary.

Folk in Rich Square surely thought a lot of the Creecys, I can tell you that. Lord, Mr. Bro. Wiley thought the sun rose and set on Mr. Creecy. He watched him grow into a fine proud educated man just like the rest of his family. Mr. Creecy loved Mr. Bro. Wiley too. He seemed thankful to Mr. Bro. Wiley for teaching him, Mr. Jabo, and Papa how to hunt for coon when they were little boys.

“There are some things that just ain't in the books that Mr. Bro. Wiley got in his head and heart,” Mr. Creecy would say at church when they recognized Mr. Bro. Wiley as the oldest man in the county.

The menfolk learned all they could from him on every hunt. After Mr. Bro. Wiley got too old to keep up with the younger men, they would make the journey alone.

Mr. Bro. Wiley would be sitting on the porch waiting for them to get back. Ma always had a pitcher of ice water waiting for the menfolk. The ole slave man said if it hadn't been for Mr. Creecy and Mr. Gordon, colored folk wouldn't have known the moon from the sun when it came to money and education.

“I'm going before the board of education to ask for new books for the colored children come fall,” Mr. Creecy said to Mr. Bro. Wiley the last time he came to the Low Meadows. Mr. Bro. Wiley looked pleased as he carved Ma a cooking spoon out of a piece of bark I'd found down by the river.

“Books, huh? That's good, Spence. That's real good.”

• • •

I smiled at the thought of Mr. Creecy getting new books for the colored children. When I looked up, I saw Mr. Creecy coming out of the bank. I was shocked to see the white banker, Mrs. Carter, saying good-bye. She and her husband the white undertaker owned the bank and two white funeral houses in Rich Square and Jackson. It was as rare as a bald eagle to see white folk talking to coloreds unless they were bossing us around.

“Thank you for your business,” she said loud enough for the whole town to hear. I reckon he and the Gordons were the only colored folks that had enough money to put in a bank. The little money Papa had he hid in a mason jar under the house.

Mr. Creecy was a tall man but not as tall as Mr. Jabo, who was six feet eight inches tall. Mr. Creecy always walked straight and proud.

“Mornin', Mr. Creecy,” Papa said as we climbed down from the wagon to give him news of the death.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones. Mornin', Bean.”

I loved the way they called each other “Mister” when children were around. Papa said it would teach us to always respect grown folk.

“Shake his hand, child,” Papa said to me as if I'd forgotten my manners.

“Mornin', Mr. Creecy. It's nice to see you,” I said. I shook his big hand and we smiled at each other.

“Nice to see you too, Bean.” Mr. Creecy reached in his pocket and gave me a brand-new nickel. I looked at Papa.

“Is it all right to keep it? It's not my birthday.”

“Yes, Bean, you can keep-keep the money.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You're welcome, Bean,” Mr. Creecy said.

“What you doing in town so early?”

Papa looked his friend in the eyes with great sadness. “Mr. Bro. Wiley is dead and gone. We on our way to get Mr. Gordon.”

Mr. Creecy's face, that always looked strong as iron, melted like butter on the potbelly stove. He fought back tears.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Mr. Creecy said, touching Papa's shoulder for a second.

Papa was sad all over again.

“Let me get to this breakfast meeting so that I can go home and tell my wife the sad news.” Mr. Creecy left in a hurry. I reckon he didn't want me to see him tore all to pieces.

“Men hurt-hurt too, Bean.”

“You think the world of Mr. Creecy, don't you, Papa?”

“He's a good man. He's our hope, child.”

“Why you always say he our hope?” I asked as we climbed back in the wagon. Papa didn't answer me for a few minutes. He was looking at the sign hanging over the front door at Taylor's Grocery:
FOR WHITES ONLY.

Then he pulled my face up by my chin so he could see my eyes.

“One-one day Mr. Creecy gonna make it possible for that sign to come down. That's what I mean when I say he's our hope. He is our hope for an equal life with white folk.”

“That will be mighty fine,” I said.

“It ain't gonna always be this way.”

“I wonder what kind of breakfast meeting Mr. Creecy talking about,” I asked Papa.

“He-he going to the café to eat with-with the white folk. That's where he go-go every Saturday morning. He gonna tell them what else we need at the schoolhouse for the children.”

“White folk! I didn't know white folk ate with coloreds,” I shouted. “Do they listen to him and do what he say?”

“Sure they-they listen. I'll tell you something else,” Papa bragged. “I done seen him a-a many Saturday mornings in that restaurant looking white folk dead in the eyes.”

I just couldn't believe my ears. I was so proud of Mr. Creecy that I wanted to kiss Papa, but I was too big to be kissing a man, even my daddy.

“I just got to ask you this,” I said as I thought about a colored man sitting in the café with the fancy tablecloths.

“You can ask me anything.”

“Do Mr. Creecy go in the front door or the back at the café?”

“The front, Son. And one of these days, we all gonna go in the front door.”

I
smiled all the way to Mr. Gordon's fine white house that he bought from the Carters.

I bet Mr. Bro. Wiley was tickled to death to see Mr. Gordon buy one of the biggest houses in Rich Square. I thought about my friend as Papa tied Mule Bennett to the pecan tree in the colored undertaker's backyard, just a little ways down the hill. Mule Bennett got real noisy when Papa tied him up. He didn't like no rope because he was free to do as he pleased back in the Low Meadows as long as he stayed out of the yard and away from Ma's flowers.

I could smell Mrs. Gordon's biscuits cooking as we walked up the small hill. Papa knocked. I saw Mrs. Gordon through the screen. She hurried down the long hallway on the hardwood floors that Papa shined once a month. The Gordons paid him fifteen whole dollars every first Saturday to do the floors and fix anything broken around the house and the funeral home. It wasn't too much work done at their place or the Creecys' that Papa didn't do (when he wasn't working for Mr. Thomas).

“I'll get the door, Miss Margie,” Mrs. Gordon said to her housekeeper. The Gordons was the only coloreds in the county with a maid.

I noticed Mrs. Gordon's nails were painted pink when she unlatched the door. Ma never polished her nails. I reckon she worked too hard in the fields and for Miss Remie to take care of her nails. When I become a lawyer I had plans to buy Ma all the nice things Mrs. Gordon had. I would buy her nail polish and fine dresses with matching shoes. I live for the day when I can tell Ma to never prime another piece of 'bacco or wash another load of clothes for white folk.

Just as Mrs. Gordon opened the door, Miss Margie stood up from dusting the tallest dark wood bookshelf I had ever seen. I couldn't believe my eyes. A white woman!

I wanted to die and go on to heaven with Mr. Bro. Wiley. She wasn't high yellow like Ma. She was as white as cotton.

“Papa, Miss Margie is white!”

“Boy, if you don't-don't hush your mouth.”

Mrs. Gordon acted as if she didn't hear me.

Papa made me mind my manners, but I could tell he was just as carried away as I was. He ain't worked for the Gordons in a few weeks so he surely didn't know about this white woman.

I couldn't wait to get home to tell Ma. Ain't no way in the world she knew 'cause Ma ain't said a word. I knew good and well Miss Lottie Pearl with her gossiping self didn't know either. If she had, everybody in the Low Meadows would have known. I heard tell Miss Lottie Pearl wanted to work for the Gordons but they didn't hire her. I bet the nickel Mr. Creecy gave me they didn't hire her because she had too much mouth for them dignified folk.

I stopped thinking about her and thought about Mr. Bro. Wiley. I wanted to go home and wake him up from the dead to tell him about the white woman cleaning toilets for colored folk. I could hear his voice so plain in my ears.

“Bean, things ain't gonna always be this way. If you live long enough you will see this world change. You ain't gonna have to live a hard life like I've lived. No sharecropping like Stanbury done all his life. One day whites and coloreds will learn to get along. The world gonna change. You watch and see.”

I wished Mr. Bro. Wiley could have lived one more day. I wanted to tell him that I saw the world change.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Gordon said.

“Mornin', sorry to-to bother you, Mrs. Gordon,” Papa said.

Mrs. Gordon was brown as honey and she wore makeup all the time. She always had on fine clothes like a white woman and she talked like she was from New York City. She was wearing a white dress with blue flowers on it. She even had on a dark blue pattern leather belt to match the flowers. Her clothes were finer than what Ma wore to church on Sunday. I stood there and wondered how many chairs Papa would have to paint to get Ma such a dress.

“Please come in. You're not bothering me at all. What can I do for you and Bean this morning?”

This was my first time going inside; never had a reason to before. The house smelled of lavender and the curtains were blowing in the windows. I had never seen so much dark fine wood furniture in all my years on earth. Everything matched, even the pillows on the couch.

“The storm is lingering on,” Mrs. Gordon added.

“Reckon so,” Papa said. “I got some bad news, Mrs. Gordon. Mr. Bro. Wiley went-went on to glory this mornin'. We need Mr. Gordon to come and get the body.” Papa took off his hat. I pulled my baseball cap off too.

“My Lord,” Mrs. Gordon said. She reached inside the big pocket of her dress and pulled out her handkerchief.

“I know Mrs. Jones is about to lose her mind as much as she thought of that man.”

“Yes, she-she is, but Wife know-know that God is able.”

“That is the truth. I will get Mr. Gordon.” As Mrs. Gordon turned away, I realized she even called her husband “Mr. Gordon.” Us Low Meadows folk needed to get dignified. It ain't nothing wrong with acting like the town people. Talking the way they talk. Besides I would love to hear Ma calling Papa Mr. Jones, just one time. That would have tickled me to death.

“He was such a nice, nice man,” Mrs. Gordon said softly as she walked to the back of the house. “Mr. Gordon, Mr. Stanbury Jones is here. He said Mr. Bro. Wiley passed on last night.”

“I heard him, Mrs. Gordon. Thank you.” Mr. Gordon was already making his way to the parlor.

As her husband passed her, Mrs. Gordon must have forgotten she was dignified. Next thing I knew she was shouting like Ma and Miss Lottie Pearl.

“My Lord, my Lord!” she cried out.

“Now, Mrs. Gordon, that's not the way to act in front of company,” Mr. Gordon said. “You know Mr. Bro. Wiley is in a better place.” Then he took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her face. She pulled herself together and went down the hallway with Miss Margie holding her head against her shoulder.

Mr. Gordon was fixing his necktie as he walked towards us. Papa told me years ago that Mr. Gordon put on a suit every day of his life; just in case somebody fell dead and he had to pick up a body. He said that was Mr. Gordon's way of showing respect for the dead. His hair had waves as thick as clay dirt and it was shining same as Miss Lottie Pearl's hair did right after she washed it and put it in a bun. Mr. Gordon's big eyebrows were shiny too, and he always had a serious look on his paper-sack brown face.

“Good morning, folks. I was on my way over to the funeral home. Hold on a minute while I call my men so they can help,” Mr. Gordon said.

We waited in the parlor while Mr. Gordon called the twins, TJ and LJ. They had been working for Mr. Gordon since they were teenagers.

“Come with me, Mr. Jones. We need to get a temporary casket to bring Mr. Bro. Wiley back to town in.”

Around that time Mrs. Gordon walked back into the parlor. She looked at me with her kind eyes.

“Bean, would you like a jelly biscuit while the men finish their business?”

I waited for Papa to answer because he didn't allow me to eat at nobody's house but the Cofields. I was praying Papa would tell me it was all right to join her. I wanted some jelly real bad. There was no money for those kinda sweets in the Low Meadows. We barely had enough money to put sugar in a pitcher of tea on Sunday.

“That-that is mighty nice of you, Mrs. Gordon. Go-go ahead, Bean, and mind your manners.”

With joy that Papa said yes, I followed Mrs. Gordon to the kitchen. I thought about the day I asked him if I could eat with our neighbor Grady and his mama, Miss Sue.

“No, child. Ain't you-you talking about the Depression in school? We are poor and other folk got less than we got if they don't have a garden. This ain't no time to be eating at other folk' table.”

We had sho' been talking about the Great Depression in school and how the stock market dropped in 1929. My teacher Miss Adams was always telling us that there was no money and no food, but I didn't know it affected colored folk in the Low Meadows too. We had been poor for so long, I couldn't tell no difference.

“We all-all got troubles till the Depression over,” Papa said.

From that day to this one I ain't ate a biscuit at nobody's house but Pole's. We shared a garden with the Cofields, so that was Papa's reasoning for letting me eat on Stony Hill. I reckon it was all right to eat at the Gordons' house 'cause they was rich.

As much as I wanted a biscuit, I was still hoping to see what Mr. Gordon and Papa were doing. I had never been in the nice wood building where Mr. Gordon kept all the caskets. He wasn't just an undertaker. He had his own factory. The twins built the caskets and Mrs. Gordon put the dead folk fabric linings on the inside to make them look good.

The kitchen was pretty with white lace curtains. I wished my ma had a kitchen like the Gordons'. They even had an electric stove and refrigerator. I figured it would take another five years for Papa to get both for Ma.

“Sit down, child. Tell me what time Mr. Bro. Wiley left this world,” Mrs. Gordon said.

That's when I knew why I was getting a biscuit. Dignified town folk ain't no different from Low Meadows folk. They gossip too!

“It was before the clock struck midnight,” I told Mrs. Gordon. I looked at Miss Margie's white hands as she served the biscuits. Her nails were unpolished, reminding me of Ma's. She had little nicks and scars as if she had picked cotton all her life like colored folk.

I wished I could see her heart. She had a slight smile on her pink lips and her eyes were dark like a woman that cried a lot. I wondered why she was so kind and didn't seem to mind waiting on colored folk. Right then I wished Mr. Bro. Wiley was alive again, so that I could ask him the difference between Miss Margie and Mr. Taylor, who don't even allow us to walk in the front door of his grocery. Surely he would know.

“Anything else for you and your company?” Miss Margie asked as Mrs. Gordon sat down at the table with me.

“No, that will be all.” She pushed the jelly jar closer to my plate. For jelly I would have told her anything she wanted to know. Anything!

“Bean, what were you saying about Mr. Bro. Wiley?” she asked.

“Well, he didn't last long,” I said. I dipped my biscuit in the molasses that she placed beside the jelly. “It was thundering and lightnin'. He was breathing real hard. The next thing I knew he was gone to hev'n.”

I went back and forth with that biscuit. I swear to God, my heart was hurting every time I mentioned Mr. Bro. Wiley's name. I kept on talking and focused on my food so I wouldn't cry.

Jelly.

Molasses.

Jelly.

Molasses.

“Did he suffer?” Mrs. Gordon asked.

“I don't believe he was hurting or nothing. He hadn't been well since the Fourth of July.”

“I know, child. I know,” Mrs. Gordon said.

“He just got quiet right after supper. I think he knew he was leaving us. I reckon he was dying all day.” I was hurting some kind of bad for Mr. Bro. Wiley as I told Mrs. Gordon the rest of the story. I just wanted the night before to be a bad dream, but I knew it wasn't. I knew he was lying back there in the Low Meadows, waiting for Mr. Gordon to come for him.

By the time I had eaten my fourth biscuit my belly and heart were both hurting.

I looked out the window at the menfolk.

It scared me to death when Mr. Gordon opened the double doors to the casket factory. I could see caskets stacked on top of one another like 'bacco in the 'bacco barn after we finished priming.

“Bean, how do you know all of this? Were you in the room with Mr. Bro. Wiley when he died?” Mrs. Gordon asked.

“No, ma'am. I was in the hallway. I reckon I was acting just like somebody with no manners. I was listening in and I peeped sometimes to see all that I could see.”

I wanted Mrs. Gordon to stop asking questions so I could hear what the menfolk were saying. That way I could go back and tell Pole. But she never broke a row. She asked me a million questions.

Next thing I knew TJ and LJ drove up. I reckon they enjoyed having a telephone. Mr. Gordon put one in the twin brothers' house, because he knew that death might come at any time and he would have to call them. TJ and LJ married twin sisters named Lessie and Bessie. They all lived together and them sisters sho' did some bragging about having a telephone. Miss Lottie Pearl said there was no need for them to brag 'cause they ain't got a soul to call. The only other coloreds with a telephone are the Creecys. But Lessie and Bessie weren't thinking about Miss Lottie Pearl. They bragged whenever they pleased.

“Time-time to go,” Papa yelled to me.

“Thank you for the biscuits,” I told Mrs. Gordon. “Bye, Miss Margie,” I said.

“See you later, young man,” she said as kindly as if I was a white boy.

Mrs. Gordon followed me to the back door and waved at the men.

“Good morning, fellows,” she said to the twins.

“Mornin', Mrs. Gordon.” TJ and LJ tipped their hats and waved back.