A Thousand Never Evers (4 page)

While we scramble across the big house yard, my heart aches. While we trudge down Magnolia Row, my tears sting. And while we cross the railroad, I imagine the tracks turn upright like jailhouse bars to lock us on the Negro side of town.

Later, after we set down our gifts and wipe away our tears, me, Elmira, and Uncle Bump head over to First Baptist Church. We slip into the front-row pew while Reverend Walker stands at the pulpit, asking all kinds of questions.

“Who has the will now?”

“The lawyer in Jackson,” Uncle Bump says.

“What’s the lawyer’s name?”

The three of us rack our brains up, down, and sideways, but not one of us can remember.

Then the reverend shrugs. “I reckon it doesn’t much matter,” he says. “Even if we could track him down, a white city lawyer won’t care what we’ve got to say.”

When I get back home, I wait and wait for Elias. I’ve got to tell him all that’s going on. He’ll find a way to make the sheriff stop bullying us. He’ll hatch a plan to get the mayor to share the garden.

But now that both Uncle Bump and me have lost our jobs, Elias is working extra hours to try to help us get by. And tonight, by the time he comes through the door, the sky’s dark as eggplant.

He mutters hello to Mama and me. Then he grabs a hunk of hoop cheese and stumbles into the bedroom. I follow him there, while Mama lights the stove to heat up his supper.

Elias lies down on his bed.

I know soon as I tell him what happened today at the big house, he’ll get real quiet. Then he’ll get real mad. Then he’ll turn into a preacher before my very eyes and start yammering on about things like mercy and justice.

“Get this!” I say. I sit on the edge of my bed while, step by step, I describe just what happened today.

My brother doesn’t say anything at all.

“Ain’t you mad?” I ask.

“I am,” he says. But Elias sounds more tired than anything.

So I wait a while longer but he doesn’t start preaching. Instead, he lets out a snore that scares me half to death. My poor brother! I walk over to his bed, pull his sneakers off his feet, and set them on the floor. Then I go back to the kitchen and tell Mama to put away his supper and save it for tomorrow.

CHAPTER 4

July 1, 1963, Morning

Ever since we got chased out the big house, I’ve been jumping rope triple time, Uncle Bump’s been holed up in his shed playing the most dreary tunes on his harmonica, Elmira’s been burning sage to clear out our bad luck, and the reverend’s been thinking how we can get our share of the garden back. Needless to say, with everyone so glum, it sure came as a relief to have something to laugh about this morning.

Now get this: Elias and me were sound asleep when we heard someone shouting bloody murder. We both scrambled bleary-eyed to look out our bedroom window. And there she was, Delilah’s mama, our next-door neighbor, storming across the yard, a dripping piece of plastic wrap in her hand. “Delilah Montgomery!” she screamed. “Lord help you!” Elias and me both split a rib.

A few days back, Delilah told me she was going to teach her mother to get a sense of humor. “You can’t teach someone that,” I told her.

“Why, sure you can!” she said. “Just watch.”

But from the look of things, covering the outhouse toilet seat with plastic wrap didn’t get Mrs. Montgomery any closer to a laugh. In fact, she was stinking mad!

“Now Mrs. Montgomery will never let Delilah go to the meeting tonight,” I told Elias. Then again, I almost didn’t get to go to tonight’s civil rights meeting either. That’s because I didn’t want to go. But a few days ago, when Mama said I couldn’t go, something inside me switched and I needed to go real bad. So I got Elias on my side. He told Mama the meeting would be all singing and praying, nothing I couldn’t handle, so at long last Mama agreed.

But before that meeting, I’ve got loads to do.

As soon as I get dressed, Mama and me grab some biscuits and step outside, where the air is soft and breezy. I
tweet, click, click
for Flapjack. Together we cross the tracks to Honeysuckle Trail, where I’m starting work at the Tates’ house with Mama.

Once we get there, I tell Flapjack, “It’s just like when I used to work at Old Man Adams’s big house. Remember how you used to wait for me there? Now see if you can find some mice or birds to play with.” Flapjack looks at me with glassy green eyes. “We’ll be done before you know it,” I say. Then I kiss his head and follow Mama through the Tates’ back door and into the kitchen.

The second Mrs. Tate sees me she says, “My you’re all grown up. Well, I’m sure glad you’re here, Addie Ann. What with Ralphie one year and crawling, he’s getting into everything now.” And just then, as if to prove what his mama says is true, the wide-eyed boy on the floor reaches up and shoves over the trash can. Orange rinds and coffee grounds scatter across the tile.

Ralphie giggles.

Mama grabs the broom and dustpan and sets about sweeping up the mess.

“It’s impossible for your mama to help me with Ralphie and do all the cooking and cleaning too. And since I’m running the Kuckachoo Garden Club now, I’m out of breath thinking of all I’ve got to do,” Mrs. Tate says, and sighs. “Just wait till he’s walking! Then how will we ever keep up?” But Mrs. Tate doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she disappears up the stairs.

All morning long, Mama teaches me new tasks, like how to change Ralphie’s diaper, give him a bath, and buckle him into his high chair. Then she shows me round the Tates’ house, and I’ve got to admit, I’m a tad disappointed. The Tates’ house is eight times smaller than Old Man Adams’s place. They don’t have a marble floor or even a winding staircase. But one thing they do have, which we sure could use, is electricity! And of course, being on the white side, they’ve got their outhouse inside. It’s got plenty of running water.

In the afternoon, I read Ralphie a couple stories. His books are beautiful. It seems the pages have only been turned a few times. After the stories, I pick him up and stroke his black hair like he’s my cat. I don’t much want to set him down for a nap, because he’s warm and soft here in my arms, but that boy’s already sleeping.

Back in the kitchen, I tell Mama I sure could use a teeny tiny catnap myself, maybe out back under the dogwood tree, but she just laughs and pushes the laundry hamper full of Ralphie’s dirty clothes into my arms.

It seems all too soon that I’m carrying Ralphie’s wet clothes out back. I
tweet, click, click
a couple times, but wouldn’t you know it, that cat of mine is nowhere to be found. One thing’s clear: Flapjack needs to practice following directions a whole lot better.

I’m pinning Ralphie’s little pants and shirts on the line when I hear that boy cry through his open bedroom window. I run back upstairs.

“Hi, Ralphie,” I say.

He coos at me through the crib bars.

I lift him out and change his dirty diaper. But I can do a heck of a lot more than change a dirty diaper. I’m going to teach Ralphie to walk today. Why, just this morning didn’t his mama say she couldn’t wait for her son to take his first step?

I get straight to work. I pick a blue rattle out of the toy chest and set little Ralphie on the floor beside his crib. Then I kneel down next to the crib and shake the rattle.

Ralphie crawls over to me and grabs it, but when I try to take it out of his hand, he turns red and bawls. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Here, you can have it,” I say, and hand the rattle back. But Ralphie just throws it on the floor and cries harder. Well, thank goodness Mama’s here. I pick Ralphie up and run downstairs to see if she’s got any ideas for how to tame a wild beast.

Mama tells me to set him on the kitchen floor. Then she takes the pots and pans out of the cupboard and hands Ralphie a wooden spoon. The louder he bangs, the bigger his six-tooth grin. While he plays the drums, I set the table and Mama fries up vegetable croquettes for the Tates’ dinner. After Mama’s done, she says, “We’d best be on our way. I don’t want to be late for the meeting.”

I’m putting the pots and pans back in the cupboard, and Mama’s threading her purse strap over her shoulder, when Mrs. Tate waltzes into the kitchen.

“Before you leave, Maisy, I just want to ask you something,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mama says.

“Well,” Mrs. Tate says. She pulls an emery board out of her purse, sits at the kitchen table, and files a nail. “Are you Negroes…angry?” she asks.

“Angry, ma’am?”

“Well”—Mrs. Tate looks up at Mama—“my husband says you people don’t think you’re treated right. He says you’re holding some sort of meeting tonight so you can fuss ’bout the voter-registration rules.”

I stick my head deep inside the cupboard.

“That’s just outside agitators using our church for their meeting, ma’am. Them folks aren’t from here. Negroes in Kuckachoo are perfectly happy,” Mama says.

No matter how much Mama hates a fib, I reckon fibbing to white folks is an altogether different matter.

“Well, that’s good,” Mrs. Tate says. “I’m glad to hear it.”

I pull my head out of the cupboard and shut the door. And soon as I do, Ralphie knocks over the trash can again.

Mrs. Tate holds her son in her lap while Mama and me clean up the mess lickety-split.

Then we say good evening to Mrs. Tate, and weary as we are, we skedaddle out the back door, down Magnolia Row, and across the tracks to First Baptist.

CHAPTER 5

July 1, 1963, Dusk

As soon as we get to church, I spot Mrs. Jacks in the last row. I suck in my breath and hold it. Her big curls fall round her face, and her mahogany walking stick rests in the aisle by her side. Mrs. Jacks lives all the way in Weaver. She’s going to be my teacher at West Thunder Creek Junior High School. Elias had her in seventh grade too, and that’s how come I know taking her class will be rougher than swallowing uncooked grits.

But I can’t dwell on my future too long before Mama pulls me by the hand to the fourth row, where Elias, Uncle Bump, and Elmira saved us seats. Elias said he wasn’t going to miss this meeting for anything, not even working late for Mr. Mudge and making extra money.

Mama kisses him, then scoots past my brother and Uncle Bump to settle down next to Elmira. I sit on the end of the pew beside my brother.

“See that man?” Elias asks. He looks toward the pulpit.

Up front I see Reverend Walker talking to a man in a dark blue suit and tie. The man has deep lines running from his nose to his chin.

“Whoever he is, he looks like a walrus,” I tell my brother.

Elias laughs. “Well, he’s very important in the Mississippi movement. He’s our speaker.”

“Oh,” I say, and nod.

Soon enough, all the pews are full. Lovetta and Marcus Johnson, along with their parents and six other siblings, file inside and lean against the brick wall on the other side of the church. We all wave and smile. Then the next thing I know, someone squeezes into the seat beside me.

Delilah Montgomery can do that. She’s long and slinky like her name, except for her chest that just popped out this year. Why Delilah has enough breasts to fill a bra and I only have daffodil buds seems like God made a big mistake. After all, she’s four months younger than me and a whole year behind me in school. But even with her chest, Delilah can fit almost anywhere. Needless to say, I’m shocked to see her out and about.

“We thought your mama would keep you locked in your room till you was old and gray,” Elias tells her.

“Nope! She thinks this meeting’s too important,” Delilah says. “My mama says I can be grounded tomorrow instead. Of course, she’ll still let me work at the tailor shop. I’m just not allowed to go outside after that. Not officially, anyway.” Then Delilah looks at me and winks. And we both smile, because we both know that unofficially, we can sneak outside whenever we want.

In no time Delilah spots Cool Breeze Huddleston standing beside the window. “He’s so fine!” she says. She rolls her eyes up in her head all dreamy. And I can’t disagree. Cool Breeze Huddleston is all that and then some—inside and out. He’s got sparkly brown eyes and he talks with a wink in his voice, like there’s no one more special than you, even if he only says “hi.”

Don’t get me wrong. Cool Breeze hasn’t always been cool. In third grade, he spent recess memorizing times tables. In fourth grade, he shortened his name from Curtis Bertrand to Curt Bert and collected rocks. In fifth grade, Delilah told him, “You know, you could be cool if you wasn’t such a windbug.” So wouldn’t you know it, Curt Bert took that as a sign of hope. The next week, he changed his name to Cool Breeze and started talking about the boxer Cassius Clay. Then last year, in sixth grade, he started to look like Cassius Clay. He grew biceps and triceps and flashed a smile bright as milkweed.

No doubt Delilah’s eyes will be stuck on him the rest of the night while she figures out what new muscles are bulging up inside his shirt. But mine wander to the pink and blue dusk. Framed by the window, the evening looks like one of the beautiful paintings hanging in Old Man Adams’s living room.

After the church door clangs shut behind us, Reverend Walker yells, “Praise the Lord!” and I turn my attention back to him.

The reverend stands at the pulpit, leans on his elbows, and looks out at us all. “Word has gone out,” he says. “And not just in Kuckachoo, but along the length and breadth of our county. Now anyone here from Weaver?”

Mrs. Jacks and the whole back row yell, “Yes, sir!”

“How ’bout Bramble?”

“Here! Here!” call a couple men leaning against the wall.

Once folks from Titus and Jigsaw are accounted for too, Reverend Walker says, “We’ve got Thunder Creek County covered!” Everyone hushes. “Tonight we’ll find out the latest about the struggle to get us our rights. But first, let us join hands and pray.”

I hold hands with Delilah and Elias. Then I bow my head while the reverend asks the Lord to guide us through the fields to the waters and help us find our way. And it feels like a regular Sunday morning to me till Delilah starts tickling the inside of my hand.

I laugh, and of course whenever I laugh, I always let out a snort or two. And that sends Delilah into a wild fit of giggles.

“Hush up!” my brother snaps.

So I fix my eyes on the back of Brother Babcock’s fuzzy gray head, and one by one, I stuff my snorts and giggles back in my throat.

As soon as the prayer is through, the reverend gives the pulpit over to Tyrone Tubbs, the happy-looking walrus man with wide eyes, round glasses, and skin dark as elm bark. “I’m proud to be with you tonight,” Mr. Tubbs says. “Our struggles together go way, way back.”

Whenever I hear words like “way back,” I feel like I’m stuck in a history book, and sleep crawls all over me. But soon enough, Mr. Tubbs says, “Medgar Evers was a friend of mine,” and the sleep, it flies away. There’s something about that Medgar guy and his funny name and his sad story and the way Mama and Elias are so upset he died that wakes me up.

“Last month, after an assassin shot him, do you know what Medgar said?” Mr. Tubbs asks.

Folks are quiet.

“‘Turn me loose.’ Those were Medgar’s very last words. But how can we turn Medgar loose to God without finishing the business he fought and died for?” Mr. Tubbs asks. Then he smiles a quick smile, crosses his arms, and steps away from the pulpit, his head hung low.

When he comes back, his smile’s gone, his eyes flash with anger. “You know Medgar went to war for the United States of America? He risked his life in the Second World War. And you know what else? When he got back to this country, he was still just a black man from Mississippi, a black man who couldn’t get a drink of water at a regular fountain, who couldn’t stay at a regular motel, who couldn’t sit down and get a burger at a regular counter. No sir!”

And I can’t quite believe what Mr. Tubbs is telling me: that a Negro can serve his country—maybe even die for his country—and if he’s lucky enough to survive, he’ll come back to this. Hearing it makes my blood churn, and I can’t believe that before now I didn’t think about how unfair things are. I mean, I thought of it, sure, but I didn’t really dwell on it, because up till now I thought that’s just the way life is. There’s nothing I could possibly do to change it.

But then Mr. Tubbs tells us that when Medgar Evers got back from fighting a war, he decided to fight for his rights here in Mississippi. He worked for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, a group trying to change the laws to help us get treated like first-class folks.

“Medgar fought to integrate the schools. He wanted his three children, Darrell, Reena, and James, to go to the same schools as white children instead of going to older, smaller, crowded schools with torn books and beat-up desks,” Mr. Tubbs says. “And Medgar worked to register voters. One day he wanted his children to vote for their leaders without being humiliated and turned away from the polls.”

As I sit here in this pew between Elias and Delilah, all of a sudden it occurs to me that a movement is just what it sounds like. It’s like when the wind blows hard and all the milkweed sways in one direction. Or when a bird in the sky changes course and hundreds of birds in the flock behind make the same shift. That man, Mr. Tubbs, he’s like the wind or lead bird.

“Now things don’t have to be the way they’re looking to be. Even President Kennedy agrees,” Mr. Tubbs says. “A couple hours before some racist shot Medgar, our president went on television. Any y’all catch that speech?”

Elias raises his hand.

“You did not!” I whisper.

My brother turns to me. “Did too!” he whispers back.

“Where’d you see television?”

“Didn’t say I seen it. I heard the speech. On the radio Bessie listens to in the Very Fine Fabric Shop.” A faint smile creeps across his lips before he turns back to stare at Mr. Tubbs.

Of course, I could start wondering about what my brother was doing listening to the radio with Bessie on the white side, but I don’t because I’m too busy burning up about the fact that we still don’t have our electricity back. If we get our electricity back, then the next time the President speaks, all the Negroes in Kuckachoo can watch him on my television set. Of course, after the electricity comes back on, we’ll still have another problem: we’re going to need a TV antenna to get the picture clear. But Uncle Bump says he’s thinking on a way to get us one of those.

A breeze blows through the open church window. The night air chills me.

“Well, for those of you who missed it,” Mr. Tubbs says, “let me read you the words of President Kennedy.” Then he pulls a piece of paper out of his pants pocket and reads real slow so we can take in the shocking news: “‘The Negro baby born in America today, regardless of the section of the nation in which he is born, has about
one-half
as much chance of completing high school as a white baby born in the same place on the same day,
one-third
as much chance of completing college,
one-third
as much chance of becoming a professional man,
twice
as much chance of becoming unemployed, about
one-seventh
as much chance of earning ten thousand dollars a year, a life expectancy which is seven years shorter, and the prospects of earning only
half
as much.’”

Well, I know my fractions. And hearing all those halves, thirds, and sevenths, I know right now it’s true: white folks really do think a Negro is less than one whole person. And I can’t even believe Mama considered keeping me home from this meeting when we’re talking about what kind of school I’ll go to, what kind of job I’ll have, and how long I’m going to live.

Mr. Tubbs folds up the sheet of paper and tucks it back in his pocket. “It seems to me that the coward who killed Medgar delivered a message with his bullet: ‘You want integration? You want to vote at the polls? Never, Evers!’

“When Medgar was shot dead, he was standing in the driveway of his home holding a stack of shirts, and on those shirts were printed the words ‘Jim Crow Must Go.’ All these laws that make us less than equal, these Jim Crow laws, they might get reversed, struck down, if Congress votes for President Kennedy’s civil rights bill. So I ask you, do you want Jim Crow to go?”

I feel hot all over.

“Jim Crow must go!” we all shout.

Mr. Tubbs points to the heavens. “Tell it to Medgar up there!”

“Jim Crow must go!” we all roar.

All except Mama. When I lean forward to look over at her, she’s sitting squinty eyed, still sizing up our guest speaker.

But whether Mama likes it or not, Mr. Tubbs isn’t through. “If Jim Crow must go, then we’ve got to tell our government we’re not gonna take it anymore,” he says. He paces in front of the pulpit. “If Jim Crow must go, we’ve gotta go down to Washington, D.C., and tell our Congress! Now how many y’all reverends here?”

Reverend Walker and four other men raise their hands. I reckon they’re preachers from nearby towns.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Tubbs says. “I’m going to pay you reverends to come on board my bus. We’ll march together on the nation’s capital.” Mr. Tubbs turns to Reverend Walker. “What’re you doing August twenty-eighth?”

Reverend Walker’s mouth falls open but no words come out. I reckon it’s the first time he’s ever run out of things to say. And one thing’s clear: our reverend never planned to take a bus across the country to tell our nation’s leaders that Jim Crow must go, that they’d better pass this civil rights bill right now.

“Compassion without action is no compassion at all,” Mr. Tubbs says.

Reverend Walker stands there, still saying nothing, and it occurs to me that while the reverend always tells us Kuckachookians about our civil rights, so far as I can see, he’s never really done anything to help us get them.

But here’s his chance.

So with all eyes on him, at long last Reverend Walker says, “Why, yes! Yes, Mr. Tubbs! I’ll go, sir.”

We all applaud.

“That’s why I came all the way to Thunder Creek County—to get your reverends on board! Any questions for me before I head over to Laknahatchie County?” Mr. Tubbs asks.

And before the words leave my lips, Mrs. Montgomery yells out, “The garden!”

And Mrs. Jacks asks, “What garden?”

And Mrs. Montgomery shouts, “Old Man Adams’s. He left six acres. Left it for the Negroes in Kuckachoo to share with the whites.”

“The whites is making like it’s all theirs,” Brother Babcock calls out.

Up front, Mr. Tubbs turns to Reverend Walker. “Well, well,” he says, “seems you’ve got your own civil rights battle right here in Kuckachoo.”