Kizzy Ann Stamps (15 page)

Between that and the undefeated season, I’m seeing my brother return to himself. He works hard for school again, works hard for the farm, and talks to all of us. He and Cabbie are still close, but thank goodness they stopped hanging around with that Montgomery Watkins. He got arrested for breaking into houses last week. Stole from at least twenty people, by the looks of the stuff they found at his house. That could have been James, you know. It could have been us crying like Montgomery’s mama did when they took him away in handcuffs.

There’s a dog trial coming. I can’t believe it — Shag may actually have a chance to show off what she knows! It was Frank Charles who brought us the news.

“Holy cow!” he cried. “Did y’all see the bulletin out at the stockyard down on Main Street? A real dog trial, with a judge from Scotland. Any herding dog is allowed to enter. I bet Shag could beat ’em all.” He was bouncing, he was so excited.

I looked at Mr. McKenna. “Could she? Is she ready?”

“Better question is, are
you
ready?”

I felt my shoulders sinking.

He shook his head. “Relax, girlie. You are. Depending on the competition you face, you may even place. I don’t think you’ll win, but perhaps. Not many around here use herding signals from Scotland, as you’ve been trained. That might help. You may do quite well.”

I couldn’t sleep last night, Miss Anderson. I’m saying commands in my head, working Shag this way and that in my dreams. Could it really happen?

I won the bee! The words pouring over my mind, spilling off my tongue! I’m going to Richmond! The rush of beautiful words. I was not amazed at the hug from you — I know by now that you really do love me even if you are white and I am not — but when the crowd gasped, I thought we were in trouble. I think Mrs. Warren saved the day when she came up and wrapped you and me both in a hug that stunned us all. I have never thought I would be so grateful to her. Granny Bits says I will have to write her a thank-you note for all she has done for me. I will, Miss Anderson, I will write, but more than that, I plan to deliver it in person and thank her face-to-face. It is what she deserves, to know that she made this possible for me, by giving up her place as a teacher and giving up the black school so we could come to the white school. Black students have never participated in this spelling bee before. Her stepping aside has made many things possible. It cost her so much, and I don’t want her to think I didn’t notice.

Of course, I don’t know if you have always had a spelling bee for your students, but I am mighty appreciative to you too. Somehow it is even harder to thank you when I know you have to sneak by what you do for all of us or fight for it. I feel as if we have become a burden to you. But you seem to look at all of us the same. I’ve never seen a white person do that before.

So while Mrs. Warren opened that door, you stepped up to keep it wide. Please don’t think we didn’t see that too.

We saw, and we see it still.

Integrity is the question. The rules don’t even say anything about black handlers. It’s just assumed that none will be allowed. Frank Charles insists that’s my “way in.” I know better. Mr. McKenna and Frank Charles came up with an idea — that if Mr. McKenna goes to register with Frank Charles beside him, he could just write the name Kizzy Stamps as handler, and since people down in Lynchburg don’t know people from Bedford all that well (especially kids, black or white), he might get away with it. They would just assume Frank Charles is named Kizzy. Mr. McKenna says once you’re registered, you’re allowed to compete. I’d surely like to compete.

But.

I’ve already had Frank Charles lie for me once. And it
was
a lie, even if it was because he kept silent.

I just don’t think I can do it. I
won’t
do that. It isn’t like it was with James. He’d have been in such trouble I can’t even imagine. Lying, or letting Frank Charles lie, kept James from being hurt. But this is lying for gain. For Shag to compete, for me to show off what I’ve learned.

Mr. McKenna and Frank Charles would get in trouble. It wouldn’t be like what James would have faced, but there
would
be trouble, mark my words.

And even for Shag, even for me . . . I cannot risk that for my friends.

No, ma’am, there’s nothing you can do. I just don’t see much point in anything right now. I’m not going to Mr. McKenna’s place, not talking with Frank Charles. It isn’t to be mean. It isn’t to be getting back at anyone. It’s just giving up.

Mr. McKenna came to my house today.
In
my house today. I’d finished bringing in the cows with Shag, and we were toasting our feet by the fire — it may be toward the end of March, but there’s still a big bite in the wind, especially around milking time. There was a beating on the door, and Granny Bits moved to answer. The door burst open before she reached it, though. Burst open, and in marched Mr. McKenna. I knew he was big, and Granny Bits is small (she is named Bits because she’s no bigger than two bits), but seeing them close like that was like seeing a giant with an elf.

“Mind your manners,” she barked, and he took his hat in his hand.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, madam,” he said.

“T’ain’t no madam. Wipe your feet.”

He went back outside, wiped his feet, and asked, “May I see yon lassie by the fire?”

Granny Bits turned to look me over and then smiled. “It’s about time someone took her in hand,” she said. “Yep, you’re welcome to her.”

I waited for his bluster, big as the wind blowing in the door. But he closed the door with a quiet chink and just stood before me. His voice came quiet and easy, wrapping around me in ways I was defenseless to fight. “It’s no good, girl. It’s no good giving in to the fight, no good giving up to the pressure.”

What I said sounds hard, now, even to my ears, Miss Anderson, but I meant no disrespect. It was just what was in my heart. “How would you know? How would you know how much I can take, of the back doors and the secondhand clothes, of the ‘yes, ma’aming’ and ‘no, sirring’ to people who make no secret they believe they are better than me? How would you know?”

“Alone in the suffering, are you? I come here, to a strange land, to make a living, to seek a dream of owning a herd of sheep of my own. I have the sheep, mind you, I have the living. But the friends I have count as one black poet who warms to the world around her, two children, and a dog. I do not fit in yet, in this country, Kizzy Ann. I don’t have to slink in back doors, true, but I am not welcome in the front ones, either.

“But I will not let it stop me. I will not let it beat me.

“And one of the reasons I worked with you and your Shag is because I believed you never would let life beat you either.” He knelt then, in front of me, and I had to look him in the eyes, his deep-blue eyes, fringed by those wild and woolly eyebrows. He put out a hand to cradle Shag’s jaw, and she closed her eyes as she rested her head in his palm. “She looks to you, girlie, looks to you because you are her world. You’ve worked hard to earn that love and trust, and I’d hate to see either of you stop before you’ve won. You’re my friends.”

“I’ll stand there and try to put my name down, and they’ll turn me away. In front of everybody,” I said. And I couldn’t help it, Miss Anderson, I could feel my bottom lip trembling. I don’t mind that I did it in front of him, but I would die if I did it in front of all those men at the dog trial. And I know I would. It means that much to me.

He leaned in close to me. “I cannot make it matter less to you, girlie, for it matters a great deal to me as well. All I can promise is that I’ll be there with you. And Frank Charles has promised to be there with you too. We’ll stand with you. And you know Shag will. It’s what you must do, then.” He traced my scar and smiled. “You must try, Kizzy Ann, master of this dog at your feet. You must try.”

And then Granny Bits asked him to eat with us.

And he did.

The strangest thing happened today, Miss Anderson. Shag and I were walking home, and Frank Charles was pretending to be a sheep that wouldn’t stay in the path. (This isn’t the strange thing it sounds — he does this every so often if Mr. McKenna can’t work with us.) Shag will tolerate herding him back to me, although she nips him in tighter tucks than she does the sheep — I think she knows he is playing dumb and that, in Mr. McKenna’s words, “the sheep really ken no better.” At one point, though, Frank Charles stopped dead and Shag ran right into him. This is not good for my dog — I lit into him.