Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) (6 page)

“Uncle Buddy, do you think I will ever get to leave here?”

“Sure you will, gal. Why you think you wouldn't?”

“Well being that I'm the youngest and BarJean and Coy already gone North it seems like it's my job to stay here and help Ma.”

“Help Mer do what? Your ma can take care of herself. Besides, she might not say it, but she wants you to get away from here and make something of yourself.”

“She do?” I asks.

Uncle Buddy laughs as we turn onto Main Street.

“Yes, she does. Now, Miss Pattie Mae, do you want some ice cream?”

“Yes, sir. That would be nice.”

I can see the movie house on the next street as Uncle Buddy pulls up to Leon's Ice Cream Shop. I wave at my friend Daniel from school who is crossing Main Street with his ma, Miss Novella.

They wave back and keep on walking.

“What flavor ice cream you want?” Uncle Buddy asks as Miss Novella and Daniel go about their business.

“I'll have two scoops of chocolate.”

It's okay to ask Uncle Buddy for two scoops of ice cream. If I was with Ma, I would only ask for one scoop to save money.

Uncle Buddy's whole expression changes when he gets ready to close the car door and walk around the back of the building to get our ice cream. He says colored folks up in Harlem never have to buy nothing from the back of the building.

Uncle Buddy looks so hurt.

He turns around to see if I am watching. It seems like some kind of shame come over Uncle Buddy having to walk around back.

“Be back in a minute,” he says. His voice is even different.

I sit there and watch him disappear into the prejudice evening light. I got that word from Uncle Buddy last year. I asked him what “prejudice” means. He said when I'm around Ma it means when people of different races don't like each other. When I'm with him it means, “White folks hate niggers.”

Tonight he hates them back. I can tell from the look on his face.

It doesn't take him long to return.

“Here you go, pretty lady.”

“Thank you, Uncle Buddy, and thank you for bringing me out to town. You know Ma and me don't get to go much.”

“You welcome and the next time we will bring your ma.”

I smile at the thought of Ma sitting in the movie
house. I bet she will get dressed up to the bone that night. She might even wear the ear bobs that Aunt Louise gave her last Christmas.

“You stay here. I'm going to sit over there on the sidewalk so that I can see Nora coming out of the sewing factory. She should be off work by eight and the picture is at eight-thirty. That will give her a chance to grab some ice cream too.”

Well, at least I know his date's name now. But I ain't never heard of this Nora person before. Truth be told, I am enjoying my ice cream and being away from the house too much to care who she is. Uncle Buddy walks back towards the ice cream shop and sits down on the sidewalk. I sit in the car and watch the white folks going in the movie house all dressed up. Of course, they use the front door. It's sad to watch the coloreds in the best clothes they have go in the back door to get their tickets, where Uncle Buddy will have to go, too.

He keeps his eyes on the side door of the sewing factory across Main Street where his date will come out of. I guess she's an afternoon cleaning lady there, because Uncle Buddy said
all the sewing ladies are poor white trash.

Uncle Buddy speaks to everyone that passes, even the white folks who just nod their heads like the cat got their tongue.

I am looking so hard at the people that the time starts to slip away.

One white lady comes by and stops right in front of Uncle Buddy because he has his feet out on the sidewalk just a little bit. Grandpa done told him a thousand times that he ain't in Harlem and to move off the sidewalk when white folks coming by, to avoid trouble. She doesn't say excuse me or nothing, just looks at Uncle Buddy like he is a dog in her path. Her hair is back in a bun like she wants everybody to get a good look at her prejudice face. If you don't notice her face, you can't miss her ugly orange dress.

Uncle Buddy stands up to let her by.

What is wrong with her? She starts to walk faster, and then, out of nowhere, she let out this loud scream.

“Oh, my goodness!” she yells.

Then she holds her hand to her pale chest like she is having a heart attack.

Uncle Buddy looks around confused as he realizes she is yelling at him.

“Come on, gal,” he yells to me.

I jump out of the car and we go to the back door of the movie house, buy our tickets, and go inside.

“Maybe we should go home, Uncle Buddy. That white lady is mad.”

“We can't do that, gal. If we do, white folks will think I have done something wrong. Let's go up in this balcony, see the picture, and then we will go home.”

“But what about your date?”

“I'll explain to her later.”

It taking forever to get to the balcony, where the screen seems so far away.

“Why do we have to sit up here?” I ask.

“The same reason we had to buy our tickets in the back and eat last month's ice cream. We have to sit up here for the same reason that lady yelled like I was trying to hurt her. You can't even look at white folks round here.”

That is the last thing Uncle Buddy says before the movie start. He is so mad that I can feel him breathing hard next to me. Uncle Buddy doesn't
move all night, not even to get me the popcorn he promised. My first picture show just ain't going well at all. I couldn't tell a soul what this movie is about. I just want to go home where I feel safe. Back to Rehobeth Road. Back to Jones Property. I am glad to see the words “The End” come across the screen.

“Let's go, gal,” Uncle Buddy says in a voice I ain't heard before. A scary voice. A real scary voice.

Holding my hand tight, Uncle Buddy and me walk quietly down the steps, through the lobby, and out the back door to Main Street.

“That's him, officer.”

The words come out of nowhere.

It is that pale white woman's voice.

The law, Sheriff Franklin, looking old and feeble, is standing at Mr. Charlie's car. So are two other lawmen.

Uncle Buddy looks scared for the first time since I've known him.

The sheriff is taller than Grandpa and as red as the sunset.

“Boy, we need to talk to you.”

“My name is Goodwin Bush.”

This must be serious because this is the first time I have ever heard Uncle Buddy use his real name.

“Okay, boy, but we still need to talk to you. This lady said she was walking home from the beauty parlor and you made a pass at her. Is that true?”

“No, it ain't. I was just sitting right over there waiting for my friend to get off work. I don't know this lady and I sure ain't tried to harm her.”

“Now, you wouldn't be calling a lady a liar, would you?”

“I ain't calling her a liar, but I never touched her.”

“Tell it to the judge, nigger!”

Sheriff Franklin is mad. Maybe he is getting revenge for what happened with Grandpa all those years ago. Maybe he knows Uncle Buddy let the air out of his tires. Whatever—we are in trouble.

Everything starts moving faster than the ants in our front yard. Faster than the red ants. The black ants. The fire ants. How am I going to remember what to tell Grandpa? The lawmen pull my hand
out from Uncle Buddy's hand that I am holding on to so tightly. The silver handcuffs are around both his wrists now and I am alone.

“What about my niece?”

“We will take her home, but she is the least of your concerns, boy.”

Sheriff Franklin leads Uncle Buddy to the backseat of his car and the second lawman leads me to the other car. The third lawman grabs Uncle Buddy's keys and get behind the wheel of Mr. Charlie's car to drive it home.

Uncle Buddy does manage to yell, “Take my niece to my daddy's house.”

I watch as the sheriff drives away with Uncle Buddy and drive in the opposite direction with me and Mr. Charlie's car. At least they aren't keeping Mr. Charlie's car. I cry harder than I did at my cousin June Bug's funeral as they disappear with Uncle Buddy. All the way home, I picture them beating up my uncle Buddy, like they do in the cowboy pictures. It's so dark. I can't even see the cotton.

When we get to the house, I am wet all the way to my panties with tears and sweat. The lawman
drives up to Jones Property blowing his horn. When he sees Ma run outside, he gets his white behind out and lets me out of the backseat. He had me locked in like I am a prisoner.

Ma screaming like a crazy person.

“Lord, child, what happen? Where's Buddy?”

I can't get a word out. I fall on Ma's arms like a newborn hungry baby.

Ma turns to the lawman.

“Where is my brother?”

He just looks at her like she is a piece of dirt.

“Jail.”

With that one word, he and the other lawman drive off and leave us standing there.

Weak, Grandpa makes his way on the back porch and so does Grandma. Mr. Charlie, who is still there, follows them onto the porch. Grandpa unlocks his smokehouse door and pulls out his rifle. Miss Doleebuck came over while I was away, and she comes out behind Mr. Charlie.

“Where's my boy, Pattie Mae?”

“They took him to jail, Grandpa, and he didn't do nothing wrong.”

“Get your gun, Charlie.”

Mr. Charlie asks no questions. He gets his cane and goes in the trunk of his car. His shotgun is longer than Grandpa's is.

Grandma and Miss Doleebuck go into their control mood.

Grandma speaks first.

“Put them guns away right now. Braxton Jones, you know you ain't well and Charlie, you ain't used a gun since the months before Sunday. Who you going to shoot? The law?”

No one moves. Grandma speaks again.

“Now, Mer, you go over to Mr. Bay's and give him a quarter to use the phone. Call the law and find out what they charged my boy with.”

“But, Ma Babe.”

“Don't Ma Babe me, gal! Go on!”

It is like Ma is five again. She is walking across Rehobeth Road to Mr. Bay's, mad as she can be. I know Ma don't want to go. She hates asking Mr. Bay for anything. But she will do anything for her Buddy. Grandma looks at me and reaches out for my hand.

“Come in the house, child. This will pass.”

She nods for everyone else to follow her. Mr. Charlie and Grandpa walk slowly behind the women folks. They talk low. The only word I can hear good is “Masons.” The men folks on Rehobeth Road don't talk much about their organization. I don't know how you become a member, but I know Grandpa and Mr. Charlie go to meeting once a month and they never let the women folks hear anything about what they are doing.

Don't let a Mason die! Them Masons come from everywhere to a Mason's funeral. And they don't let nobody carry the body of a Mason that ain't a Mason. I've only been to one Masons' funeral. That was June Bug's daddy, Uncle Pete, who died the year before June Bug drowned. The Masons might have been sad, but Aunt Rosie wasn't. They were divorced and she said, “Peace go with him and joy behind him.”

The grown folks take their places on the front porch. I run to the kitchen to get a mason jar to ease drop.

Ma is back in ten minutes from Mr. Bay's house
and the grown folks' talk begins as I go to my room with my jar. Yes, we are spending another night on Jones Property. Ma tells them, “Ain't nothing we can do until Monday morning when the courthouse opens.”

My body will not stay awake, not even to ease drop. Our catfish Friday done turned to a nightmare. I put my jar under the bed. They talk. I sleep.

I
'm not sure if anyone is getting any sleep tonight other than Grandma and me. She says the Lord is going to take care of this, and she gets up Saturday morning singing and getting ready to go to town. Grandpa says we should all stay home. But Grandma keeps on dressing and tells me to do the same.

Not even Uncle Buddy's troubles will stop Grandma from her Saturday ritual because somehow over the years, Grandma has managed to control Mr. Wilson, too. I think going in his store, bossing them white folks around, feels like justice
to my grandma. Justice for all the colored folks who don't have the courage to do what she does every Saturday morning.

Mr. Charlie comes for us at 10:00 just like he always does.

“Good mornin', Mr. Charlie.”

“Good mornin', Pattie. Good mornin', Babe.”

“Mornin', Charlie,” Grandma says, like it hurts her to talk.

I help Grandma in the front seat of the car and close the door gently. I climb into the back right behind Mr. Charlie, so that we can talk. But he is too upset about Uncle Buddy to talk and he hardly says a word all the way to town.

It's really not far to Wilson's Grocery in the heart of Main Street. But it always takes Mr. Charlie about twenty minutes every Saturday morning because he drives, as he puts it, at his own speed.

The slower he drives, the sadder I become as I look out at cotton and the coloreds chopping it even on a Saturday morning. Then I remember what Grandpa told me last year when I was complaining about fieldwork. “Don't let nothing that
you can change worry you.” I know in my twelve-year-old heart that I will soon be leaving Rehobeth Road and the cotton fields forever, so no need to worry. But what about Uncle Buddy? We can't change what's happening to him. He's just sitting in that jail. He don't belong in no jail.

When we get to Wilson's Grocery, I open the door to the store for Grandma, and to my surprise, Mr. Wilson has already put a chair in the middle of the floor for Grandma to sit in. Usually, she will pull her own chair away from the table where the white men sit to play chess and talk all day. Mr. Wilson seems to really like Grandma and he lets her come in and rearrange his chairs every week. Uncle Buddy said all them white men are doing is sitting round that table calling us niggers. I told Uncle Buddy that I think Mr. Wilson really like Grandma, but he said Mr. Wilson don't like nothing black, he just know that her bra is filled with green. Grandma walks over to that chair and sits down like she is a queen. Mr. Charlie comes in to buy some tobacco. He looks at her and shakes his head. “I'll be back in two hours,” Mr. Charlie
announces, biting into a fresh piece of tobacco.