Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) (7 page)

I know he will have Miss Doleebuck with him when he gets back. He rarely drives the two controlling women to town together. He says they talk too much and try to tell him how to drive when they are together. I have taken that ride with him many Saturday mornings and he ain't lying about them trying to tell him where to turn, how fast to go, and when to stop. It's a mess. I'm telling you. It's a mess.

The minute Mr. Charlie walks out the door, Mr. Wilson come over with his first samples of meat for Grandma to pick from. She ain't about to walk around the store like other customers. Mr. Wilson rolls back the wax paper enough for Grandma to see his prize meat.

“How do you like this piece of fatback, Miss Babe?” he ask, pointing at the biggest piece. She is shopping for meat for her and Ma. Ma tells her every week not to bring her nothing but chicken, but Grandma always add another meat using her bra money for Ma and me.

Grandma studies all three pieces of fatback like
they are paintings in the state museum that our class went to last year up in Raleigh.

“I don't know, Wilson. Let's see what else you got.” That's the way Grandma address all white folks, by their last name, with no Mr. or Mrs. She says if white folks can't call colored folks by their name with a handle on it, she ain't calling them Mr. or Mrs. And she says she ain't calling them their first name either, because she don't want them to think she's their friend.

Mr. Wilson turns red as a beet and walks back behind the counter where Mrs. Wilson is standing, so he can pick some new fatback. Mrs. Wilson waves and rolls her eyes at the same time. Grandma never even acknowledges that woman. She says, “Mrs. Wilson's mouth just as good as mine. I don't understand head and hand movements. If she can't speak, I can't speak.”

Mr. Wilson ignores both of them and comes back armed with three new pieces of fatback laid out on wax paper.

I think Grandma just like making that white man walk back and forth.

“Take your pick and I will wrap it up for you.”

Grandma still ain't sure, but she knows she has less than two hours to buy her goods. Mr. Charlie surely will be back on time with the other controlling woman.

“That first piece you show me will do fine.”

Mr. Wilson goes behind the counter to wrap the fatback. I see him weighing the meat. I look hard because Grandma told me to keep an eye on him to make sure he don't cheat on the scales. Again, she don't trust no white folks. When he comes back, he has pork chops, ribs, you name it. But I've seen this parade so many times, I just walk over to look at the map on the wall.

Don't know where Mr. Wilson got this map, but it has been my underground railroad since I was tall enough to stand on my tiptoes and see it. The world outside of Rehobeth Road. I have been trying to leave Rehobeth Road ever since the traveling salesman came with the encyclopedias that has every state in it. I was five or six when the white man in the black car came with the books he was selling in the backseat. He said Ma didn't have to
pay the whole amount that day. He gave the books to her on time. That's what folks on Rehobeth Road call credit—time. So within minutes we had new red encyclopedias and I started to read about all fifty states. Mainly New York and New Jersey, because that's where all the folks from Rehobeth Road go when they leave here. New York looks so far away on the map. Farther than in my dreams. Five states away—Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and then New Jersey. I touch the map in the spot that says New York. I usually point it out to Uncle Buddy every Saturday. Everything feels wrong today. Wrong because I usually wait for Uncle Buddy to look at the map with me, so that he can point out all the places on the map that he traveled while working in difference factories up North.

I walk outside and sit on the steps. The sawmill across the road looks so ugly to me. I bet nobody there is going to stick up for my uncle. Now he's just three doors down, in the jailhouse. Three doors down! I have to see him. My feet feel so heavy as I try to walk down there to get a peep at
him. But I walk on. The windows are high and I can't see inside. I walk around back where the windows are covered with bars. This must be where they are keeping him. I move closer.

“Uncle Buddy.”

No answer.

“Uncle Buddy.”

Two hands appear at the barred window.

“Pattie Mae, is that you?”

“Yes, sir, it's me. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, gal. Now get away from here.”

“But I want to see you.”

“No! Now go on! Tell everyone I'm okay. Now get!”

My heart feels like snow in July.

“Bye, Uncle Buddy.”

“Bye, baby.”

His hands disappear into the dark hole behind the bars.

I start to walk away, but then I hear a voice. A voice that ain't Uncle Buddy. A woman's voice. But who? I go back to the corner of the jailhouse and peep to see who has come to see Uncle Buddy. I
can't see her face good, but I don't think I have ever seen her before. This strange lady takes an old wooden soda crate and puts it under the window. She stands on it so she can talk to Uncle Buddy through the bars.

Her voice is soft and citified like Aunt Rosie.

“Is a man named Goodwin Bush in there?”

Uncle Buddy comes back to the window.

“Ain't nobody in here but me, Nora.”

So that's Nora. She reaches her hand through the bars and touches Uncle Buddy's face.

“Buddy, are you all right?”

“I'm fine
now,
sugar. But you can't stay here.”

“I know, but I had to come to see you.”

“Now, Nora, you know what they saying about me ain't true, don't you?”

“I know and don't you dare try to explain nothing these country-ass white folks done to you.”

“I will be out of here soon. Don't worry.”

I can't see Uncle Buddy well; I can just see his hands touching Miss Nora's face. She doesn't say a word as she reaches in the bars farther and touches his face. Uncle Buddy's hands leave her
face and rub her neck. I don't think I am suppose to see all of this, but my feet are stuck. My eyes are too. His big hands make their way down her neck to her blouse and before I know it Uncle Buddy is rubbing her right tiddie like he is a baby trying to get some milk. I think this feels good to her, because she is making funny faces and some strange noise. I wonder if she going to get worms for messing with Uncle Buddy. Because Uncle Buddy is the one who said boys give girls worms. This is too much. It is definitely time to get back to the store. Now, that's some
real
grown folks business.

I walk back to the store so fast after seeing Uncle Buddy. I want to feel sorry for my uncle Buddy, but judging from the noises he and Miss Nora making, he doesn't sound too sad to me. When I get to the grocery store door, I peep in past the soda machine so that I can see Grandma. She is almost finished with her Saturday ritual. I say nothing about talking to Uncle Buddy. And I shoo ain't going to tell her I saw Uncle Buddy give that woman the worms. Then the moment arrives that I
understand why Mr. Wilson put Grandma's chair out for her.

“Miss Babe,” he says slowly, like he know the question he is about to ask is none of his business. “What's going on with that Buddy Bush mess?”

“Mess?” Grandma snaps back. She is mad.

Grandma says white folks are always asking coloreds questions, but we can't ask them anything. “Don't even know where most of them live unless you they maid,” she says.

“It ain't no mess! My boy ain't done nothing wrong.” Grandma turns away from Mr. Wilson and puts her right hand deep into her green and white dress. Down to her bra where the money is. In that sock is more money than I knew one woman could put in her bra.

“How much I owe you today?”

Mr. Wilson knows Grandma is mad.

“That'd be twenty-nine dollars and eighty-two cents.”

She counts out exactly $29.82.

Then Grandma turns to me.

“Count it again, Pattie Mae.”

I count it again.

$29.82

I hand her the money back.

She gives it to Mr. Wilson, who is two steps from getting a Babe Jones cursing.

Then she gives him a “Don't ask me nothing else about my boy” look, and says, “Good day.”

Grandma don't like the fact that word has already got around in Rich Square that they have arrested Uncle Buddy. I swear I see smoke coming from under her coattail when she stands up. Coattail is what the women on Rehobeth Road call their dresses. Now, why can't they just call a dress a dress? She never looks at them white folks as she walks out the door and leaves the queen's chair in its place. I believe this is what Uncle Buddy meant when he said, “A lady always knows when to leave a room.”

“White folks tell all of colored folks' business!” Grandma says loud enough for Mr. Wilson to hear as she slams the door in his face.

I want to tell Grandma that I just read that the NAACP is calling coloreds Negroes now. But she
ain't going to listen. She says I'm not old enough to tell her nothing but the time. If she only knew what I just saw back at the jailhouse, maybe I can get some respect around here. I have just seen some real grown folks' mess. I sure did.

I don't say a word as we get into Mr. Charlie's car after Mr. Wilson load our six bags. Four for Grandma and Grandpa and two for Ma and me. Grandma and I climb in and Miss Doleebuck climbs out of the backseat. Miss Doleebuck never rides in the front seat because she says she feels better in the back. That means she doesn't think Mr. Charlie is a good driver. Mr. Charlie tells Grandpa and me that he doesn't care where she sits as long as she doesn't open her mouth. Not one word.

Miss Doleebuck is dressed like she is going to church. If she is going to Jones Property, she dresses the same way. Always in a nice dress with a hat. In the summer, her hats have fresh flowers from her garden on them. In the winter, they have all kinds of berries on them. Her hats are mighty pretty on her long white braids and her tan skin.
Uncle Buddy told me she got Indian blood. Grandma found out that he told me that mess and she told him to shut up talking about what kind of blood Miss Doleebuck got.

“Good-bye, Miss Doleebuck,” I yell from the backseat.

“Good-bye, grandbaby,” she yells back as she kisses Grandma like she always does. If these two women see each other ten times a day, they kiss and hug. Just kiss, kiss, hug, and hug.

Mr. Charlie waves to his controlling wife and Miss Doleebuck marches into the store to terrorize poor Mr. Wilson some more.

Grandma hardly murmurs a word all the way home. She is still mad at Mr. Wilson for getting in colored folks' business and Mr. Charlie knows something has happened. But he ain't paying one bit of attention to her silence as he singing his favorite song. I join in with him as he sings “Amazing Grace” loud enough not to hear Grandma huffing and puffing. I make up my mind at this moment that as soon as I am old enough I am going to learn to huff and puff, too. Not only that, I
am going to get my driver's license so that I can drive myself to town. I bet Grandpa and Mr. Charlie will think I'm controlling, too, when I have my driver's license. I look out the window and sing louder.

Just think, when I'm riding to New York I will see lots of cars and highway, not cotton and field workers.

I sing louder and don't look at Grandma who is trying to give me the “Shut up” look through the rearview mirror. I'm not going to look. I'm not going to look at her. She wants to control me, just like Mr. Charlie and Grandpa were talking about on the front porch last week.

I only look in the front seat long enough to see Mr. Charlie laughing to himself at Grandma in her control mood. The truth is, she is mad and she is worried about Grandpa and Uncle Buddy. She is ready to get home.

“Drive a little faster, Charlie.”

“Now, Babe, you just sit tight. We will be home soon.”

Poor Mr. Charlie speeds up and as soon as we
turn on Rehobeth Road, a stray dog is running towards the car. Lord, we miss that poor dog by an inch. Mr. Charlie hits his brakes, causing Grandma to grab the dashboard with one hand and somehow reach into the backseat to hold me down with the other hand.

“Hold on, Babe,” Mr. Charlie sings in the same breath with “How sweet the sound.”

They both singing “Lord, have mercy!” at the same time. I can't say a word. I'm just glad to be alive.

“Slow this car down, Charlie!” Grandma yells.

I want to scream, “You just told him to drive fast!” But I don't have to. Mr. Charlie beats me to it.

“Now you want me to slow down. I don't know why you and Doleebuck don't get license of your own and stop telling me how to drive.”

All the way home they argue. I close my eyes and think about my train trip. I think about never chopping again, about Grandpa feeling better, and Uncle Buddy coming home.

W
hen we get home, no one even mentions Uncle Buddy, and I don't tell a soul that I went by the jailhouse. The thing I know now, that I didn't know when I left Jones Property this morning, is that grown folks can get worms, too. Whatever worms are!

I'm telling you, ain't nobody saying a word on Jones Property.

Everyone is waiting for Monday morning to come, like them white folks are going to grow a heart between now and then.

Grandma finally breaks the silence.

“Mer, you and Pattie Mae need to stay here until this mess with Buddy is cleared up. White folks crazy when they mad. They might come by y'all house and try to harm you.”

I hope they burn the whole house down while we here. That way we can stay on Jones Property forever.

“You believe we in danger, Ma Babe?”

“I don't know. Just stay here till things look better.”

Ma never argues with Grandma. She puts her last biscuit in the pan and sticks it in the oven. Wiping the flour off her hands, Ma looks worried.