Let the Circle Be Unbroken (27 page)

“I betcha one thing though.” Gracey giggled. “I betcha you think she’s prettier than Jacey Peters.”

Mary Lou frowned. “Ah, I don’t think that Jacey’s pretty at all.”

“I guess you don’t,” laughed Alma. “Seeing that Stacey’s always talking to her. There they go now.”

Stacey and Jacey were crossing the school yard alone, having just left a group of older boys and girls at the end of the field. Stacey was doing all the talking, but Jacey was nodding, her eyes on him as if greatly interested in what he was saying.

“Well, I just think he’s so cute,” said Mary Lou, “and I just don’t see what he sees in that ole Jacey.”

“I betcha he see somethin’ in her you wish he’d see in you,” teased Alma.

“Ah, hush up!” cried Mary Lou.

I got up.

“Where you going, Cassie?” Mary Lou asked.

I stared at her. All of a sudden her interest in me had risen markedly. I glanced out at Stacey, knowing that he was
not yet that hard up. “I ain’t going over to where Stacey is if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No, I—”

I walked away, tired of their chatter. As I crossed the yard, I noticed Jake Willis standing alone by the lower-grades building, his eyes on a circle of young women near the church. I studied the group, knowing even before I looked that Suzella was in it. As much as I disliked Suzella, it bothered me that Jake Willis had taken to her. He was as old as Papa, maybe older, but since Suzella had arrived, he had watched her with the same intensity as the boys and young men. But his look was different. There was something distasteful about it.

I saw Joe and asked him about Wordell. He told me he hadn’t seen him since before Sunday school. Despondent, I joined Son-Boy and Maynard, who were standing with Little Willie, Moe, Clarence, and two ninth-grade boys, Ron and Don Shorter. “She smiled at me, man!” claimed Don as I walked up. “Jus’ parted them pretty lips, showed them pearlies, and smiled.”

“Ah, man, she was looking at all of us,” argued Little Willie. “But did ya hear her? She called me by my name. She know who I am.”

“Man, she oughta know more’n that!” cried Ron, Don’s twin brother. “If me and Stacey was as tight as you two’re s’pose to be, I’d have his cousin all to myself.”

I looked around feeling just a bit crushed. Despite myself, I had begun to look at Ron Shorter in a new light lately, and his continued attention to Suzella bothered me, even though I knew he would never even look at me. I was too young.

“What ’bout you, Moe?” Ron said. “How you doin’?”

“What?”

“You and Suzella, man,” Ron repeated, laughing. “How you gettin’ ’long with Suzella?”

Moe seemed distracted. “Oh . . . fine.”

“Sure,” said Ron derisively.

“Ah, face it,” said Clarence. “Suzella ain’t hardly thinkin’ ’bout none of us. She probably got some high-toned boyfriend up in New York.”

“Well, boyfriend or not, me and Suzella gonna get together,” claimed Little Willie.

The Shorters laughed. “How?”

“Well, I tell ya—”

The bell began to ring, and by the time it had stopped, Little Willie had reconsidered sharing his thought and walked off with Clarence; Don and Ron followed with good-natured teasing. Moe, his head down and his hands in his pockets, went along behind them. I touched his arm. “Anything the matter, Moe?”

He shook his head.

“But you so quiet.”

“Well, it’s jus’ that . . .” He looked out across the yard. “Our cow died last night and Papa’s real broken up ’bout it. Seem like it’s jus’ one thing after another.”

“Ah, Moe, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Crop be good, maybe we can get another cow.”

I knew that was a hopeless dream, but I didn’t say it. “What ’bout till then?”

He smiled crookedly. “Till then we drink water,” he said and walked on alone.

“What’s the matter with him?” Son-Boy asked, coming along with Maynard. “He feeling down and out ’bout Suzella like the rest of these fellas?”

I turned on him. “Now how come everything gotta be ’bout Suzella? Jus’ ’cause she’s here don’t mean folks ain’t got other things to be thinking ’bout.”

“Maybe not,” said Maynard, grinning, “but she what a lotta folks wanna be thinkin’ ’bout.”

“Well, me for one, I’m jus’ ’bout tired of hearing ’bout her every time I turn around.”

Son-Boy laughed. “Ah, Cassie, you jus’ jealous ’cause she’s so pretty. Uh-oh! There’s ole Deacon Backwater with that switch of his. We’d better get on inside.”

After church I stood in front of the mirror, my church dress still on, and harshly examined myself. I was long-legged and growing. The dress, which Uncle Hammer had given me last Christmas, was already too short. But other than height, nothing else seemed to have changed. I turned sideways and stuck out my chest. Flat. There was no hint of a womanly figure anywhere. I sighed, then objectively tried to assess my good points. Though my facial features favored Papa, my skin coloring was a yellowish brown like Mama’s and my body build was slender—at least that was good. My hair was done up in my favorite hairdo, one long braid on the side and another at back center, with each coiled in a small bun and pinned against my head. It had always been an outstanding feature because of its length and thickness, but I had never managed to do anything with it. To get it to look like anything at all, Mama or Big Ma had to comb it; otherwise it was disastrous.

For several minutes I stood in front of the mirror wondering how long it would be before anybody thought I was pretty like Suzella, or if Ron Shorter ever would. I wondered if boys would ever look at me the way they looked at Suzella, then wondered why I cared. Suddenly, without thinking, I pulled the pins from my fine hairdo, unbraided my hair, and
ran the comb through it. Parting it on the side, I tried to get it to hang like Suzella’s, but it bushed out full and thick like a huge black halo around my head.

“Why don’t you let me comb it for you?”

I wheeled around. I hadn’t heard Suzella come in. “I can comb it myself,” I told her angrily and turned back to the mirror. With the comb in hand, I attempted to restyle it as it had been.

Suzella moved across to a chair and sat down to watch me. “You know, Cassie, you’ve got such pretty hair. But if you want it to hang like mine, you’ll have to straighten it—”

I turned on her. “Who said I wanted it to hang like yours?”

“Well, I—”

“You think you such a big deal that everybody’s ’round here tryin’ to look like you or something?”

“I never said—”

“I like my hair jus’ fine like it is. Ain’t tryin’ to change it neither . . . like yours or nobody else’s.”

“I didn’t say you were, Cassie.”

“Mama says there’s all sorts of ways I can wear my hair when I get a bit older. Says she learned ’em when she was in school in Jackson and says she’s gonna show me.”

When Suzella didn’t reply to that, I went back to work on my hair. I managed to get a braid in the front and one in the back, but the hair all around the braids was puckered and the part separating the braids crooked. If Suzella had not been in the room and I had not been so angry at her for interfering, or at myself for taking down my hair in the first place, I would have laughed. As it was, I simply coiled the braids in a circle and pinned them down. Having done the best I could, I changed into a school dress and turned to leave.

“Cassie, why don’t you like me?”

I stopped and stared at Suzella. I had never expected that she would put the question to me point-blank.

“I like you all right.”

“No . . . I don’t think so. Ever since I came there’s been something about me that you don’t care for. Have I done something to you?”

I looked out the window. “You ain’t done nothin’.”

“Then is it because . . . is it because, Cassie, my mother’s white?”

I looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

“Cassie, you can’t just not like me because my mother’s a white woman. My mother’s simply my mother and my father my father, and I love them both just like you love yours. Don’t blame me for something I can’t help . . . Cassie?”

“Big Ma said she need me to help her in the kitchen,” I said, opening the door.

“All right,” Suzella said softly as the door closed between us.

*   *   *

At dinner Stacey told the rest of the family about the Turners’ cow dying. Big Ma frowned at the news and after a moment’s thought turned to Mama. “Mary, it be all right with you, sugar, tomorrow first thing I’m gonna take that four-year-old milker of ours over there. Orris Turner with all them young children be needing that milk and here we gotta be throwin’ it away, folks don’t come get it. Hurts me to my heart.” Mama agreed, and early the next morning before the full heat of the day descended, Big Ma, with the boys and me, started out for Smellings Creek leading the cow, Nadine.

It was a fine summer’s day. Overhead the sky was the
deepest of blues; beneath our feet the road was warm but not burning, and the world was awash with the dazzling brilliance of growing things. Filled with the joy of it, for a while Little Man, Christopher-John, and I ran games of chase along the road, then fell in stride with Big Ma and Stacey. As we walked, Big Ma told us stories of when she and Grandpa had first come to the land, of how things had been then. She told us stories of all her sons: of Uncle Mitchell, who had been killed in the World War; of Uncle Kevin, who had drowned; of Papa and Uncle Hammer. Most of her stories were funny, and we laughed a lot as we passed vast cotton fields where dark figures, as much a part of the earth as the cotton itself, waved a spirited greeting. Several times we stopped to talk with the people in the fields, stretching a two-hour trip into three, and consequently, by the time we reached the Turner farm, the sun was riding high in the eastern sky.

“Well, looka here!” exclaimed Mr. Turner, wiping his hands on his overalls as he, Moe, and Elroy, Moe’s twelve-year-old brother, came from the fields to greet us. “What brings y’all all the way over here, Miz Caroline?”

“Come to bring y’all this here cow. Heard y’all lost y’all’s, and you know we got more cows’n we can use the milk from. I figures y’all needin’ a cow, y’all can jus’ take this one off our hands awhile and put her to good use. Jus’ lending her to y’all till y’all get on your feet and can get ya one.”

Mr. Turner looked gratefully at Big Ma, but shook his head. “I sho’ ’nough ’preciate this, Miz Caroline, but I jus’ can’t go take y’all’s cow knowin’ I can’t pay for her.”

But Mr. Turner was no match for Big Ma. “Now, Orris Turner, I done come all the way over here to bring this cow and I ain’t takin’ her back.”

“But Miz Caroline—”

“Ya got seven younguns here and they needs milk, ’specially them babies there,” Big Ma contended, her eyes resting on the younger children who had gathered ’round. “Christine—that fine woman—would jus’ turn over in her grave she knowed ya was refusin’ milk for them babies. Ya feels ya gotta pay, then send Moe and Elroy over when they get some free time and let ’em chop wood a day or two.”

Mr. Turner gave in. “Well, we sho’ do thank ya, Miz Caroline. You’s a fine woman.”

“Ah, go on with ya, Brother Turner,” Big Ma said, turning away embarrassed. “Y’all helping us out to take that cow.” And before Mr. Turner could say anything more, she changed the subject. “See y’all keeping Christine’s flower garden lookin’ right nice.”

Mr. Turner glanced over at the neat bed of flowers encircling the one-room shack, and tenderness softened the deep lines of his face. “We don’t tend to nothin’ else like we oughta, we makes sure we tends to them flowers. Christine, she was always sho’ proud of ’em. . . .”

“Yes, she sho’ was. . . .”

“Well, look here, Miz Caroline, y’all come on in and let me get some coffee for ya.”

“No thank ya, Brother Turner. We ain’t come to visit and we ain’t wantin’ to keep ya from your field.” Her eyes surveyed the cotton field, which extended almost to the Turners’ front door. “I tells ya, it’s lookin’ mighty good all right.”

Mr. Turner nodded. “So far, it’s comin’ ’long right nice. Look to me, it be the best crop we done had in a spell.”

“I figure the way it’s lookin’ got a whole lot to do with that fertilizer we used this time, don’t you, Papa?” said Moe, his eyes gleaming as he looked out at the cotton. “Hey, Stacey, ain’t I told ya it was looking good?”

Stacey smiled, pleased for his friend. “Yeah, ya did.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna be something. Really something!”

Mr. Turner laughed and motioned proudly toward Moe. “That boy, he got plenty of big plans for this crop here. Wasn’t for him with all his questioning that Mr. Farnsworth ’bout fertilizers and seeds and such and all his hard work, I don’t much ’spect that cotton’d be lookin’ good like it is.”

“Well, I jus’ hopes y’all can get a good price on it come the sellin’,” said Big Ma. “Hopes we all can.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s what we hopin’ too.”

Big Ma looked up at the sun. “Brother Turner, we’d thank y’all for some nice cold water from your well there, then we gonna hafta be gettin’ on back home ’fore that ole sun yonder gets to burnin’ down too hot.”

Mr. Turner tried to get Big Ma to sit and rest awhile, but when she refused, he sent Moe into the house for cups and went to the well to draw some fresh water. As Moe came back, a car drove up the road and turned into the yard. Mr. Peck and Deputy Haynes stepped out.

“Papa, what you think they want?” Moe said, fear leaping into his voice as it did with many of us when white people arrived unexpectedly.

“Orris!” called Deputy Haynes. “Got business with ya! Come on over!”

Mr. Turner, still holding the rope to the water bucket, looked out blankly, then nodded and handed the rope to Moe before walking over to the men.

“Hello there, Orris,” the deputy said. “Ya knows Mr. Peck here. Taking Mr. Farnsworth’s place as county agent?”

Mr. Turner looked at Mr. Peck and back to the deputy. “Yes, suh.”

“Well, he come with some news for ya.”

Once again Mr. Turner looked at Mr. Peck. “Yes, suh?”

“Well, Orris . . .” Mr. Peck started, then pulled at his
ear and looked away from him to the fields. “Ya know in thirty-three we asked farmers to plow up part of their cotton, and then last year and this year we asked farmers to plant less than what they was used to planting . . .” He paused as if waiting for Mr. Turner to say something. When Mr. Turner did not, he glanced back at him. Mr. Turner nodded slowly and Mr. Peck looked back to the fields. “Well . . . uh . . .”