Let the Circle Be Unbroken (5 page)

“I can imagine.”

“What this mean, Mama?” Christopher-John asked. “This mean T.J. gonna come home now?”

Mama poured the water, untouched, back into the pail. Suddenly, she looked weary. “No, that’s not what it means.”

“Well, what it mean?”

“Means they can do it legally now.”

“What’s that, Mama?”

There had been a bitter edge to Mama’s voice as she spoke. Now she turned from the wagon to look directly at Christopher-John, his round face showing bewilderment at this latest news about T.J., and her words were softer. “A trial means that T.J. can tell his story and there’ll be people there who’ll decide whether he’s telling the truth or not.”

“Then that means he’ll be comin’ on home then.” Christopher-John smiled happily at this conclusion.

“No. . . .” Her eyes went slowly over each of us. “No.
The people who’ll hear T.J. and make the decision will be white. There’ll be somebody else who’ll be saying that what T.J. says is not the truth. He’ll be white too. There’ll be a judge there and he’ll be white. All white, do you understand?” She paused. “T.J. won’t be coming home.” She looked down at Christopher-John, who was still very much disturbed. “What is it?”

It took him a moment to speak. When he did, the fear had welled in his voice. “Mama . . . Mama, you think they’ll ever come get us like they done T.J.?”

“Us?” She looked surprised at his asking. “They’ve got no reason to come after us.”

“But they come after T.J.!”

“I know.”

“Well, it ain’t fair!” he objected. “T.J., he ain’t done nothin’, and now folks say they gonna hang him.”

“Now wait just a minute. You call breaking into that store nothing? That was wrong and there’s no way around it. It was wrong too for T.J. to be running around with those white boys in the first place. He knew that, but he was too hardheaded to listen to anybody, and this trouble he’s in is what came of it.” Her voice had risen angrily as she spoke, for it deeply bothered her that she had seen T.J.’s downfall coming and had been unable to prevent it. She calmed herself and went on. “You know, there’s nothing I’d like better in this world than to make what happened this summer not to have happened. But it did, and not your papa or Big Ma or Mr. Morrison or me or anybody can make it go away. We teach you what we do to keep you safe. The way things are down here, what happened to T.J. was bound to come. I don’t like it and your papa doesn’t like it, and most decent folks don’t like it, but right now all we can do is try to keep it from happening again.”

“But what ’bout T.J., Mama?” Christopher-John persisted. “He gonna die?”

Mama put a slender arm around him. “On that, baby, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

For a moment we stood in silence, only the forest sounds cracking the stillness. Then Stacey muttered something about finding Papa and, rounding the pond, headed northward. As he left, Mr. Morrison drove up in the wagon and we began to load the firewood. When Stacey returned with Papa a short time later, Mama looked at Papa and said: “Stacey tell you?”

Papa nodded and, swooping Little Man up, set him onto the back of the wagon and gave him a stick of wood to stack. Little Man quickly placed the stick at the wagon’s head, then ran back for more.

“Y’all got quite a bit of chopping done down in here,” Mr. Morrison said as he brought an armload of wood to the wagon.

Papa looked around the clearing. “It’ll be a while yet ’fore it’s all cleared out. Them lumbermen did a lotta damage . . . a lotta damage. . . . Got another load stacked farther down. We finish this, then in the morning I figure we’ll go get that other.”

“Papa—”

Papa turned to Stacey. For a moment, Stacey faltered; then he said: “Papa, I wanna go to that trial.”

Mama, walking toward the wagon with an armload of wood, stopped so suddenly, several sticks fell off. “Now that’s the last thing you’re going to do,” she said.

“Mama, I gotta go! T.J. gonna need me. Maybe there’s something I can say. Maybe tell ’em ’bout him comin’ here that night—”

“You think these people are going to believe anything you have to say? T.J.’s going to trial before an all-white jury and
a white judge in a town and a state and a country ruled by white folks. For you to get up there and say anything will just make it worse.”

Stacey’s look was defiant. “I seen him that night . . . ’fore them men come. Could tell ’em what T.J. said. Tell how beat up he was.”

“Now just calm down here a minute,” Papa said. “You’ve done a lotta learning and a lotta growing the last few years, and I figure you know by now things ain’t fair in this life for hardly nobody, and for a black person there ain’t hardly no such thing. Now we done all we could for T.J. the night of the fire, but I tell you, son, there ain’t nothing else we can do. He’s in the hands of the law now and that law like jus’ ’bout everything else in this country is made for the white folks. You get up there talking ’bout being with T.J. that night, maybe them white folks in town might just get to thinkin’ you was one of them boys broke in that store with T.J.”

Stacey looked uneasy. “T.J., he’ll—he’ll tell ’em it wasn’t me—that it was them Simmses.”

Papa waited a moment, his eyes hard on Stacey. “And you think the jury’s gonna believe that?”

Stacey was silent. He glanced at the pond, then back at Papa and Mama. His eyes changed. The realization had hit him.

It had hit me too. I felt a surging feeling of panic at the thought of Stacey’s facing the same ordeal as T.J. After all, Stacey had been with T.J. the night Jim Lee Barnett had been killed, and he had helped him. We all had.

He didn’t say anything else. Turning away, he gathered several more sticks of firewood and, in silence, put them on the wagon.

After supper we sat before the fire in Mama and Papa’s room as we did each evening, attending to our evening tasks: the boys and I at our table by the window, attempting to study; Big Ma sewing; Mama reading; Papa mending the sole of Christopher-John’s shoe; and Mr. Morrison carving a piece of wood which had not yet taken on a shape of its own. Sounds of the fire popping and of Mr. Morrison’s knife scraping against the wood blended with Big Ma’s soft humming, lending a quiet peace.

As the evening wore on, we heard a car on the road and we all looked up. Mr. Morrison, sitting near the front window, stood and pushed the curtain back. The boys and I peered out into the darkness with him, watching as a faint light coming from the east illuminated the road, growing brighter as it neared. Finally, the car slowed and turned up the drive. Mr. Morrison waited a moment until the driver stepped out, then said, “It’s Wade Jamison.”

For longer than was necessary and with his car headlights still on, Mr. Jamison poked around his front seat as if arranging his briefcase, a procedure he always followed whenever he came at night so that we could see who it was. When Papa called out to him, he turned out his lights and came up the rock path to the porch, leaving the briefcase behind. He shook Papa’s hand and, taking off his hat, greeted the rest of us.

Since the night of the fire, we had not seen Mr. Jamison very much; we had heard he had had troubles of his own. His defense of T.J. that night had caused his unpopularity in the white community to grow even further, and the week following the lynching attempt his office had been burned, then his dog poisoned. It was said, too, that threats had been made against both him and his wife. But Mr. Jamison himself had never mentioned the threats to us. What he had said,
however, was that his family was old-line Mississippi and not even Beelzebub himself was going to run him out or change his way of thinking. I believed him, too.

Mama offered him one of the rockers and he sat down tentatively, as was his custom, crossing one long leg over the other. In his fifties, with graying hair and sad gray eyes, Mr. Jamison was one of the few adult white people that I truly liked.

“I’m only going to be here a minute,” he explained as Mama took his hat and laid it on the bed. “I was just down to the Averys and thought I’d stop by before I went back to town to see if you’d heard about the trial.”

As usual, Mr. Jamison came straight to the point. He understood as well as we did that the friendship and good will we shared with him was different from that which we shared with our neighbors in the black community or that which he shared with his friends in the white community. There was a mutual respect and, because the years had proven it justified, a mutual trust; but there was no socialization other than the amenities. Neither he nor we would have felt comfortable in such a situation, for the unwritten laws of the society frowned upon such fraternization, and the trust and respect were valued and needed more than the socializing.

“We got the news this afternoon,” Papa replied. “The children heard ’bout it at school.”

Mr. Jamison glanced over at the boys and me, then back to Papa. “Judge Havershack’ll be presiding. I tried for Judge Forestor, who’s quite a bit more free thinking, but he was tied up in something else up at Tree Hill. Hadley Macabee from Vicksburg’ll be prosecuting.”

Papa was silent a moment before he observed, “I don’t s’pose it really matters that much who the judge or the prosecutor is, does it? It’s the jury’s gotta decide, and I figure it
made up its mind long before that boy broke into that store.”

Mr. Jamison sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “A different kind of judge, though, maybe could make a difference . . . a big difference.”

Papa shrugged. “You naturally got more faith in the law than I do.”

Mr. Jamison took Papa’s comment in silence. Papa had no illusions about the trial and Mr. Jamison knew it. He glanced around the room before he spoke again. “David, there’s been something that’s been on my mind quite a little while, and now that we’ve got the trial coming up, I think it best we talk about it.”

I stopped breathing and glanced at Stacey; his eyes did not move from Mr. Jamison.

“It’s about your children.”

Relief was on Stacey’s face. I began to breathe again. Mr. Jamison was not going to talk about the fire.

“Now I’ve spoken to T.J. and he’s told me all his actions on the night Jim Lee was killed. I know that he came by here first and that your children helped him get back home.”

Christopher-John and Little Man shot a nervous glance at Stacey, their eyes revealing their worry that we might be in trouble all over again.

“Mr. Macabee is aware of this as well, but he and I both agree that there’s no point in taking T.J.’s testimony beyond the time he says he got a ride back from Strawberry. If we go beyond that time, we’ll have to get into the whole business of the lynching attempt and Macabee doesn’t want that. And I don’t want your children involved . . . in any way.”

Papa nodded and Mama said, “We appreciate that, Mr. Jamison. More than you know.”

Mr. Jamison appeared to be somewhat embarrassed by Mama’s words. He looked at her, allowing a slight nod.

“Excuse me, Mr. Jamison,” said Stacey, “but there any chance of colored folks getting to be on that jury?”

I expected Mama and Papa to reproach Stacey for butting into so serious a conversation. Neither did.

Mr. Jamison’s gray eyes met Stacey’s and his answer came as straightforward as always. “Selection of jurors is made from people registered to vote, Stacey. Seeing that there are no colored voters in Spokane County, there won’t be any colored voters to draw from. And even if there were and a colored person was called to duty, there’d be so much pressure on him, he probably wouldn’t serve anyway.”

“Well, ain’t there nothin’ can be done for T.J.?”

Mr. Jamison studied the floor for a moment, then looked back at Stacey. “Son, I’ll promise you this. I’ll be doing all I can. What I’m planning to do is put T.J. on the stand. That means, of course, that he’ll have to admit to the burglary. But if he can testify, I’m hoping that I can convince the jury that he was not the one who killed Jim Lee Barnett. If I don’t put him on the stand, we don’t have anything. After all, there’s that farmer who picked him up right outside of Strawberry, and R.W. and Melvin Simms will be testifying that they saw him running from the Mercantile. And then there was that pearl-handled gun found in T.J.’s mattress. I can perhaps punch some holes in the prosecutor’s case, but not enough. He’ll
have
to take the stand.”

“And . . . and if they don’t believe him?”

“Then we’ll try to get an appeal, another trial.”

Stacey nodded and said no more.

Mr. Jamison waited as if expecting more questions. I kept hoping that one of the grown-ups would ask the questions I would have liked to ask about the proceedings, but none of them did. It was as if the verdict was already in.

With no more questions asked, Mr. Jamison said, “David,
there was something else. I was wondering if any of you are planning on going to the trial?”

Papa took his pipe from his pocket and hit it hard against his palm as if he expected ashes to come out, but since there had been no tobacco for several months, the action was more out of habit than expectation. “Don’t know yet. The Averys are close friends.”

“I know that,” said Mr. Jamison, his words slow and spaced and full of meaning. “They know it too. They know also how folks in town feel about you. That feeling, it’s still there, and if you or Mr. Morrison or any of your family go into town, it could make things worse for the boy. Folks haven’t forgotten about that boycott, and they blame you for it.” He paused, then added, “And then, there’s still the coincidence of that fire. . . .”

My heart began to race wildly.

Papa put the pipe in his mouth. He never said anything where any white people were concerned, not even Mr. Jamison, without having carefully thought it through first. There was no rushing him. Withdrawing the pipe, he smiled faintly. “I ain’t hardly forgotten that. You think I would?”

Mr. Jamison returned his smile, showing he understood. “No, David, didn’t think you had.” He stood up. “Well, I guess I’d best be getting on back toward town. My wife’s probably been looking for me this past hour. Mrs. Logan, I’d thank you for my hat.”

When Mr. Jamison had left with both Papa and Mr. Morrison walking out with him, Big Ma commented: “It sho’ gotta be hard on that man tryin’ to help T.J. like he is.”