“Dis is jes’ lak when Ah wuz uh girl,” Amy told Pheemy and offered her body to the voice.
Furious music of the little drum whose body was still in Africa, but whose soul sung around a fire in Alabama. Flourish. Break.
Ole cow died in Tennessee
Send her jawbone back to me
Jawbone walk, Jawbone talk
Jawbone eat wid uh knife and fork.
Ain’t Ah right?
CHORUS: Yeah!
Ain’t I right? Yeah!
Hollow-hand clapping for the bass notes. Heel and toe stomping for the little one. Ibo tune corrupted with Nango. Congo gods talking in Alabama.
If you want to see me jabber
Set me down to uh bowl uh clabber
Ain’t Ah right? Yeah!
Now, ain’t Ah right? Yeah!
Ole Ant Dinah behind de pine
One eye out and de other one blind
Ain’t Ah right? Yeah! Yeah!
Now, ain’t Ah right? Yeah!
“Looka dat boy uh yourn, Amy!” Zeke Turk urged. “Didn’t thought he knowed how tuh dance. He’s rushin’ de frog tuh de frolic! And looka ‘Big ’Oman,’ dat gal dancin’ wid ’im. Lawd, she shakin’ yonder skirt.”
Wisht Ah had uh needle
Fine ez Ah could sew
Ah’d sew mah baby to my side
And down de road Ah’d go.
Double clapping—
Down de road baby
Down de road baby
It’s killing mama
Oh, it’s killing mama.
Too hot for words. Fiery drum clapping.
“Less burn dat old moon down to a nub! Is dat you, Pheemy?”
“Yeah Lawd. Mah head is tilted to de grave, but Ah’ll show y’all Ah ain’t fuhgit how. Come on out heah, Dink, and help ole Pheemy do de Parse me lah.”
“Heel and toe. Don’t call no figgers.”
“Aw yeah, less call figgers. Go ’head Bully, but don’t call it lak you call for white folks and dey go praipsin ’cross the floor lake dey steppin on eggs. Us kin dance. Call ’em, Bully.”
“Awright, choose yo’ partners.”
“Couples tuh yo’ places lak hawse tuh de traces.”
“Sixteen hands up!”
“Circle four.”
“Y’all ain’t clappin’ right. Git dat time.
Raccoon up de ’simmon tree
Possum on de ground
Raccoon shake dem ’simmons down
Possum pass ’em round.”
The fire died. The moon died. The shores of Africa receded. They went to sleep and woke up next day and looked out on dead and dying cotton stalks and ripening possum persimmons.
As the final day of school closing drew near, John found life tremendously exciting. The drama of Pearson’s plantation yielded to the tenseness around the school house. He had learned to spell his way thru several pages in his reader. He could add, subtract and divide and multiply. He proved his new power to communicate his thoughts by scratching Lucy’s name in the clay wherever he found a convenient spot: with a sharp stick he had even scratched it on the back of Pheemy’s chimney.
He saw Lucy at school every day. He saw her in church, and she was always in his consciousness, but he had never talked with her alone. When the opportunity presented itself he couldn’t find words. Handling Big ’Oman, Lacey, Semmie, Bootsie and Mehaley merely called for action, but with Lucy he needed words and words that he did not have. One day during the practice for school closing he crowded near her and said, “Wisht Ah could speak pieces lak you do.”
“You kin speak ’em better’n me,” Lucy said evenly, “you got uh good voice for speakin’.”
“But Ah can’t learn no long ones lak you speaks. When do you learn ’em?”
“In de night time round home after Ah git thru wid mah lessons.”
“You ain’t got many mo’ days tuh be studyin’ of nights. Den whut you gwine do wid yo’self?”
“Mama always kin find plenty fuh folks tuh do.”
“But Ah mean in de night time, Lucy. When youse thru wid yo’ work. Don’t you do nothin’ but warm uh chair bottom?”
Lucy drew away quickly, “Oooh, John Buddy! You talkin’ nasty.”
John in turn was in confusion. “Whuss nasty?”
“You didn’t hafta say ‘bottom.’”
John shriveled up inside. He had intended to recite the rhymes to Lucy that the girls on the plantation thought so witty, but he realized that—
Some love collards, some love kale
But I loves uh gal wid uh short skirt tail
would drive Lucy from him in disgust. He could never tell her that. He felt hopeless about her. Soon she was recalled to the platform to recite and John’s chance was gone. He kept on thinking, however, and he kept on making imaginary speeches to her. Speeches full of big words that would make her gasp and do him “reverence.” He was glad when he was selected as the soldier to sing opposite Lucy in the duet, “Oh Soldier, Will You Marry Me?” It meant something more than singing with gestures beside a girl. Maybe she would realize that he could learn things too, even if she could read the better. He meant to change all that as quickly as possible. One day he shyly overtook her on her way home.
“Dey tell me you kin run fast,” he began awkwardly.
“Dey told you right,” Lucy answered saucily, “whoever tole you. Ah kin outrun most anybody ’round heah.”
“Less we race tuh dat sweet-gum tree and see who kin beat,” John challenged.
They were off. Lucy’s thin little legs pumping up and down. The starchy strings of her blue sunbonnet fluttering under her chin, and her bonnet lying back of her neck.
“Ah beat yuh!” John gloated over the foot or two that he had gained with difficulty.
“Yeah, you beat me, but look how much mo’ legs you got to run wid,” Lucy retorted. “Bet if Ah had dem legs nobody couldn’t never outrun me.”
“Ah didn’t mean tuh beat yuh. Gee, us done come uh good ways! How much further you live from heah, Lucy?”
“Oh uh little ways cross de branch.”
“B’lieve Ah’ll go see how yo’ ole branch look. Maybe it got uh heap uh fish in it.”
“’Tain’t got no fish in it worth talkin’ ’bout. ’Tain’t hardly knee deep, John, but iss uh great big ole snake down dere.”
“Whut kinda snake?”
“Uh great big ole cotton-mouf moccasin. He skeers me, John. Everytime Ah go ’cross dat foot-log Ah think maybe Ah might fall in and den he’ll bite me, or he might reah hisself up and bite me anyhow.”
“How come y’all don’t take and kill ’im?”
“Who you reckon goin’ down in de water tuh strain wid uh moccasin? He got uh hole back under the bank where you kin see ’im, but you can’t git ’im ’thout you wuz down in de branch. He lay all ’round dere on de ground and even on de foot-log, but when he see somebody comin’ he go in his hole, all ready for yuh and lay dere and dare yuh tuh bother ’im.”
“You jes’ show ’im tuh me. Ah can’t stand tuh be aggravated by no ole snake and then agin Ah don’t want ’im slurrin’ you.”
“Sh-sh, watch out, John! He ’round heah somewhere. Can’t you smell ’im? Dere he is goin’ in his hole!”
John took a good look at the snake, then looked all about him for a weapon. Finding none he sat down and began to remove his shoes.
“You ain’t goin’ in dat branch!” Lucy gasped.
“Turn me go, Lucy. If you didn’t want yo’ ole snake kilt yuh oughta not showed ’im tuh me.” He exulted, but pretended not to see her concern was for him.
He looked carefully to see that no other snakes were about, then stepped cautiously down into the water. The snake went on guard, slowly, insolently. Lucy was terrified. Suddenly, he snatched the foot-log from its place and, leaning far back to give it purchase, he rammed it home upon the big snake and held it there. The snake bit at the log again and again in its agony, but finally the biting and the thrashi
ng ceased. John fished the snake out and stretched it upon the grass.
“Ooh, John, Ahm so glad you kilt dat ole devil. He been right dere skeerin’ folks since befo’ Ah wuz borned.”
“He won’t skeer nobody else, lessen dey skeered uh dead snakes,” John answered in the tone that boys use to girls on such occasions.
“Reckon his mate ain’t gonna follow us and try tuh bite us for killin’ dis one?”
“Lucy, he can’t foller bofe us, lessen us go de same way.”
“Thass right, John. Ah done forgot, you live over on de Alf Pearson place.”
“Yeah, dat’s right.”
“Where M’haley and Big ’Oman live.”
“Unh hunh, Ah speck dey do live dere. Ah seen uh lot uh pullet-size girl chillun ’bout de place. Nearly uh hund’ed head uh folks on dat plantation.”
A heavy silence fell. Lucy looked across the shallow stream and said,
“You ain’t put de foot-log back, John.”
“Dat’s right. Sho nuff Ah done fuhgot. Lemme tote you ’cross den. Ah kin place it back for de other folks.”
“Doncha lemme fall, John. Maybe ’nother ole snake down dere.”
“How Ahm gonna let uh li’l’ bit lak you fall? Ah kin tote uh sack uh feed-meal and dat’s twice big ez you. Lemme tote yuh. Ah ’clare Ah won’t drop yuh.”
John bore Lucy across the tiny stream and set her down slowly.
“Oh you done left yo’ book-sack, Lucy. Got tuh take yuh back tuh git it.”
“Naw, you hand it tuh me, John.”
“Aw, naw, you come git it.”
He carried Lucy back and she recrossed the stream the third time. As he set her down on her home side he said, “Little ez you is nobody wouldn’t keer how fur he hafta tote you. You ain’t even uh handful.”
Lucy put herself akimbo, “Ahm uh li’l’ piece uh leather, but well put t’gether, Ah thankee, Mist’ John.”
“Mah comperments, Miss Lucy.”
Lucy was gone up the hill in a blue whirlwind. John replaced the foot-log and cut across lots for home.
“She is full uh pepper,” John laughed to himself, “but ah laks dat. Anything ’thout no seasonin’ in it ain’t no good.”
At home, Lucy rushed out back of the corn crib and tiptoed to see if her head yet touched the mark she had made three weeks before.
“Ah shucks!” She raged, “Ah ain’t growed none hardly. Ah ain’t never gointer get grown. Ole M’haley way head uh me!”
She hid and cried until Emmeline, her mama, called her to set the table for supper.
The night of school closing came. John in tight new shoes and with a standing collar was on hand early. Saw Lucy enter followed by the Potts clan. Frowning mama, placid papa, strapping big sister, and the six grown brothers. Boys with “rear-back” hair held down by a thick coating of soap. Boys hobbling in new shoes and tight breeches. Girls whose hair smelled of fresh hog-lard and sweet william, and white dresses with lace, with pink or blue sashes, with ruffles, with mothers searching their bosoms for pins to yank up hanging petticoats. Tearful girls who had forgotten their speeches. Little girls with be-ribboned frizzed-out hair who got spanked for wetting their starchy panties. Proud parents. Sulky parents and offspring. Whispered envy.
“Dere’s Lucy Potts over dere in uh fluted dress. Dey allus gives her de longest piece tuh speak.”
“Dat’s ’cause she kin learn more’n anybody else.”
“Naw ’tain’t, dey muches her up. Mah Semmie could learn jes’ ez long uh piece ez anybody if de give it tuh her—in time. Ahm gwine take mah chillun outa school after dis and put ’em tuh work. Dey ain’t learnin’ ’em nothin’ nohow. Dey makes cake outa some uh de chillun and cawn bread outa de rest.”
Opening prayer. Song. Speech by white superintendent. Speeches rattled off like beans poured into a tin can.
“A speech by Miss Lucy Potts.”
The shining big eyes in the tiny face. Lacy whiteness. Fierce hand-clapping. Lucy calm and self-assured.
“A chieftain to the highland bound, cried ‘Boatman do not tarry’”—to the final “My daughter, oh my daughter.” More applause. The idol had not failed her public.
“She kin speak de longest pieces and never miss uh word and say ’em faster dan anybody Ah ever seed.” It was agreed Lucy was perfect. Time and speeches flew fast.
Little fishes in de brook
Willie ketch ’em wid uh hook
Mama fry ’em in de pan
Papa eat ’em lak uh man.
“Duet—Miss Lucy Potts, bassed by Mr. John Pearson.” They sang and their hearers applauded wildly. Nobody cared whether the treble was treble or the bass was bass. It was the gestures that counted and everybody agreed that John was perfect as the philandering soldier of the piece and that Lucy was just right as the over-eager maid. They had to sing it over twice. John began to have a place of his own in the minds of folks, more than he realized.
CHAPTER 3
One morning in the early spring John found Amy sitting before the fire in Pheemy’s house.
“Howdy, mam.”
“Howdy, son.”
She rubbed her teeth and gums with the tiny snuff-brush. She had something to say and John knew it.
“How’s everybody makin’ it over de Big Creek, maw?”
“Right middlin’, John. Us could do better but yo’ pappy always piddlin’ from piller tuh post and dat keep de rest uh us in hot water.”
“Yessum. What’s de trouble now?”
“Yuh know Beasley took and beat us out uh our cotton and we ain’t hardly had nothin’ tuh eat, so day ’fo’ yistiddy Ned took and kilt one uh Beasley’s yearlings way down dere in de hammock and fetched it home dere and us cooked and et some of it and put some of it down in salt. We thinkin’ nobody’d ever know de diffunce, but Beasley heard de cows bellerin’ when dey smelt de blood where it wuz kilt and went down dere and found de hide. So us had tuh pack up our things in meal sacks and when it wuz black dark us went on over tuh de Shelby place, and us goin’ work dere dis year.”
“Dat’s uh whole heap better’n Beasley’s place, but ’tain’t nigh good ez heah. Wisht y’all would come work fuh Mist’ Alf.”
“Ned, he too hard-headed tuh do dat. Ah done tried and tried but his back don’t bend. De only difference ’tween him and uh mule is, de mule got four good foots, and he ain’t got nairn. De minute anybody mention crossin’ dat creek, he’s good tuh make disturbiment and tear up peace. He been over dat creek all his life jes’ ez barefooted ez uh yard dawg and know he ain’t even got uh rooster tuh crow fuh day, yet and still you can’t git ’im ’way from dere.”
“How come you don’t quit ’im? Come on, and fetch de chillun wid you!”
“You can’t know intuh dat yit, John. In times and seasons, us gwine talk dat, but Ah come tuh take you back wid me, John.”
“Me, mama?” John asked in agonized surprise, “you know Ah don’t want no parts of over dat Creek.”
“Mama know, son, but Mist’ Shelby asted where wuz you de fust thing and say he don’t want us ’thout you.”
“Mama, Ah don’t wanta go ’way back over dere in dem woods. All you kin hear ’bout over dere is work, push-hard and pone-bread, ole cawn bread wid nothin’ in it but salt and water! Ah laks it over here where dey talks about biscuit-bread some time.”
“Yeah, John Buddy, mama know jes’ how yuh feels and her heart is beatin’ right wid yourn. Mama love flour bread too. But, you know, lots uh white folks ain’t gwine be bothered wid Ned, and us got tuh find some place tuh lay our heads. Mist’ Shelby ain’t uh mean man, but he don’t b’lieve us kin make de crop ’thout you. Reckon you better git yo’ things and come ’long.”
Amy got up wearily, the ruffles of her faded calico skirt sweeping the floor as she moved.
“Ahm goin’ and see Marse Alf ’bout takin’ yuh. Be ready ’ginst Ah git back, John Buddy.”
John watched her out of the door, then slowly he went out himself and wandered ab
out; but finally he was standing back of Pheemy’s cabin and gazing at the rude scratching on the adobe chimney. “Lucy,” “Lucy Ann,” “Lucy Potts,” “Lucy and John,” “Lucy is John’s girl,” “No ’nife can cut our love into,” “Lucy Pearson.”
“Oh,” John sobbed, “she ain’t gonna want no over-de-creek-nigger.”
He stood there a long time before he went inside and began to collect his things. Then he came upon the song book that Lucy’s terrifying brother had given him when he joined the choir. There was a crude drawing of a railroad train on it. No, he couldn’t leave Notasulga where the train came puffing into the depot twice a day. No, no! He dropped everything and tore out across the fields and came out at last at the railroad cut just below the station. He sat down upon the embankment and waited. Soon in the distance he heard the whistle, “Wahooom! Wahup, wahup!” And around the bend came first the smoke stack, belching smoke and flames of fire. The drivers turning over chanting “Opelika-black-and-dirty! Opelika-black-and-dirty.” Then as she pulled into the station, the powerful whisper of steam. Starting off again, “Wolf coming! Wolf coming! Wolf coming! Opelika-black-and-dirty, Opelika-black-and-dirty! Auh—wah-hoooon”—into the great away that gave John’s feet such a yearning for distance.
The train had been gone a long time when Alf Pearson’s buggy pulled up beside John.
“What are you doing down here, John, with Amy looking all over Macon County for you?”
“Jes’ come down tuh hear whut de train say one mo’ time, Mist’ Alf.”
“Get in and drive me down to get the mail, John. How’s the hogs getting on?”
“Jes’ fine, Mist’ Alf. S’pectin’ two mo’ litters dis week. Dat make five litters since New Year’s. Ain’t lost one since Chris’mas, neither.”