“Ain’t nothin’ more we can say to him, sugar. What he gotta do is work it out in his own head how things are. He need us, he’ll come on back and talk.”
Mama had conceded somewhat doubtfully to Papa and had not followed; but I had. I was worried about Stacey too. I knew that he was upset not only because of what was happening to T.J., but because Mama and Papa were not allowing him to go to the trial. When I caught up with him, I tried to talk to him about it.
“Boy, how come you mopin’ ’round like you are? Don’t it make sense to you how come Papa decided not to go to that trial?”
Stacey didn’t answer.
“And how come they ain’t gonna let you go either?”
Stacey looked at me and turned away. There had been an old man’s sorrow in his eyes, and a deepening frown across his forehead which now seemed always to be there.
“You know,” I said, “what happened to T.J., it ain’t your fault.”
“Ah, I know that. It’s just that . . .”
“What?”
“I just keep thinking that . . . that maybe I should’ve tried more to talk some sense into him—”
“Couldn’t nobody talk any sense into T.J. and you know it!” I exclaimed, not liking to see him this way. “T.J. was a fool, and if the truth was known most likely still is.”
Stacey cast me a disapproving glance as if T.J.’s impending fate made it disrespectful to talk of him this way. But I didn’t care. It was the truth.
Stacey shook his head at my outspokenness, then, dismissed it, and confided: “Little Willie’s talking ’bout going to the trial.”
“Is?”
Stacey nodded. “Clarence too.”
I grew scared. “You—you ain’t thinkin’ ’bout disobeying Papa and trying to go?”
He looked at me, his eyes searching mine to see if he could, trust me. I tried to hide my fear, but it showed through.
“Ah, Little Willie and Clarence, they just talking,” he scoffed with a hurried laugh.
I stared at him suspiciously. “You sure?”
“Don’t worry. Ain’t none of us goin’ nowhere.”
But I did worry, and on the morning of the trial I found that all my fears had been justified. As Stacey, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I approached the second crossroads on the way to school, Moe and Clarence were waiting.
“We got us a way in,” Clarence announced as soon as we were within earshot.
Immediately I pounced on him. “A way into where?”
Clarence, looking somewhat uneasy, hooked his arm into Stacey’s and stepped with him and Moe to the side of the road. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I stepped right behind them.
“Aunt Callie Jackson’s sending Joe into Strawberry for somethin’ or ’nother.”
Stacey looked up the road. “You ask him ’bout taking us?”
“Yeah. He said okay.”
“You tell him how come we wanna go?”
Clarence shook his head. “Said we had some errands—we’ll tell him later. He waiting, so we’d better go.”
“We’d!” I exclaimed. “Stacey ain’t goin’ nowheres!”
Stacey ignored me. “Moe, you going?”
Moe shrugged. “Like I said, you go, I’ll go.”
“Stacey, you know you can’t go! Papa gonna wear you out, you go—”
“Go where?” Little Man inquired.
“Cassie, I don’t go, I most likely ain’t never gonna see T.J. again.”
“Go where?” Little Man repeated.
“Well, that ain’t no great loss!” I cried, too afraid for Stacey’s safety at the moment to concern myself with T.J.’s future. “You gettin’ into trouble ain’t gonna help him none.”
“Look, Stacey, we gonna have to go, ’cause Joe ain’t likely to wait too long,” urged Clarence.
“Where’s he waiting?”
“Down past the school.”
Stacey glanced down toward Great Faith. “What ’bout Little Willie? What’s he gonna do?”
“Haven’t seen him yet,” admitted Clarence. “But he was talkin’ like he’d go if we found a way to get into town.”
“It’s near eight o’clock already,” said Stacey. “We ain’t likely to get there now ’fore noon, and even if the trial’s still goin’ on, we ain’t gonna get back till after school’s out.”
Moe nodded, acknowledging the precarious timetable. Stacey and Clarence looked at him and at each other, each aware of the fate which would be awaiting them upon their return. It was Stacey who made the decision. “All right, let’s get Little Willie.”
“Where y’all going?” Little Man demanded once more.
“They think they going to Strawberry,” I told him.
Christopher-John’s eyes widened. “Strawberry! Stacey, you can’t go do that! Papa said—”
“I know what Papa said, but this here is somethin’ I gotta do. I’ll get my whippin’ when I come back, but I’m gonna have to go—done made up my mind to that.”
“Well, you just better unmake it,” I advised.
Stacey glared at me, but with no time to argue the point started down the road toward school between Moe and Clarence. As Christopher-John, Little Man, and I ran along behind them, I pleaded with Stacey, cajoled him, and threatened him with every dire consequence I could think of, but none of my talk changed his mind. When we reached Great Faith, he stopped.
“Now, y’all gonna have to let me do this my way. When school’s out, y’all go on home and tell Papa what I done—”
“What!”
“Tell him what I done so’s y’all won’t get into trouble. I’ll be all right.” And with that, he walked up the lawn with Moe and Clarence in search of Little Willie. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I watched him go.
“Cassie, Stacey, he gonna be all right?” worried Christopher-John. “I don’t like him goin’ all the way to that place by hisself.”
“Me neither,” admitted Little Man.
I made no comment as I watched Stacey, already nearing the middle-grades building. In a few minutes he would be back again and on his way to Strawberry. I figured if I lit out running for home, Papa riding our mare, Lady, could overtake Stacey before he got there. But only part of me wanted to do that. The other part wanted to jump on that wagon and go with him, not only to make sure he remained safe, but to see firsthand what was to become of T.J. I knew that Stacey would never allow me to go, but if he went, I knew good and well that I was going too. After all, a whipping could last for only so long, and a day like this perhaps would never come again.
I made up my mind. “I’m gonna go with him,” I said. “Y’all go on up to school.”
“Unh-unh,” defied Little Man. “Y’all goin’, I’m goin’.”
“All y’all crazy!” Christopher-John declared. “Y’all know we can’t be goin’ all the way to Strawberry by ourselves!”
“Look, y’all just stay here. I gotta get on that wagon ’fore Stacey comes.”
I ran down the road. Little Man was right behind me and Christopher-John, coming at a slower, pudgier pace, behind him. For a moment I faltered, wondering if I should turn back because of them, then ran on telling myself that they would be all right. When the wagon came into view, I stopped. I didn’t see Joe, but sitting on the front seat turned sideways so that he saw us coming was Wordell Lees. Little Man, Christopher-John, and I glanced at each other, apprehensive about our proposed adventure and about approaching a figure as mysterious as Wordell. But there was no time to think about Wordell’s peculiarities now. There was a tarpaulin on the wagon. If we were going anywhere, we had to get under it before the others came.
“What you gonna say to him?” whispered Little Man.
I shrugged, not knowing, and went on. Little Man and Christopher-John came slowly behind. At the rear of the wagon I nodded at Wordell. He did not nod back. Deciding that there was no time to say anything but the truth, I blurted out: “You mind if we get under this here thing so’s we can ride into
town with y’all? Stacey, he’s goin’ too, but he don’t want us to go, but we gotta go if he go, but he can’t know ’bout it till we get on down the road toward town so’s he can’t send us back. That be all right with you?”
Wordell stared at us, his sandy eyes unreadable; then he looked away into the woods as if it were no business of his. If the gesture was not one of permission, it was not denial either, and wasting no more time, I hurried into the wagon and under the tarpaulin. Little Man quickly followed my lead, but Christopher-John stood unmoving, staring up at us as if this time we really had gone mad.
“Ain’t y’all even thought ’bout what Papa gonna do when he find out? And Mama and Big Ma, they’s gonna be so worried—”
“We’ll be back by the time we usually get home. Now shut up and get up here if you going. You ain’t going, then get on back to school ’fore Stacey sees you.”
Christopher-John glowered angrily up at me, his face an anguish of indecision. I knew that he did not want to go, but I also knew that if the rest of us were committed to going, he would not be left behind.
“Well?” I demanded. “What you gonna do?”
Grumbling, he got into the wagon.
“How far is it, Cassie?” Little Man asked, filled with curiosity about this town he’d never seen.
“Twenty-two miles or so.”
“We gonna have to ride all the way there under this thing?”
“No—jus’ far ’nough so’s they can’t send us back. Now y’all both be quiet and don’t move and don’t say nothing till I tell ya.”
“We gonna sho’ ’nough get a whippin’. . . .”
* * *
The road to Strawberry was rough and the wagon bed hard. As far as I could figure, we endured almost an hour under the tarpaulin before being discovered. At first I was afraid that Little Man or Christopher-John—especially Christopher-John—would give us away during the first minutes. When neither of them did, I began to wonder how two little boys who were usually so restless could remain so still. Eventually I found out as the sound of soft snoring disrupted the quiet which had settled over the wagon. Immediately, the tarpaulin was thrown back and we faced the shock and then the wrath of the four older boys.
“Y’all know what kinda trouble I’m in now!” Stacey fumed. “Me going to Strawberry by myself, Papa would’ve whipped me, but he’d’ve understood. But y’all comin’ along, he ain’t gonna understand that! Don’t y’all know I’m responsible for y’all?”
“Then you should’ve stayed at school,” I responded, feeling stiff from having had to lie so still and not at all like soothing his disturbed conscience.
He stared at me with fierce hostility, then turned gloomily back to the road. Everyone waited for him to say something. “Joe!” he called at last. “You gonna hafta go back.”
“Ah, Stacey, what they gonna get into?” questioned Little Willie. “Look, you gonna get a whipping anyways you look at it, so why don’t we go on in like we planned so’s we can be with T.J. and come on back ’fore your folks get a chance to be worried. We’ll all watch out for ’em.”
Stacey looked away, trying to make up his mind. I started to say something, but decided I’d better not.
“Things go for T.J. the way folks say,” Moe said softly, “we probably feel a lot worse than a whippin’, we don’t go.”
Moe’s statement settled it and we remained in the wagon.
By noon we were rolling down the main street of Strawberry. Christopher-John and Little Man stared out at it with bright, curious eyes, but the rest of us, having been there before, glanced around dully in a hurry to get on to the trial. Nothing much about Strawberry had changed since I’d first seen it a year ago. The verandas still sagged and the buildings still stared grayly out at the three-block asphalt road which, along with the spindly row of electrical poles lining it, brought the only touches of modernity to the place. The street, however, was strangely deserted. When I had come the one time before, it had been market day and the streets had been filled with country people and townspeople alike, sauntering along the sidewalks and in and out of the shops. Now the doors to the shops were closed, and the few people whom we did see seemed to be in a hurry to get someplace else.
We passed the Mercantile which had belonged to Jim Lee Barnett. I pointed it out to Little Man and Christopher-John. The shades were drawn as if it were closed, though I had heard that Mrs. Barnett with the aid of her brother had kept the store open after her husband’s death. A farm wagon loaded down with a white family and household furniture was parked in front of the store. We glanced at them, then quickly looked away before they saw us. We guessed they had lost their farm. These days dispossessed farmers were not an uncommon sight. Another block down was where Mr. Jamison’s office had stood and where rebuilding was already underway. Across from his office was the courthouse square, but before we reached the square, Joe pulled up on the reins and stopped the wagon.
“What you stopping here for?” demanded Clarence. “The courthouse is down thataway.”
Joe’s eyes followed the direction of Clarence’s finger pointed northward, up Main, then looked back at Clarence. “This here’s far as I’m gon’ go thisaway.”
“Ah, Joe, go on down to the courthouse,” wheedled Little Willie. “It ain’t gonna take you but a minute.”
Joe shook his head with great animation. “Not me! No sirreeee! One time I gone farther’n this, up McGiver Street there, and Mr. Deputy Haynes seen me and he asked me what I was doin’ goin’ down that street on the white folks’ side of town and I told him I ain’t even knowed that there was the white folks’ side and he sez to me, he sez, ya knows it now. Then he sez he better not never catch me down there no more less’n I got business, and he ain’t gonna neither! Now y’all get on out and walk if ya goin’ and don’t be takin’ no long time comin’ back here ’cause I’se gon’ be ready to go back home ’fore that sun get past them trees yonder.”
“Ah, Joe, come on—” started Clarence.
“It ain’t but a block,” Stacey said, jumping down. “We jus’ wasting time here.”
As soon as we were off the wagon, Joe, without a backward glance, let out a “ged on up, ole mule” and rolled away. For a moment, we stood watching the wagon and feeling just a bit deserted, then with Stacey leading the way walked the block down Main to McGiver Street and turned up the dusty street to the courthouse.
The courthouse was a wooden building in need of a coat of paint. It faced a wide yard and a colorful flower garden which gave the area a festive air. Standing around the yard and on the steps were clusters of farm people, faded-looking men in faded overalls and faded-looking women in dresses cut from brightly patterned cotton flour sacks; townspeople stood apart from them, looking a bit smarter in their serge suits and store-bought fashions.
“Is it over?” I said.
No one knew so no one answered. Not daring to ask any of the people gathered on the lawn, we made our way through the crowd to the other end of the building, where we saw an elderly Negro gentleman sitting under a gnarled pine. Stacey approached him and asked if the trial was over. He was told that the jury had only been selected. The trial was to start after lunch.
The day was warm and the courtroom windows had been raised. We went over to the building and, climbing onto the concrete ledge which ran along its base, peeked in. Only a few people remained inside. A group of men stood talking at the front, where two sizable tables and a towering desk set upon a platform dominated the room. Two women in dark, sober-looking hats and print dresses sat on a bench midway back, and at the very rear of the room, in the left-hand corner, sat Mr. and Mrs. Avery and three of their eight children. With them were Mr. Silas Lanier and the Reverend Gabson, a few other members of Great Faith, and three people I didn’t know. T.J. was not in the room.
We returned to the old man and asked him if he thought we could sit inside. He laughed. “Y’all younguns see that speck of space the colored folks squattin’ in? Ain’t none
of ’em gon’ move ’cause they’s ’fraid they lose they space.”
“You mean that’s all the room there is for the colored?” said Stacey.
“What y’all see is all they is. White folks thinkin’ they’s doin’ good to ’lows that much.”
We thanked the man for his information, then settled beside him to wait for the trial to resume. We decided that since we could not get into the courtroom, we could station ourselves close enough to the windows to at least see T.J.
As we waited, Mr. John Farnsworth, the county extension agent walked past. Mr. Farnsworth was a pleasant-looking man whose job originally had been to visit all the farms in the area to give agricultural advice. But since last year—1933—it had also included administering the government’s crop-control program, which meant keeping a close eye on each farmer’s cotton production. Mama and Papa said that this additional responsibility had made him less than popular. Now as he walked through the crowd, he was greeted with cold stares and angry grumblings.
“Hey, Farnsworth!” called a white farmer nearby. “Too bad it’s near winter, ain’t it? Ain’t got no cotton for ya to go plowin’ up!”
Mr. Farnsworth ignored the taunt and went up the steps into the courthouse.
The farmer stared malevolently after him, then spat on the ground. “Like to plow him up.”
“Don’t start,” said a man with him, his voice stringently testy.
I glanced over at the group and recognized the man as Mr. Tate Sutton, a white tenant on the Granger plantation.
The first man turned angrily. “I’ll doggone start if I wanna. Got a right to say many times as I feels like it what that Farnsworth done. Here I done planted them ten acres in cotton a year ago this past spring and him and Mr. Granger come along and says I gotta plow three of ’em up! Lordy! All that seed and fertilizer and sweat gone to waste and what I got to show for it? Huh? John Farnsworth tells me the government gonna pay Mr. Granger and Mr. Granger gonna pay me, but more’n a year done gone by and I ain’t seen a cent. Not a blasted cent!”