“Georgia, this is how it’s gonna be,” her father replied firmly. “I gotta stand tall. I have a right to vote, a right, I tell you. And a responsibility.”
Stella sat motionless, hoping they wouldn’t send her out of the room.
Her mama gave the floor another wallop. “And who will stand for me and the children, for the rest of the mothers and babies of Bumblebee, when we are all alone?” Stella couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother so angry.
“For once in my life, I must be a man,” Papa replied. “I’d like to think I am standing up, along with Mr. Spencer and Pastor Patton, standing up for all of us. If I don’t stand up, I feel like I’m crouching low. And I ain’t gonna feel low no more.” And with that, he walked over to his wife and pulled her into his arms, broom and all.
Mama leaned into him, sniffing back tears.
Jojo, who’d been outside with Dusty, came racing in then, yelling, “Hot diggity! Looks like there’s no school today.”
“Why not?” Stella asked with surprise.
“There’s a bunch of folks outside. Look!”
Already on the porch were Mr. Spencer and Pastor Patton.
“Come in,” Stella’s mother said quietly. “You still gonna do this, despite what they done to you, to your family, Hobart?” she asked.
Stella expected to see fire in Mr. Spencer’s eyes, fire like the flames that had made tinder of his house. Instead his eyes were soft, gentle, and brown like the earth. “I have to show them they didn’t destroy me,” he said simply.
“But—” Stella’s mother began.
Pastor Patton interrupted her. “Besides, we’ll be safe enough, Georgia.” He led her out to the porch, announcing, “You gotta see this for yourself. Seems that we have quite an escort out here.”
Stella walked out with them, and her jaw dropped. It seemed every single colored man, woman, and child in town was walking up the road and convening in her front yard.
Johnsteve was among them, bellowing, “Come on out, y’all! It’s votin’ day!”
“Can I go too, Mama?” Stella asked, grabbing a cardigan sweater. Hastily she laced up her new shoes.
“Me too?” Jojo chimed in, bouncing up and down. “I ain’t sneezin’ no more.”
Mama touched Jojo’s forehead with her palm. She hesitated, then sighed before hugging them both. “Go. Be safe. I’ll be here prayin’ for all y’all.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Stella said, hugging her back.
Jonah Mills enclosed his wife’s hands in both of his. “Come with us, Georgia. Please. We need you. I need you.”
Stella watched her mother’s face soften. Then, wiping her eyes, her mother took off her apron, tossed it on a chair, and said, “So what we waitin’ for?”
Papa picked her up and spun her around.
Stella and Jojo couldn’t scramble out to join the others fast enough. As they walked down the familiar road and into town, more and more families joined them. Women in aprons and head scarves. Men in work boots. Barefoot children. The barber. The man who owned the bar. The undertaker.
They walked quietly, solemnly, with Jonah Mills, Hobart Spencer, and Pastor Patton in the lead. They walked.
Stella’s mother and Mrs. Hawkins linked arms, whispering, maybe even praying. Stella couldn’t be sure, but she skipped along with her friends, glad Mama had come along.
Randy walked alongside his father, who had swung himself into the line in spite of his crutches.
“You want to ride on the wagon, Mr. Bates?” Stella offered, pointing to the one horse and buggy that brought up the end of the line.
“No, child. I’m walking,” he replied firmly. “Did you know Mr. Franklin Roosevelt has polio? Just like me. And he’s gonna be president! So I’m walkin’!”
Mrs. Hawkins started humming . . . humming a tune that had to be a hundred years old, a slave song, maybe. It was Claudia and a few of the first graders who joined in first, just like they did at school. Gradually more joined in, Stella as well, joined in singing words that hadn’t quite meant as much to her before as they seemed to at this very moment.
“Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me round,
Turn me round, turn me round.
Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me round.
Gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’
Marching up to freedom land.
Ain’t gonna let no hatred turn me round,
Turn me round, turn me round.
Ain’t gonna let no hatred turn me round.
Gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’
Marching up to freedom land.”
As they walked, the singing grew louder. It seemed to Stella that the walking went a whole lot faster as they sang. Then folks began adding their own verses:
“Ain’t gonna let no fire turn me round,
Turn me round, turn me round.
Ain’t gonna let no fire turn me round.
Gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’
Marching up to freedom land.
Ain’t gonna let no Klansman turn me round,
Turn me round, turn me round.
Ain’t gonna let no Klansman turn me round.
Gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’
Marching up to freedom land.
Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me round,
Turn me round, turn me round.
Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me round,
Gonna keep on walkin’, keep on talkin’
Marching up to freedom land.”
Stella craned her neck to check the end of the group. “Gosh!” she said to Carolyn, “there’s a line of folks stretched longer than I can see!”
When she turned back, she saw the polling location, which in Bumblebee was the sheriff’s office, looming ahead. So did everyone else, for the crowd went silent and slowed. But her father, Mr. Spencer, and Pastor Patton continued forward.
The sheriff, a lanky, red-faced man named Amos Sizemore, stood in front of the door, arms folded across his chest. The three voters stopped in front of him, held their hats in their hands, and waited.
“Do you think he’ll let them in?” Stella whispered to Carolyn.
Carolyn shook her head.
“What are they waiting for?”
“Hush up!” Mrs. Odom told Stella sharply, her finger to her lips.
Stella’s pulse pounded. A blue jay squawked in the distance. Everything else was noiseless anticipation.
The sheriff stood, legs wide, glaring at the crowd. The sheriff glaring at them was nothing new. But what was new, Stella saw, was that everyone was staring boldly back at him, no eyes cast down. No one moved for a good five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty-five minutes of silence and waiting.
Then, incredibly, and for no apparent reason, the sheriff stepped aside. He did not say a single word. He did not make eye contact with the men in front of him. But he moved out of their way.
And Pastor Patton, Hobart Spencer, and Stella’s papa walked through the door and disappeared into the darkness of that office.
Nearly the entire Negro population of Bumblebee stood in the street, quietly waiting while the three men voted. Stella noticed something else and nudged Carolyn. Some of the white townspeople who had come to vote didn’t leave when they were through voting. They stayed and joined the group standing outside the sheriff’s office. Mrs. Cooper, the candy store owner. Mr. Bobbs, the bait salesman. Mr. Stinson, the mailman. The undertaker. And still, nobody said a word.
The sheriff scowled at the scene, then abruptly disappeared inside the office.
Twenty minutes later, just as Stella thought she was going to collapse with worry and anticipation, her father, the pastor, and Mr. Spencer emerged from the polling station, smiles lighting their faces. And now she saw what she’d expected to see earlier in Mr. Spencer’s eyes. They were on fire.
36
Landslide
since i have this typwriter typewritter typewriter now, i will pretend to write a newspapper news
paper. i will call it
STELLAS STAR SENTINEL (finally lerned how to make all capitls. still cant fix messups. This thing needs to be able to erse eras erase.)
Franklin Delano Roosevelt is the new prsident. he won in a landslide. Landslide makes me think of rocks and dirt falling down a mountain. Not sure what that has to do with an election.
but maybe it does. my papa voted. He is a pebble. Lots of pbbles pebbles make a landslide, right? his vote countd counted.
Roosevelt will move into the white house White House and will have a fine suppper to celebrate, i guesss. papa had cornbread and buttermilk and beans with his freinds friends at my house. i bet papa enjoyed his cellebrattion celebration more.
37
A Soft Cinnamon Cookie
Stella had just cupped her hand around the last egg in the nest, the chicken huffing and fluffing its feathers, when her father came into the coop on Saturday morning.
“Stella, your mama wants you to go get Doc Hawkins, and then run on over to the general store,” Papa said. “Jojo still isn’t feeling well.”
“He’s worse?” she asked. Come to think of it, Jojo had been coughing quite a bit at night. And he’d missed school yesterday.
“He can’t keep anything on his stomach, and I don’t like the sound of that cough. Mama says ask Mr. O’Brian for some Sal Hepatica and some of that awful-tasting Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral.” He reached into the pocket of his overalls and gave Stella two dimes and a nickel. “And ask Doc Hawkins to come by here first, please—before he makes his rounds. Your mama’s pretty good with her liniment rubs and hot soup, but I want the doctor to check my boy, just for good measure.”
“I’ll hurry, Papa,” Stella said, taking note of the worry on his face. She tucked the egg into the basket and handed it to him.
“You be careful, girl,” he said. “No stopping at the candy store. No stopping to talk to friends. Straight there, straight back. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Stella said. And she took off.
Before she could even knock at Doc Hawkins’s door, Tony opened it. “What you doin’ out so early?” he asked with a big grin.
“Is your father home?” Stella asked, ignoring Tony’s annoying cheerfulness.
“Yeah, he’s out back getting the wagon ready. He’s got a few patients to see today. Why?”
“It’s Jojo—he’s real sick. Papa asked if he could come as soon as he can. Can you tell him?” Stella said urgently. “I’ve got to go to the general store.”
Tony’s grin faded. “I’ll have him there in five minutes.” He disappeared back into his house, and Stella continued on down the road.
Her jumbled thoughts skittered like the marbles Jojo liked to play with as she made a beeline for town. Jojo had to feel plenty awful to be willing to stay in bed on a Saturday! She was so lost in thought that when she heard footsteps closing in behind her, she jumped. “You scared the life outta me, Tony! Where you going? Where’s your daddy?” She pressed her hand against her thumping heart. It wasn’t the Klan. It wasn’t the Klan, she kept repeating to herself.
“Slow down. Relax. Daddy is probably already at your house. And I decided to come with you into town. Need to pick up something myself. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“It’s colder than a billy goat’s butt today,” Tony said, slapping his palms together. “You think we’ll get snow?”
“Not likely. But winter is coming,” Stella said, kicking up some of the crisp leaves along the road’s edge.
“You worried about Jojo?”
“I really am. He’s never, ever sick, so . . .”
“My father is a really good doctor.”
“I know,” Stella told him. She bit the inside of her lip for a second, then came out with it. “Hey, do you think folks think Dr. Packard is a better doctor than your dad just because he’s white?”
“The white folks sure do,” Tony said. “Don’t know about the rest.” He picked up an acorn and chucked it at a tree. “And what about you?”
“Your daddy—why, he’s cured all sorts of ailments and problems in people around here! Remember when Randy Bates got the pneumonia? His mama thought he was gonna die.”
“Yeah. My father stayed with him for twenty-seven hours straight. And remember the time Claudia Odom cut her foot on that broken glass? He sewed her up so good you can’t even see the scar.”
Tony leaped into the air, just reaching the lowest branch of a maple tree. He pulled off a handful of gold and brown leaves and handed them to Stella with a flourish.
She took them, smiled, then let the leaves drop. “So, you thinkin’ on being a doctor like your father?”
“Maybe. That’s why he lets me help him. Do you know I once saw a baby be born? I mean not a cow or a horse, but a real baby!”
“Golly!”
“Yeah, it was terrible and wonderful at the same time.”
“Well, except for all the blood,” Stella said.
“You know, it might sound odd, but I didn’t even notice. When that baby first cried, I felt like a hero or something.”
Stella huffed. “Well, the mother did all the work!”
“You’re right about that,” Tony agreed with a laugh. “What about you? You thinking about going into medicine too?”
“Not me! I would notice the blood.” She stepped up the pace as they got closer to town. “I don’t know what I want to be yet—gotta figure out what I’m good at.”
“That makes sense.”
The wind whipped at their backs as they approached the town square. Stella pulled her jacket tight. “Mrs. Spencer, she gave me a typewriter. I think as a thank-you for finding Hazel. Typing is really hard, but . . . this might sound strange, but I’ve got lots of stuff in my head, and when I’m hitting them keys, well, I get to thinking about how those newspaper reporters work, and I feel like if I keep at it, maybe I’ll get not so bad, maybe I could do something like that.” She paused, feeling silly, a little embarrassed she’d said too much.
“Good for you,” Tony said, but she could see his eyes were on the candy store.
“I’ve got to get these things for Jojo, then get right back home.”
“Tell you what,” Tony said. “I’ve got a dime, so I’m going to get something chocolate. I’ll meet you back here in five minutes.”
“All right. Tell Mrs. Cooper I said hello.”
At the general store, Stella pulled open the creaky front door. The bell jangled. Immediately she was overwhelmed by the smells of sweet cider vinegar, fresh sawdust, and cinnamon cookies. Her pace slowed. A barrel of pickles stood near the front door. Shelves of goods—buttons, handsaws, sugar, rifles, bullets, scissors, pencils, bolts of cotton cloth, medicine, toys, in no particular order—lined the walls. She could stay in the general store all day, just poking around.
She paused to touch a bolt of bright-blue cotton fabric. She closed her eyes—it was smooth and cool as she slid her fingers across it. What magic Mama could make of that!
“It’s awful pretty, isn’t it?” a girl’s voice said.
Startled, Stella looked to see Paulette Packard fingering the cloth as well.
“It sure is,” Stella replied, jerking her hand away and quickly remembering her mission.
“I’ve been wandering around for an hour, just buying little things, while my daddy sees patients. He said he’d have a dress made for me out of any fabric in the store,” Paulette said, “but I told him I didn’t need it.” Her voice sounded a little sad, somehow, but Stella had no time to reflect on Paulette’s problems—Jojo needed her.
“Well, enjoy your shopping day,” Stella said, making her way to the store clerk as Paulette meandered toward the back of the shop where the homemade ice cream was kept.
“Hello there, young lady. How can I help you today?” Mr. O’Brian asked.
“Uh, my little brother is sick,” Stella said. “He’s got a bad cough, an upset stomach, and a fever.”
Mr
. O’Brian looked genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sounds like a touch of the flu. Some Sal Hepatica might help the young fella,” he said. “It’s a good product, but tell your brother to be warned. It fizzes going in, and fizzes coming out!” He laughed at his own joke, but Stella was in no mood for humor.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
“And for the cough, you might try some Vicks VapoRub. It’s got a little camphor and little menthol, and probably lots of other things they never tell us about. But it works. And Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral is good as well.”
“That’s exactly what Mama asked for,” Stella told him. “I won’t need the VapoRub, though. Mama uses that stinky camphor oil.” Stella made a face that made Mr. O’Brian laugh. “But I really appreciate your help. How much?”
“Let’s see. The cough syrup is eighteen cents, and the medicine is thirty-two cents. That comes to fifty cents.”
Stella fingered the two dimes and a nickel in her palm. “I’ve got half that,” she said awkwardly, flushing with embarrassment. She looked around self-consciously, but thankfully, Paulette was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, what do you know!” Mr. O’Brian said cheerfully. “I forgot to tell you—today is half-price day! And you have exactly enough.”
Stella looked up at him. Their eyes met, and then she bowed her head with gratitude. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Very much.”
“I hope little Jojo feels better,” Mr. O’Brian said gently. He reached under the glass counter, pulled out a cinnamon cookie, and handed it to Stella, still warm. “My wife just took these from the oven. It’s chilly today, and you’ve got a long walk home. This’ll help keep you warm.”
Almost in tears at his kindness, Stella thanked him once more and walked out of the store, the brown paper bag in her left hand, and the cookie in her right. She looked across the square for Tony.
“What you doin’, gal?” a raspy voice said behind her.
Stella turned uneasily. Sitting on the bench in the front of the store were Max Smitherman and Johnny Ray Johnson. They had not been there when she went in—she surely would have noticed.