Let the Circle Be Unbroken (17 page)

Christopher-John had been right: It was Uncle Hammer. Christopher-John was first in his arms. The rest of us hurried to meet him, leaving both Jack and Lady to munch the side-yard grass. Uncle Hammer laughed as he hugged us, then stood back.

“Lord, it ain’t been but three months since I seen y’all, and look here, each of y’all must’ve grown a good several inches.” He shook his head in amazement. “How’s everybody?”

“Jus’ fine,” we replied in unison. Then Little Man noted: “Uncle Hammer, you went and got a new car.”

“Well, it ain’t hardly new, but it’ll do.”

Little Man frowned. “How come it yellow?”

“Why not?” questioned Uncle Hammer, a smile spreading across his face at Little Man’s conservatism. “Truth is, I got it for a little of nothing from a man who liked bright, briiight colors. Said bright colors made him feel good. ’Specially liked yellow. Said yellow made him feel like the sun was shining all the time. Now ain’t nothing wrong with that, is it?”

“Hammer! Good Lord, son, somethin’ wrong?” We turned. Big Ma was standing on the back porch, her face etched in surprise. “We wasn’t ’spectin’ you.”

“You want, Mama, I’ll turn ’round and go on back to Chicago,” he teased.

“You hush up, boy,” Big Ma reprimanded him and
stepped down from the porch. “Come on over here and hug these old bones.”

Uncle Hammer laughed and went to her. “Just got me a few days and thought I’d come home and help with the planting. Figured that was the least I could do, seeing I couldn’t stay no time when I come home Christmas.” He hugged Big Ma to him warmly and, letting her go, turned to find Mama, Papa, and Mr. Morrison coming down the porch, and the hugging started all over again.

“Sure is good to see y’all. Sister, how you doing?”

“I’m fine, but you taking care of yourself? You look thin—”

“Just working hard, that’s all. . . . David, that leg’s looking good now—”

“Feeling good too. See you got yourself a car.”

“Man, had to. Mr. Morrison, how you making it? Still taking care of things?”

“Trying to, Hammer. Trying to.”

Uncle Hammer put an arm around Big Ma. “Mama, now I know y’all done had breakfast a long time ago and dinner’s still a good couple of hours away, but I tell you what my mouth’s really watered up for, and that’s some of them fine biscuits of yours, some oil sausages, and some clabber milk and some good ole cane syrup. Think I could bother you for some?”

“Boy, what you saying? I know you ain’t half eatin’ up North and you probably ain’t ate much of nothin’ on your way down here. Come on in this kitchen.” In less than an hour Big Ma had not only rolled out a batch of biscuits for Uncle Hammer, but cooked a pot of grits, oil sausages, gravy, and eggs as well. She also brewed a pot of the coffee he had brought with him and when everything was ready,
we all sat with him at the table, the adults sharing the coffee with him, the boys and I the food.

As we ate, the boys and I sat engrossed as Uncle Hammer talked of the North and of his trip South. Three years older than Papa, Uncle Hammer was unmarried and came whenever he could. He was the only uncle we knew, and we loved him dearly. Yet we were often spellbound when he was near, for we were in awe of him and had never quite been able to talk to him as easily as we could to Papa or Mr. Morrison. He was, as Big Ma described him, just a little wild, and was known throughout the community for his temper, something a black man in Mississippi couldn’t afford to have.

“Sure am glad you brought this coffee,” Papa said as he put
down
his cup. “We ain’t had coffee since summer sometime.”

“I’d’ve brought some Christmas if I’d’ve known y’all didn’t have none.”

Papa smiled at him. “Way you was traveling, you couldn’t’ve carried much more than you was.”

“Ain’t that the truth. But I tell you one thing. I’d rather ride the rail anytime than take them no-count buses. When you ride the rail, leastways you ain’t gotta pay to sit in the back.”

“Well,” said Mr. Morrison, “you ain’t gotta sit in the back no more, now you got yourself another car. When’d you get it?”

“End of January. It ain’t much, but it gets me where I’m going. After I got rid of that Packard, I figured I oughta be able to walk awhile—I done it enough before I got it—but then when I come home last coupla times and took that bus I said I wasn’t gonna take no more buses or trains down here, leastways none I had to pay for, and seeing I be coming
home whenever I can, I figured I needed that old heap out there.”

“I like it, Uncle Hammer,” commented Christopher-John, then immediately grew quiet again.

“Glad you do, son. We’ll go riding in it ’fore long— Man, pass me some more of them hot biscuits sitting right there in front of you, will you son?” Little Man, grinned, pleased to be the one called upon, and with both hands carefully passed him the plate. Uncle Hammer thanked him, took two of the fat biscuits, and smeared them with fresh butter. “By the way,” he said, “coming up the road there I passed a truck with a white fella driving and two colored fellas sitting up front with him. Looked like one of ’em was Miz Rosa Cross’s boy.”

“Was,” said Papa. “I was jus’ telling Mary and Mama ’fore you come that two union men come by. They was gonna drop Dubé off near home.”

“Union? Y’all mentioned something ’bout that when I was home Christmas. I didn’t think it was down this way yet.”

“Well, it is now.”

Big Ma shook her head in puzzled disbelief. “Jus’ can’t believe this union talk. Maybe the union make out ’long Arkansas way, but these here white folks in Mississippi ain’t never gonna stand for no union. ’Specially no mixed union.”

“Just what they planning on doing down in here?” asked Uncle Hammer.

Papa told him what Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Moses had said. He also told him about the visits of both Mr. Farnsworth and Mr. Granger, and the government’s fifty-percent cotton tax.

Uncle Hammer was silent when he finished. He thought a moment, then said, “What you gonna do ’bout the tax?”

“What can we do ’bout it?” questioned Papa. “They got us between a rock and a hard place. We gotta plant like everybody else, contract or not, with that tax. Won’t get any government money on them acres we don’t plant, but least we oughta get the same selling price on our cotton.”

Uncle Hammer let out a deep sigh. He had the same worried look Papa had had after he had first heard about the tax. “Well, one good thing—they take you back on the railroad, you won’t have to totally depend on them crops. That’s more’n a lotta folks.”

Papa rubbed his fingers on the table in a slow, thoughtful motion. “Well . . . I don’t know ’bout that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be going to the railroad.”

“You don’t think you’ll be able to get back on?”

“I’ve asked him not to go.”

Uncle Hammer looked over at Mama. “Oh?”

“David, he been lookin’ for outside work ’round here,” Big Ma explained.

Uncle Hammer drank the last of his clabber milk. “Any luck?”

“Not so far,” said Papa.

Again Uncle Hammer glanced at Mama. “You don’t get anything, David, you still planning on staying?”

“You and me both know I can’t stay, that be the case.” Mama’s face tensed. Papa looked down the table at her; she looked away. “Course with my leg broke last spring and I ain’t been back, I might not even be able to get back on the railroad, less’n I jus’ happen to get there at the right time and the right man’s in charge.”

“Then you’ll have to be deciding soon,” Uncle Hammer concluded.

Papa nodded. “That’s right,” he agreed, his eyes still on Mama. “Soon. . . .”

*   *   *

Later in the day, when Papa mentioned to Uncle Hammer that he had to go over to the Wigginses to fix their grist mill, Uncle Hammer dug into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “Why don’t you drive over? It’ll give you a chance to see how the car rides.”

Papa grinned. “Bet it don’t ride like that Packard.”

Uncle Hammer grinned back. “Man, ain’t nothing in this world gonna ride like that Packard.”

Since no objections were voiced about our going along, the boys and I eagerly climbed into the car with Papa and Uncle Hammer. As we sped past the cotton field, Uncle Hammer said: “Every time I think ’bout that fire, it just makes me sick.”

“Make me sick too,” Papa admitted. “But just you wait. This year’s crop’s gonna be good.”

“Another fire don’t come up. . . .”

Papa glanced at him and half smiled. “Let’s hope not.”

When we were on Granger land, Uncle Hammer waved a hand toward the forest path leading up to the Averys’ place. “You seen much of the Averys?”

“See them up at church but that’s ’bout all. Mostly they been keeping to themselves.”

Uncle Hammer shook his head. “I know it must be some kind of hard on them. It’s a crying shame that— What’s this up here?”

Up ahead where the Harrison and Granger roads crossed stood Jacey Peters with Joe Billy Montier and Stuart Walker. As we neared they looked up. All three appeared a bit apprehensive upon seeing the approaching car, but when Stuart saw who we were, he relaxed and continued talking to
Jacey. Joe Billy, however, moved toward his car as if ready to leave.

“Now, what she think she doing?” Uncle Hammer’s voice had changed. The warmth which had been there only a moment before was gone and his body had stiffened, now on the alert.

Papa slowed the car, but before we were at a full stop, he cautioned, “Now watch it, Hammer.” He rolled down the window and spoke to Jacey. “You goin’ somewhere we can give you a lift?”

Jacey looked embarrassed. “No, sir, Mr. Logan. I—I’m just on my way home from the store.” Jacey lived farther down the Harrison road on the Granger plantation.

Papa looked from Jacey to Stuart, who eyed him insolently. With his eyes steady on Stuart, Papa said: “Your papa give you leave to talk ’long the way?”

“N-no, sir. I just got stopped a minute ago and I was going on right now—”

“Then go on then,” said Papa, “before your mama gets worried.”

Jacey nodded and moved off to obey. “See you, Jacey,” Stuart called after her. Jacey, clearly unsettled, glanced back at us in the car and hurried down the road.

Papa watched her until she had turned up the path leading to her house, then he put the car in gear and started backing away.

“Now how come you went and sent her away?” Stuart called with an easy insolence. “We was just getting into some good conversation.”

“Come on, Stuart,” said Joe Billy in an attempt to ease gracefully out of the encounter. “Let’s go.”

But Stuart continued. “Seems to me what’s between us and Jacey is our business.”

Uncle Hammer retorted: “And just what is the business?”

Stuart smiled. “What you think? What other business we’d have with a nigger bi—”

Before the word was out, before Stuart realized that he had made a terrible mistake, the car door swept open and Uncle Hammer cannoned out of the moving car. Papa, practically stripping the gears, put the car in neutral and leapt from the other side to halt Uncle Hammer before he rounded the car and reached Stuart. Stacey too jumped out, running after Papa. Little Man, Christopher-John, and I sat wide-eyed watching, afraid, for we now knew what could happen to Uncle Hammer if he touched Stuart.

“Hammer! Hammer, now hold on!” Papa cried, reaching him before he reached the retreating Stuart. “We’ve had enough trouble! Leave it alone!”

“That peckerwood needs his neck broke—”

“Get him outa here!” Papa shouted at Joe Billy as he pushed against Uncle Hammer. “Both of y’all go on. We don’t need this kind of trouble. Go on!”

Joe Billy nodded and elbowed Stuart to get into the car, but Stuart, realizing that Papa was not going to allow Uncle Hammer to touch him, grew insolent once more. He knew that the power was in the color of his skin, and when Joe Billy put his hand on his arm to pull him toward the car, he jerked away. Eyeing us with a superior smirk, he slowly walked over to the car and got in. When they had driven away, Papa released his hold on Uncle Hammer, but Uncle Hammer was no longer fighting him. He had stopped at the sight of the white boy’s insolence and had stood watching him with a coldness greater than I had ever seen in him.

“You all right?” Papa asked.

“What you think?” said Uncle Hammer and came back to the car. Papa and Stacey followed. I sat waiting for someone
to say something; no one did. Uncle Hammer was too angry to talk and Papa knew it. There could be no reasoning with Uncle Hammer when he was angry.

When we reached the Wiggenses’, I pulled Stacey aside. “What was Jacey doing with them boys?” I questioned.

Stacey turned away without answering. I pulled him back. “I wanna know!”

“Now how you think I know!”

“How come Uncle Hammer got so mad?”

“’Cause when a white boy’s ’round a colored girl, they’s up to no good, that’s why. You jus’ remember that.”

“Well, don’t get mad at me! I ain’t done nothin’! Anyway, how come I gotta remember it?”

“Let go, Cassie.” Stacey pulled away and headed for the barn, where Little Willie was waiting.

Christopher-John, having witnessed the encounter from the Wigginses’ front porch, hurried over as Stacey walked away. “What’s the matter, Cassie?” he asked.

I shook my head. I didn’t know, and I certainly didn’t know what Jacey Peters’ talking to Stuart Walker and Joe Billy Montier had to do with me. I wasn’t interested in any kind of boys.

On Sunday morning Uncle Hammer, neat and dapper as always in a brown serge suit, backed the car out of the barn. All the red mud which had gathered around its fender and splotched its yellow body was gone, for Uncle Hammer and the boys and I had washed it after our return from the Wigginses’. One thing Uncle Hammer couldn’t abide was a dirty car. He had worked silently, his anger still bottled inside, but by suppertime his mood had softened, and this morning as we prepared for church he was once again laughing and warm. As he had done yesterday, he handed Papa the keys and told him to drive. All of us except Mr. Morrison, who
was not a churchgoing man, piled into the car. Papa started the engine and we swept down the drive into the road.