Let the Circle Be Unbroken (35 page)

“I ain’t seen him, Cassie. Mos’ likely he in the woods somewheres,” he said, putting his head back to the post.

I patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I hope you feel better. . . . You sure you don’t wanna tell your mama?”

Son-Boy shook his head.

“Well, then, I’ll see you later,” I said. I headed down the
path leading to the stream and saw Little Man and Christopher-John running wildly about on the bank in a game of chase with Don Lee. As I reached them, Mrs. Ellis called down the trail, summoning Don Lee.

“Ah, shoot!” he said. “Y’all wait. I’ll be back in a minute.”

We waited several minutes, but when Don Lee did not return, we started toward home. Christopher-John and Little Man said that they had seen Wordell earlier walking south along the Little RosaLee, so we walked that way as well, hoping to see him.

Since Stacey had gone, we had spent a great deal of time with Wordell. Often as we walked to or from school, he would suddenly emerge from the forest and with a wave of his arm beckon us to follow him. Leaving the road, we would do just that, letting him lead us along the hidden forest paths. The forest was Wordell’s home and he knew it well. Without a word he would point out to us the tracks of the forest animals. Sometimes he even led us directly to some occupied animal’s lair, where he would sit on his haunches gazing at the animals until they left or we reminded him that we had to get on to school or to home.

A few days ago he had taken us to an old pine tree where a bird sat grounded on a lower branch, its broken wing tied securely to a stick. Gently Wordell had lifted it from its perch and showed it to us. The bird had acknowledged us with a cheerful chirp and Wordell had set him back again. Following the flow of the Little RosaLee, we headed for that same tree and, as we had guessed, found Wordell there.

“Hey, Wordell!” we called.

He didn’t answer.

Then we saw the dead cat at his feet. Then the dead bird in his hands.

“What happened?”

His eyes on the bird, Wordell said simply, “That there cat killed the bird. I done killed it.” Then he laid the bird at the foot of the tree and began clawing at the hard ground, scooping out a grave. He put the bird in the hole, covered it up with dirt and leaves, and without another word to us walked off.

“How could he do it?” questioned Christopher-John, staring down at the cat. “Jus’ kill it like that?”

Little Man stooped to inspect the cat more closely. “Neck’s broke,” he observed.

Christopher-John shook his head. “Jus’ don’t understand how he could do it.”

I didn’t say anything, but I thought I did. I remembered what Mrs. Lee Annie had once said, that when Wordell loved anything, he wouldn’t let anyone or anything hurt it if he could help it.

Christopher-John insisted that we bury the cat as well, and once we had, we waited awhile at the tree hoping Wordell would return. Finally, realizing he would not, we continued on to the road and headed for home.

As we neared the house, we saw Mr. Jamison’s car in the driveway and began to run, hoping that Mr. Jamison had brought some news of Stacey. Twice Mr. Jamison had been to the house since Stacey had gone. With him Mama, Papa, Big Ma, and Mr. Morrison had drawn up a list of likely areas for which men and boys were recruited to work the cane fields. The list was a long one and Mama had spent most of her time since writing letters to each town sheriff in the designated areas asking for any information they might have about Stacey and Moe. Mr. Jamison had provided the stationery, his own letterhead, and the letters had been written in his name as well. The reason was a practical one: A
sheriff would pay more attention to a business letter from an attorney-at-law than to a letter from a black family pleading for news of their child. But so far the letters had brought no news of Stacey.

“Mr. Jamison here was jus’ tellin’ us ’bout a place he jus’ heard ’bout down in the bayou country that had trucks up in here recruitin’ for the cane fields,” Papa told us when we arrived. He paused. “I figure to go down and see.”

“And then you be bringin’ Stacey on back?” asked Little Man hopefully.

“Well, son, don’t get your hopes up, but if he’s down there, I’ll be bringin’ him.”

“How long you gonna be gone, Papa?” Christopher-John wanted to know.

“Week. Maybe two, dependin’. I’m gonna have to trace the route of that truck, see where all it stopped. That could take some time.”

Big Ma shook her head mournfully. “I jus’ can’t believe that child ain’t wrote.”

“Maybe he just can’t, Miz Caroline,” said Mr. Jamison. “The cane fields aren’t known for making things easy on a person. Most likely he just hasn’t been able to get a, letter out yet.”

“I jus’ prays to the Lord that’s all it is.”

Mr. Morrison turned to Papa. “When you planning on leaving?”

Papa looked Mama’s way; her eyes didn’t meet his. “Soon as I can. Right after I get some things together.”

“Well, I sure wish you well, David,” Mr. Jamison said. “I think you know that.”

“I do . . . we all do.”

While Papa packed, with Christopher-John and Little Man helping him, Big Ma, Suzella, and I fixed some food
for him to take. Mama, however, left the house and walked across the pasture. When she returned, Papa was on the back porch taking down his shaving mirror. He waited for her as she crossed the yard; I watched them both from the kitchen window.

“You all right?” he said as she stopped at the steps.

She nodded.

He waited as if expecting Mama to say something, and when she didn’t, turned and started down the porch.

“David.”

Papa stopped and looked back at her.

“Do you know what Cassie asked me the other day?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “She asked me if I still loved you.”

There was a moment when neither spoke. Finally Papa said, “What did you tell her?”

“Don’t you know?”

Papa answered with a dry smile. “Well, it’s hard to tell . . . these days.”

Mama stepped onto the porch, hesitated only a moment, and then went into his arms. “David,” she said as he held her to him, “just bring Stacey back. Please, honey . . . bring him back.”

*   *   *

It was hot in the kitchen, miserably so. All Saturday huge kettles, two filled with sliced apples brought from the orchard, two others with hulls and cores for jelly, had been cooking on the stove as Big Ma went about her annual canning. I sat at the kitchen table with Mama, Big Ma, and Suzella peeling more apples, but the heat coming from the stove was getting so intense that my stomach churned with nausea and my head ached. I looked down at the bushels of apples, pears, and peaches still waiting to be pared and felt
suddenly tired. Getting up, I went over to the water bucket, and finding it empty, checked the bucket hanging from the porch rafter. But there was no water there either. I thought of going to the well to get some more, but right now, as tired as I was, it seemed too much to tackle. Grumbling, I returned to the table and sat down again.

“Now, jus’ what’s the matter with you?” Big Ma demanded.

“I don’t see how come we sittin’ ’round here peeling apples and pears and peaches and such and making preserves and jelly like everything’s all right and Stacey ain’t gone nowheres.”

“You don’t?” Mama said without looking at me, as she’ continued to pare. “Cassie, life goes on no matter what, and if we don’t keep on doing the everyday kind of things, it means we’ve given up. That’s what you want? To give up and not believe that Stacey’s coming back?”

It was one of those questions Mama had a habit of asking that made me think and feel guilty at the same time. I picked up my pan again without answering. “It sure is hot in here.”

This time Mama looked at me. “It’s not that hot.”

“Well, it sure is hot to me.”

Mama reached over and, taking my head between her hands, turned my face to hers. Her touch felt cool and soothing. She frowned. “Cassie, how long you been feeling hot like this?”

“All afternoon.”

“Anything hurt you?”

“Jus’ this heat got me feeling sick on the stomach and my throat’s sore.”

With her hands still on my face, Mama called to Big Ma, who had gone back to the stove. “Feel this child’s face.”

Big Ma’s rough hands took the place of Mama’s. They too felt cool.

“She says she’s been feeling like this all afternoon. Nauseous and she has a sore throat.”

At that, Big Ma frowned and straightened. “Well, we better get her to bed.”

Under normal circumstances I would have vigorously protested being put to bed, but at this particular moment bed seemed a very good place to be. Mama and Big Ma worried about me through the long afternoon, and late that night when a red rash appeared on my neck, they looked frightened. I heard them say it was scarlet fever. I didn’t know what scarlet fever was and I was too weak to ask. I just knew by their whispered, anxious tones that it was something to be feared.

Before the dawn, Mr. Morrison wrapped me in a blanket and carried me to his cabin. He said that he and Big Ma would take care of me there so that Christopher-John, Little Man, Suzella, and Mama would not get the fever. I nodded, trying to understand. After that everything was hazy. Once I opened my eyes and found Christopher-John and Little Man staring down at me from the window, and Little Man cried, “Cassie, don’t ya die, ya hear! Don’t ya die!”

“She ain’t,” Christopher-John assured him, his voice cracking strangely.

Then I felt Big Ma hovering over me. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them again, it was dark and Little Man and Christopher-John were gone.

Day faded into night and darkness into dreams, and I couldn’t separate them from each other. I drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of dreams that were real and terrifying. Stacey was in them, one minute alive, the next cold and dead in the cane fields. Each time I saw him lying there I ran
away, fleeing the sight of him, and then he would come alive again, running and playing with Christopher-John, Little Man, and me. Lazily, he lay on the bank of the pond with us, staring up at the trees; ran games of chase with us on Lady and Jack across the pasture; and walked beside us on the red road to school. I would feel relief then. But only for a little while, for the dreams kept repeating themselves. No matter how hard I struggled to keep Stacey alive, always, just before I awoke, he was lying in the cane fields, unmoving and cold once more.

Somewhere I thought I heard someone say Don Lee was dead. I thought I heard that, but I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Maybe Stacey was really home after all. Maybe the whole business about his going was just a dream, and when I finally awakened he would be there by the bed waiting, grinning down at me. Maybe that was the way it would be.

When the fever broke Big Ma told me I had been sick for almost a week and that Papa had come home. I asked about Stacey. There was no news of him.

*   *   *

“Owwww, Cassie, we sho’ was scared,” said Little Man as he sat on the edge of the bed. Christopher-John sat on the other side, and Suzella stood at the foot leaning against the bedpost. I was finally back in my own bed again, and this was the first day I had felt well enough to sit up.

“Sure was,” agreed Christopher-John. “’Specially after . . . after ole Don Lee died. . . .” Tears welled in his eyes as his voice trailed off. Turning toward the window, he wiped the tears away.

“Y’all went to the funeral?”

“Jus’ Mama and Mr. Morrison,” Little Man replied. “Too many folks carrying the fever and Mama ain’t wanted
us ’round it. They buried him the day Papa come.” He waited a moment, then added in a small voice, “Other folks, they died too.”

I had heard enough to know that the fever had swept the entire area, attacking both black and white. I looked up. “Who?”

Both Christopher-John and Little Man looked away.

Suzella took my hand. “The Wellevers’ baby boy. Also a little girl from over near Smellings Creek . . . it’s been so sad, Cassie.”

I nodded, wondering why I felt no loss about Don Lee, or any of them. “How’s Son-Boy?”

“He’s feeling better,” said Suzella, “but he’s still weak like you, and they say he’s taking Don Lee’s death pretty hard.”

Again I nodded, feeling numb.

“Wonder what it’s like,” said Little Man.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Death.”

“Oh.”

“Jus’ lying’ there all still all the time.” He got down on the deerskin rug and lay down. With hands at his sides, he stiffened, closed his eyes, and just lay there.

Christopher-John studied him. “How you feel?”

Little Man didn’t answer right away, but finally when he chose to arise from the dead, he opened his eyes and hopped up. “Must be awful,” he concluded, “not being able to move. Get stiff.”

“Boy,” I said, “when you’re dead, it don’t much matter You can’t feel anything no way.”

Little Man was thoughtful. “I s’pose the worms get at you. . . .” He looked over at the rest of us, as if hoping we would deny this. When none of of us did, he said, “Don’t
think I’d like that. Worms running all through my body.”

“What you care?” questioned Christopher-John. “You be gone.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d be in the box.”

Christopher-John shook his head. “I asked Mama ’bout it and she said when you die, that part that’s you just ups and leaves the body part. She say it’s just like when a butterfly leaves its caterpillar skin. Jus’ ups and flies away. Says it be free then.” He thought on it and decided, “It ain’t so bad.”

Little Man thought on it too, but did not change his mind. “Yes, it is too. I like my body jus’ the way it is and I don’t much care for worms to be running all through it, I’m in it or not.” Then his eyes took on a faraway look and his words were softer. “Guess they told you, Papa ain’t found Stacey.”

“Yeah . . . they did.”

Christopher-John took it upon himself to change the subject. “Ya know, Cassie, there ain’t been no school this past week and last.”

“Ain’t?”

“They say they was trying to keep the sickness from spreading.”

“And I had to go be one of the sick,” I complained, upset at the thought of missing the unexpected vacation.