Seeing Red (25 page)

When I told them my idea of fixing up Miss Georgia’s place while she was in the hospital, Beau clapped and Mama squeezed my shoulder, smiling. The three of us sat down at the kitchen table and made a list of jobs that needed to be done and who could do them.

That night Mama called the hospital and found out that Miss Georgia had multiple fractures, so when she got out she’d have to be in a wheelchair, maybe for ever. Beau slowly added something to the job list, his tongue working as hard as his fingers. After he left I looked at the list.
bild ramp fer frunt of howse – beau.
Maybe he couldn’t spell, but he sure could think of everything. I picked up the pencil and after
Beau
I wrote
and red
.

We spent all day Sunday at Miss Georgia’s. Mama cleaned inside and out, making J the runner to keep him busy until she took him to his buddy’s Halloween party. I was way too old for that kind of kid stuff any more but I couldn’t help grinning when I saw that Mama left a couple of Cokes and a pile of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups on Miss Georgia’s front porch for us. She knew that was my favourite candy.

After me and Beau had us a Coke and chocolate break, we built the wheelchair ramp. And I painted the porch, but I didn’t sand out the
IMF
that Thomas and I had carved in the porch railing. I think Miss Georgia kind of liked it now. I made the entire porch light blue, so she could have sky all around her and feel like she was a cloud.

We even worked after school on Monday and on Tuesday, Miss Miller and Rosie came to help. I found out that some of the time Rosie wasn’t home she was helping grade papers and stuff with Miss Miller. Beau was sure relieved to hear that Rosie hadn’t been hanging out with Darrell’s friends much.

I was just happy to see her again. “Hey, Rosie, how are you do—” but she gave me a big hug – in front of everyone! – and I forgot what I was even saying. I felt my face get hot, especially when J started laughing and making smoochy sounds.

Rosie stopped him, though, by giving him a hug.

“Ew! Get off!” J said as he squirmed away from her and took off running.

Except for the hug, Rosie gave all her time and attention to Miss Miller and Mama. They were chatting and giggling and pretty soon I didn’t mind being by myself, although I did keep looking over at Rosie because she looked different, and I was trying to figure out what it was. Her hair was longer. And straighter. And she was taller. Or maybe more…developed.

When I realized that, I felt my face flush again, and I concentrated on pulling all the vines off the fence around Miss Georgia’s vegetable garden. I was painting the fence when Beau came over. “Can I have me some paint, too?”

“Sure,” I said, and poured some white paint in an old Jiffy Pop foil pan.

“I need a little black, too.”

“That’s still in the back of the car, I think.”

“Okie dokie,” he said, lumbering off to the Chevy.

I figured he was going to do some touch-up on the house, but after a while, when I looked up from my work, he was sitting hunched in the middle of the grass behind Miss Georgia’s house.

“Beau,” I called out, “what are you doing?”

“I’m painting the grave markers.”

“Grave markers?”

“Yup. Miss Georgia’s daddy and grandaddy and—”

I dropped my paintbrush and ran over to where he sat.

“George Freeman’s grave? Let me see.”

I’d forgotten about those graves, but now I was curious to see them. They were wooden markers, of course, because most black people couldn’t afford gravestones back then, but the wood was rounded and shaped like a regular headstone would be.

Beau sat back on the grass and smiled at his work. “This here is her grandaddy’s.”

I sat down next to him. It was sure different from Daddy’s big granite headstone with all our names on it.

G. FREEMAN

Aug. 1829–Jul. 7, 1867

I looked at it for a moment and then tilted my head because something about it wasn’t quite right.

Beau looked at me and nodded. “I know. It didn’t have no day, just
Aug
for August and the year, 1829. I guess they knew when he died, though, because that one had the whole date.”

“July seventh?”

“Uh-huh.” He picked up a little pad of paper in one hand and pencil in the other. “See here? I wrote it down so I could whitewash the whole thing and then paint the right date.”

Maybe because it was the pad of paper Daddy always used for sketches I remembered Daddy’s drawing and the map and realized what was wrong.

“Beau, it couldn’t have been July seventh.” I knew. Because the map said July fourth. I remembered thinking that it was signed on Independence Day.

“Uh-huh, it was.”

I shook my head. “It couldn’t have been.” I’d looked up what
decedent
meant, and it meant
dead
. So on July fourth, G. Freeman was already dead.

Beau looked down at the pad of paper. “I wrote exactly what it said on the marker. I know it said Jul 7.” He said it so it sounded like
Jool seven
.

“It wasn’t.”

“I swear it said Jool seven, 1867, because I remember thinking that they both ended in seven: Jool seven and 1867.”

“Maybe it was just hard to make out, Beau. Maybe it was a one that looked like a seven.”

“Nope, it was Jool seven.”

“Would you quit saying
Jool seven
? It’s July seventh!”

He pointed at the marker. “I know it, that’s why I painted it right there.”

“But it wasn’t July seventh!”

“What’s all the fuss?”

I whipped around and hadn’t noticed that Rosie had come up behind us.

“Red thinks I put the wrong date on—”

“You did put the wrong date!” I said, cutting him off.

Beau tugged at his hair. “I don’t think so. I’m sure it was a seven.”

Rosie crouched down and looked at the marker, patting Beau’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t a seven,” I said, “I know that for sure!”

“How can you know that for sure, Red?” Beau asked.

He and Rosie both looked up at me. I blinked. I didn’t want to tell them about the map. I tried to think of something to say, but my mind seized up.

“How come you the only one who knows that?” Beau asked.

Rosie squinched her eyes at me, and I was sure I was busted.

All of a sudden, she smiled. “You know how close Red and Miss Georgia are. That’s probably how he knows.”

“But I should’ve—”

“No you shouldn’t, Beau,” she said, patting his shoulder again. “Nobody knew. Except Red.”

She smiled again, and I smiled back, but I didn’t feel good about it.

Mama and Miss Miller had come over by then, and Rosie explained what was going on.

“I can fix it,” Beau said, whiting out the seven. “Soon as it dries, I’ll paint a one.”

Mama allowed as how the way they made ones and sevens back then could’ve been real similar. “And besides,” she added, “these markers haven’t been painted in for ever, so what with weathering and mould and goodness knows what else, I think you did a wonderful job, Beau.”

Miss Miller agreed. “They were no longer slaves whose owners might’ve kept all that information precisely because they were considered, well – ” she rolled her eyes – “
property
, so who knows how accurate the date is.”

Beau didn’t look a hundred per cent convinced, and neither was I. There was something that bothered me about the whole thing. Maybe the date was written wrong on the grave marker a hundred years ago, like Miss Miller said; maybe it had been hard to read, so Beau got it wrong, like Mama said; or maybe, I thought, there was another explanation. Maybe Old Man Porter and old Mr Dunlop got the date wrong on their map. But how could you make a mistake like that? Wouldn’t they know if it was really Independence Day or not? I tried to think of other possibilities. What if George Freeman was shot on July 4, and they thought he was dead, but he didn’t actually die for three more days?

Later, at home, I checked the map when I was by myself and it definitely said “4 July”. I guess it was possible it was a seven, but it sure looked like a four to me. And I didn’t want to show it to anyone else, not yet. The bottom line was, the only person who was likely to know for sure was Miss Georgia.

“No, Red,” Mama said, “I am not calling long-distance to the hospital and bothering Miss Georgia about a silly date.”

“It’s not a silly date!”

“Why are you so het up about this? Beau changed it already.”

“I just want to be sure.”

She sighed. “Did you notice that his birth date had only the month and the year? I don’t mean to be disrespectful to the deceased, but I don’t see how it matters that much whether the man died on the first or the seventh or the seventeenth.”

I had a feeling it mattered a lot, but I’d have to wait until I could talk to Miss Georgia in person.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Beau

A couple of mornings later Beau didn’t show up. Mama called his house, but she didn’t get any answer. Pretty soon we found out what happened. Beau’s mama was dead.

Mama said it was expected because Beau’s mama had been sick for a real long time but that even though Beau knew that and was prepared, it’s always a shock. And she said that while she hadn’t made me go to church since Daddy died, I had to go to the funeral. She didn’t need to tell me. Of course I was going. Beau was our family.

We sat with Beau in the family pew. Miss Miller and Rosie both gave him hugs and sat in the pew right behind us. When Mr Reynolds walked in and sat next to Miss Miller, I saw Reverend Benson’s face go all blotchy, and I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. There was no mistaking the icy glare he was giving Mr Reynolds. I turned around, but Mr Reynolds didn’t seem aware of the reverend at all. I think Miss Miller was. She had on that sick headache kind of smile and was looking everywhere but the pulpit.

Mama sat between J and Beau, holding Beau’s hand like he was a little boy. I was sitting on the other side of Beau, who sat there stunned. I remembered feeling exactly the same way when I’d sat in this same pew four months earlier for Daddy’s funeral.

I didn’t like being back here. I didn’t like the memories of that day. I didn’t want to think about Thomas and how he hadn’t been able to come to the service and, even though he went to the burial, I ignored him. And I didn’t like having to listen to Reverend Benson. I was tuning him out like I used to until I noticed Mama’s breathing turning into sharp exhales like when I was in trouble.

“Our dear friend, and Beau’s mama, Ida Yates was solid as a rock, even in these turbulent times. She knew her place and she knew everyone else’s,” Reverend Benson said. “She knew how to be kind to black folk. She knew they’re happier with their own kind.” He narrowed his eyes at us and, I figured, the pew behind us with Mr Reynolds in it. “They prefer to go to their own neighbourhoods, their own schools, their own churches.”

Yeah, their own churches that happened to be thirty-five miles away, so old people, like Miss Georgia, could hardly go any more. Mama’s hand was gripping Beau’s so tight now that he winced, and I had to reach over and, one by one, peel her fingers off Beau’s hand until she finally noticed and gripped her purse instead.

“Putting notions in people’s heads,” the reverend went on, “is just plain dangerous. They start demanding things. They don’t know where they belong any more. No one knows where they belong any more. Everything’s in an uproar.” His voice was turning into a roar. “People get hurt!” He pounded the pulpit. “People get killed!”

I heard a murmur running through the congregation of amens and a couple of people saying, “That’s right,” along with Mr Reynolds clearing his throat over and over like he had something caught in it.

“Ida Yates knew her place and her responsibility, too. Why, when she got sick, she hired a black housekeeper, giving that poor woman a job to keep her off welfare.”

Mama’s foot was shaking up and down.

“This community has lost two very good souls recently.” He nodded over at us. “Deacon Porter wouldn’t hold no stock in breaking society apart. Uh-uh, no, sir!”

If “breaking society apart” meant being a bigot like Glen Connor or Mr Dunlop, then Daddy sure would break it apart. Reverend Benson was twisting Daddy into something he wanted Daddy to be, not the man Daddy was, and I didn’t like it one bit! I knew Mama felt the same as me because her foot was jiggling wildly now, and she was sitting up so straight you’d think her spine was a drive shaft.

The more Reverend Benson went on and the more Mama’s foot bounced up and down, the more I wished he’d shut up. Apart from spouting lies, he was making Mama mad, and that would only make her more determined to run away and live in Ohio.

After the service we stood in the receiving line and Mama had a fake smile plastered on her face. People came up to Beau and hugged him and said nice things about his mama and said they’d come by and to call them if he needed anything, but I knew from experience that he wouldn’t remember one word.