The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (31 page)

They had a bucket under the hyphen to catch the water because the hyphen used to drip all the time. A loon called a guard had to make sure the bucket never run over. He was one of the Bush. The looney one—Edgar. They made him a guard after that desegregating bill passed there in Washington. His job, to keep the niggers out the courthouse from bothering people for rights. Time he saw a colored person he broke up there and asked you what you wanted. You better hurry up and tell him or he pushed you right straight out. He broke up there and bellowed at me once. I told him he could bellow and slobber all he wanted, he put his hand on me and I was go’n crack his skull with that stick. He looked at me like I was the looney one there, then he went and bellowed at somebody else. Now, one of his jobs was to see that that bucket never run over. Twice a day he got a nigger prisoner out the cell and made him dump the water out. You had to dump it out in the white men toilet, and that was just ’cross the hall from the hyphen. Soon as the prisoner dumped it out, the loon made him go back in his cell. He used to stand by the front door just to scare the niggers when they came up there seeking rights. Always chewing gum, always slobbering. A loon if you ever saw one. Everybody knowed he should have been in Jackson, but they kept him there to scare away the colored. Bertha went up there one day with Miss Amma Dean and that thing got behind Bertha and had her scampering all over that courthouse. In and out them people office; up and down them narrow halls. Bertha said when she got back to the car she locked all the doors and laid down on the seat. She didn’t look up till Miss Amma Dean came there and tapped on the glass.

Now, this what Jimmy and them had in mind.
They had picked out a girl to drink from the white people’s fountain. (This was their Miss Rosa Parks.) She was one of the Hebert girls, a Catholic, up there in Bayonne. The Catholics and mulattoes don’t generally get mixed up in things like this, but this girl wanted to do it. Her own people didn’t know nothing about it till after it happened. Jimmy and them had it set for a week after they told it to me. That Friday when everybody was getting off work. He wanted it on a Friday because he wanted to use that weekend to spread the news. Wanted to use the churches, wanted to use the saloons. Two girls would be at the courthouse. When they saw the people coming toward them, one girl was go’n drink from the fountain. Somebody was go’n cuss the girl or push her out the way, and the girl was go’n fight back. She was go’n be arrested—no doubt about that—and the other girl was go’n bring the news. The reason they didn’t choose a boy, they was afraid that loon up there might beat the boy and not arrest him. They wanted somebody in jail because they wanted to march on the courthouse the next Monday. They wanted to show the world what the South would do to a nigger—not even half nigger in this girl’s case—just because she wanted a drink of water.

I was sitting out here on the gallery the day it happened. Me, Etienne, Mary—Strut was here. Look like somebody else was here, too. No, not Lena. She was home. Who? Yes. Fa-Fa. That’s right—Fa-Fa. Because she had been fishing out there in the river and she had brought me a mess of perches. Now it was getting late in the evening and she didn’t feel like walking all the way to Chiney, and she had sent one of the Strut’s children down the quarters to see when Brady was coming back. The boy had just come from down the quarters to tell her Jessie didn’t know when Brady was coming home, then somebody looked up and saw the dust coming down the quarters. Etienne said, “That’s
him now.” Fa-Fa told the boy run out there and wave him down. But the car had stopped before the gate before the boy got out there. Jimmy and that boy in them overalls came in the yard. It was getting dark and I didn’t know who it was till they had come up to the steps. Jimmy spoke and I recognized his voice. First thing I thought was something had happened to that girl.

After Jimmy spoke to everybody he came up on the gallery and kissed me.

“How you feel?” he said.

“Fine,” I said. “Yourself?”

“I’m all right, Miss Jane,” he said.

I looked up at him there in the dark. This old heart was jumping in this old chest, I tell you.

Then he told us: “They throwed a girl in jail today for drinking from that fountain inside the courthouse. We will meet in front of the courthouse Monday morning at nine o’clock. We want every black man, woman, and child to be there.”

“Well, ya’ll done finally done it,” Fa-Fa said. “Let me get on to Chiney where I belong.”

“Ain’t you waiting on Brady?” Mary asked her.

“Brady might get back here
after
them Cajuns burn this place down,” Fa-Fa said. “I’m leaving right now.”

Fa-Fa had been sitting there on the end of the gallery. Had her two fishing poles and her bucket of fish there side her. Next thing you knowed she was walking out the yard, headed for Chiney.

“I just wanted to come down and tell you, Miss Jane,” Jimmy said. “I have to be moving on. We have a lot of work to do between now and Monday morning.” He looked at me there in the dark. We had had a secret, but now it was out. “You’ll be there?” he asked me.

“If the Lord say the same.”

“No, she won’t, either,” Mary said.

“Yes, I will, Mary,” I said.

“I’m here to look after you,” Mary said. “I can’t stand by and let you kill yourself.”

“I will go,” I said.

“And who go’n pick you up when they knock you down and tramp all over you?” she said.

“The Lord will help me to my feet.”

“See what you done started?” Mary said to Jimmy.

“They started it long time ago,” Jimmy said.

“With her leading us on, multitudes will follow,” that long head boy in them overalls said.

I didn’t look at that boy, I looked up at Jimmy. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, I thought. The people, Jimmy? You listening to that thing that boy call retrick and counting on the people?

“You hungry, Jimmy?” I asked him.

“I’m going home,” he said. “I have to tell Aunt Lena.”

“Be careful with Lena, Jimmy,” I said. “She ain’t too strong, you know.”

“I’ll be careful,” he said. “And I’ll see you Monday, Miss Jane. Nine o’clock Monday morning. How you getting there?”

“I’ll find a way, the Lord say the same.”

“Miss Det still gives her fairs on Saturday nights?” he asked me.

“Every Saturday night God send.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow night,” he said. “And I’ll be in church on Sunday.”

I looked up at him in the dark. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, I thought. Don’t listen to that long head boy’s retrick bout the people, Jimmy. The people, Jimmy? The people?

He kissed me good night and left. The dust followed the car down the quarters. You could feel the dust in your skin when it drifted from the road and settled on the gallery.

“Well, there go Lena,” Strut said. “And you, too, Miss Jane, you go to Bayonne Monday.”

“I’m going if the Lord spare me,” I said.

“Why?” Mary said. “To die in Bayonne?”

“I will die in Bayonne only if the Lord wills it,” I said. “If not, I’ll die in my bed. I hope.”

“Over a hundred and eight,” Mary said. “How come they don’t pick on somebody eighteen?”

“The girl is fifteen,” I said.

“Oh, I see,” Mary said. “You knowed about it all the time. Y’all had it all worked out. Where I was when all this was going on?”

“Down the quarters,” I said.

“Well, me, I got a ditch bank to cut Monday morning,” Strut said. “And I’m sure it go’n take me all day.”

“Reckoned lot of ditch banks’ll be cut Monday morning,” Etienne said.

“You got one to cut?” Strut said.

“Not yet,” Etienne said.

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, I thought there in the dark. The people, Jimmy? The people?

Brady was at Det’s house when Jimmy and that long head boy came there Saturday night. But the people there was more interested in eating gumbo and drinking beer than they was in what Jimmy had to say. After that other boy had passed out a sheet of paper with that girl’s picture on it, they left out for Chiney to visit another fair. Fa-Fa youngest boy, Henry, was at the fair. He said the people at the fair listened to what Jimmy and the other boy had to say, and some of them even promised to come to Bayonne that Monday morning, but soon as Jimmy and the boy left the house the people at the fair changed their minds, too.

By the time he came to church Sunday the whole place had heard about it. Just Thomas was against even letting him come in the church, but Elder Banks told him nobody would ever be kept out of church long as he came there in peace. When Jimmy got up to talk some of the people went outside. Many of the ones who stayed didn’t show interest or respect. I sat there looking at Jimmy, thinking: Jimmy, Jimmy,
Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. It’s not that they don’t love you, Jimmy; it’s not that they don’t want believe in you; but they don’t know what you talking about. You talk of freedom, Jimmy. Freedom here is able to make a little living and have the white folks say you good. Black curtains hang at their windows, Jimmy: black quilts cover their body at night: a black veil cover their eyes, Jimmy; and the buzzing, buzzing, buzzing in their ears keep them from ’ciphering what you got to say. Oh, Jimmy, didn’t they ask for you? And didn’t He send you, and when they saw you, didn’t they want you? They want you, Jimmy, but now you here they don’t understand nothing you telling them. You see, Jimmy, they want you to cure the ache, but they want you to do it and don’t give them pain. And the worse pain, Jimmy, you can inflict is what you doing now—that’s trying to make them see they good as the other man. You see, Jimmy, they been told from the cradle they wasn’t—that they wasn’t much better than the mule. You keep telling them this over and over, for hundreds and hundreds of years, they start thinking that way. The curtain, Jimmy, the quilt, the veil, the buzzing, buzzing, buzzing—two days, a few hours, to clear all this away, Jimmy, is not enough time. How long will it take? How could I know? He works in mysterious ways; wonders to perform.

But look at me acting high and mighty. Don’t the black curtain hang over my window; don’t the veil cover my face? And maybe, now, because my arms too weak to push the quilt down the bed I tell myself I’m brave enough to go to Bayonne. But do what in Bayonne when the least little breeze will blow me down?

That night after the Ed Sullivan show I told Mary I was going to bed. Her and Albert was sitting out there on the gallery talking. I told her I was going to bed but I wasn’t going to sleep because I wanted to see Brady when he came home. I went to my side and knelt down at the bed to say my prayers. I prayed ever so long. Most of my praying was for Jimmy, for his
protection. I asked the Lord to give us enough courage to follow him. Because it was us who wanted him long before he knowed anything about it.

After I got through praying I pulled down the bar and went to bed. Summer and winter I always sleep under my bar. Summer to keep out mosquitoes; winter to help keep out draft. Laying there, I looked at all the old furnitures in the room. The light was off, so I could barely make out the shape of the furniture. I looked at my old rocking chair just setting there. “You can set there like you don’t know what’s happening, but tomorrow this time you might be headed away from here.” I thought about Yoko and that looking glass, and I looked at the glass on my washstand. “You too,” I said. “You ain’t so high class you can’t get packed on a wagon.” I looked at my old sewing machine, my armoire. Looked like they was just as live as y’all is now. After you been round things so many years you get to be like them or they get to be like you. Exactly which way it works I ain’t figured it out yet. Probably never will.

I laid there on my side waiting for Brady to show up. Then I heard Albert saying, “Light just turned down the quarters.” He went to the gate to flag Brady down. A minute later, Brady was knocking on the door. When he came in I could smell he had been drinking. I told him to turn the light on.

“No ma’am,” he said.

“I like to see people when I’m talking to them,” I said.

“Yes’m,” he said.

“Well?”

“No ma’am,” he said.

“You been drinking, ain’t you, Brady?” I said.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “And Miss Jane, I can’t take you there tomorrow.”

“Take me where tomorrow, Brady?” I said.

“I know you promised him, Miss Jane,” he said.

“That’s why you went out and got drunk, Brady?”

He didn’t answer. I looked at him standing there in the dark.

“Snap that light on, Brady,” I said.

“No ma’am,” he said. And he started crying. “I can’t take you there, Miss Jane.”

“He did many things for you, Brady,” I said. “Used to write for your mama and daddy all the time, you forget that?”

“I’m scared, Miss Jane,” he said, crying. “They’ll kick me off this place and I know it. I see how Tee Sho and them look at my house every time they go by the gate. They ready to knock it over now—and I’m still in there. Mr. Robert just waiting for a good reason to give it to Tee Sho and them.”

“Brady, Brady, Brady,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Miss Jane,” he said. “You know how I like doing things for you. Anytime you want go to the doctor—things like that.”

“Brady, Brady, Brady,” I said.

“I know I ain’t no man, Miss Jane,” he said.

“Brady, Brady, Brady,” I said.

“I know I ain’t,” he said. “I know it ought to be me, not him. I know all that.”

“Go home, Brady,” I said. “Go to your wife and children.”

He didn’t move, just standing there in the dark, looking down at me.

“Miss Jane?” he said. I didn’t answer him. “Miss Jane?” he said.

“Yes, Brady?” I said.

“I swear to God, Miss Jane, I’m go’n make it up to you one day. I swear. I swear to God.”

“You don’t have to swear, Brady, I understand.”

He stood there crying now, crying and calling on God.

“Go home, Brady,” I said.

He went out crying.

Not long after Brady left the house, Lena came up on the gallery. I still hadn’t shut my eyes. Laying there
thinking who to turn to next. The only other person on the place with a car running was Olivia Antoine. I was wondering if I ought to ask Albert to go up there and ask her to take me. Then I heard Lena asking Mary about me. Mary told her I was in bed.