The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had (22 page)

The jury slowly filed in. They were all white. One man handed an envelope over to the judge.

“Will the defendant rise?” said the judge.

Doc Haley slowly rose to his feet.

“In the state of Alabama, a jury of your peers . . .” said the judge.

Mrs. Walker snorted.

“. . . finds you guilty of murder in the first degree.”

The room was absolutely silent for a moment, then Doc collapsed into his chair and everyone began to talk at once. The judge pounded his gavel, but no one could hear what he was trying to say. Beside me, Mrs. Walker and Emma began to cry, while Mr. Walker slammed his fist on the balcony railing till I thought it would splinter.

In the courtroom below us, Elbert put an arm around his father. A cold pit formed in my stomach and I felt dizzy. Doc Haley was gonna hang.

45

 

 

 

DOC HALEY WAS TRANSFERRED BACK TO the Moundville jail to wait for his execution. The hanging was scheduled for the end of April, and there wasn’t nothing any of us could do.

That Sunday at church, we said a special prayer for Doc. Even Mrs. Pooley kneeled and bowed her head. I tried to sit still and concentrate on the sermon, but Ollie and Ulman couldn’t seem to stop coughing, no matter how many times Mama nudged them. Ollie pressed a handkerchief to her lips, but it didn’t really muffle the sound. Behind me, Buster and his little brother kept sneezing, one right after the other, like it was some kind of game. When we stood to sing the final hymn, Mama put a hand on her forehead.

“You all right, Mama?” I asked.

“Feeling a little faint,” Mama said. She sat back down in the pew as I opened up the hymnal.

Mrs. Weeks was coughing too, and each time she coughed, she missed a note. I thought we were singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” but it sure didn’t sound like it. I was about to bend down and ask Mama if I’d gotten the song wrong when there was a loud “waaaaa,” and the song stopped altogether.

Mrs. Weeks had collapsed forward, her head pressing against the keys of the organ. The instrument continued to bleat out a long, deep note as the preacher hurried over to help her up. Dr. Griffith took her home, but it didn’t do no good. By the next morning, she was dead. The flu had come to Moundville.

The flu of 1918 was the worst anyone had ever seen. Oh, we’d had the flu before, of course, but this time the fevers were higher, the body aches stronger, and the coughing brought up blood. People died when their lungs got so clogged, they couldn’t take a breath. That was what had happened to old Mrs. Weeks. And this flu spread faster than a piece of hot gossip.

Two days later, a quarter of the children were absent from school. Mrs. Seay tried to carry on, but she looked tired and feverish herself. At recess, Pearl and the other girls skipped rope and chanted:

 

 

As she finished jumping, Pearl had a fit of coughing and my skin went cold.

Mrs. Walker sent a telegram to a friend who was a nurse in Boston. She sent a box of supplies, including a gauze mask Mrs. Walker wore everywhere. “I might look funny,” she mumbled through the white bandage, “but I won’t get sick.” She went around to all the Negra families in town, offering teas and aspirin from her box.

Dr. Griffith came to our school and hung up a poster from the Health Department telling us ways to stop the spread of the flu. But its warnings—wash your hands, don’t share cups and cover your nose when you sneeze—came too late. More than half the school was sick by the first week in April, and Mrs. Seay sent the rest of us home early ’cause she was coughing too.

There was no school for a week after that. The sickest in our family were Pearl, Earl, Raymond and the baby, Lois. They were tucked into cots and couches in the parlor ’cause it was easier to care for them if they were all in one room. Pa, Della, Ollie and Elman weren’t quite as sick, so they dozed in their own beds upstairs. For some reason, me, Ulman and Robert hadn’t gotten sick at all.

One night, Lois wouldn’t stop crying. Mama wiped down the baby’s face with a cold rag, but she kept on wailing. Mama’s face looked flushed, and I knew she had a fever too. I brought Raymond a glass of milk and cinnamon to help bring down his fever. No one in Moundville had any more aspirin.

Mrs. Walker let herself in without knocking, still wearing her large white mask. She hadn’t gotten sick either. “Mrs. Sims, you go lie down,” she said firmly.

“But the baby . . .” Mama protested.

“I’ll take care of the baby,” said Mrs. Walker. “You won’t be any good to these children dead.”

Mama nodded and went upstairs.

Mrs. Walker picked up Lois and rocked her gently. I was getting pretty tired myself, but as long as Lois was screaming, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I paced quietly, stopping by Pearl’s bed. My sister was a pasty white, her gasps for air louder than a fat man snoring. “Mrs. Walker?” I said, raising my voice to be heard over Lois’s cries.

“What, Dit?”

“Pearl don’t look so good.”

Mrs. Walker put the baby down and came over to Pearl’s bedside. She tried not to show it, but I could see her body stiffen as she felt Pearl’s forehead. “You’d better go find Dr. Griffith.”

I ran. I couldn’t imagine life without Pearl. She and Earl were only two years younger than me. Losing one of them would be like losing an arm or a leg. I pushed the thought away and ran faster.

It was after midnight, but it only took a moment for Dr. Griffith to come to the door. “It’s Pearl,” I said quietly. “You’d best come quick.”

Mama and Pa must’ve been feeling real bad ’cause they didn’t even stir when me and Dr. Griffith came in. Mrs. Walker was in the parlor, cradling Pearl in her arms. Lois had fallen into a fitful sleep, but now Pearl was making horrible rasping noises. “Thank goodness!” Mrs. Walker exclaimed when she saw us. “I don’t know what to do.”

“No one knows what to do,” said Dr. Griffith as he put down his black bag.

Mrs. Walker was crying. That scared me more than anything else. Mrs. Walker was the toughest person I knew. “I need to go home and check on my family,” she said.

Dr. Griffith nodded. “I’ll take over here.”

Mrs. Walker handed Pearl over to Dr. Griffith and left the room. Pearl was turning blue. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. “Is she gonna die?” I asked.

Dr. Griffith ignored my question. “Dit, I need you to take the Vick’s salve from my bag. Melt it in a small pot on the stove. Quickly now, and don’t burn it!”

In the kitchen I stirred the salve constantly over a low flame. I always thought Vick’s salve was for rubbing on your chest, but Dr. Griffith said he was gonna make Pearl drink it.

“Dit!” Dr. Griffith called from the other room. “I need that salve now.”

There were still a few lumps, but I poured the thick liquid into a small cup. It steamed like a witch’s brew as I ran into the parlor.

Dr. Griffith grabbed the cup from me and held it to Pearl’s lips. She swallowed a sip and began to squirm. She let out a loud gasp, and Dr. Griffith sighed in relief. I sat down on the floor and began to cry.

“It’s all right, Dit. She’s breathing again.”

But I couldn’t stop crying. Dr. Griffith sat and rocked Pearl. I cried till I fell asleep on the floor.

46

 

 

 

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN I WOKE UP, I was still on the floor. Dr. Griffith was gone, but someone had draped a blanket over me. I stood up and looked around the room, counting: Pearl, Earl, Raymond, Lois. Everyone was still breathing.

I wandered into the kitchen. Found Robert standing on a chair, trying to reach the cupboard.

“I’m hungry, Dit,” Robert cried.

He was only four. Couldn’t expect him to get his breakfast on his own.

“Let me get you a biscuit,” I said. I found a couple in the bread box and got out the butter and some jam.

“Eggs, I want eggs,” whined Robert.

“Maybe later,” I said, placing a plate in front of him. “Eat this now.”

Robert dug into the biscuit like he ain’t ate in the week. I wondered if anyone had remembered to feed him last night. “Don’t be mad, Dit,” he said between bites.

“Why’d I be mad?” I asked.

“I broke a glass.” Robert pointed to the corner. “Wanted some milk.”

“I ain’t mad,” I said. “Let me get you that milk.”

While Robert drank his milk, I swept up the broken glass. Seemed awful quiet in the kitchen with just me and Robert ’stead of Mama and Pa and everybody else.

“Ain’t you gonna eat nothing?” Robert asked.

I shook my head. I wasn’t hungry.

Mrs. Walker came down the stairs and into the kitchen. I guess she’d come in sometime in the night. I was awful glad to see her.

“How’s everyone?” I asked.

“All alive in this house,” she said, stirring a pot I hadn’t even noticed on the stove.

“And Emma?” She and her daddy had come down with the flu a couple of days before.

“Emma’s almost all better. Mr. Walker isn’t doing quite as well, but he’s on the mend.”

I nodded, and my stomach unknotted just a little.

“I’m going to take this broth up to your parents,” Mrs. Walker said, pouring the soup into smaller bowls.

“Can I do anything?”

“Maybe tonight you could stop by to read to Emma and Mr. Walker. I’m sure they’d be most grateful for the distraction.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m still hungry, Dit,” Robert piped up.

“Come on, then,” I said. “Let’s go see if those chickens have laid any eggs.”

 

 

That evening when I came by, Mr. Walker was still in bed, softly snoring. I sat on a chair next to his bed; Emma dozed on a pallet on the floor. She was weak but feeling a lot better. I held her book of poems open on my lap but didn’t feel like reading.

“You all right, Dit?” Emma whispered.

“Buster died yesterday,” I said softly. “Dr. Griffith told me tonight when he stopped by.”

“Oh,” said Emma.

I stared out the window. Buster hadn’t been too nice to me, but I hadn’t wanted him to die.

“I’m sorry, Dit.”

“Why should you be sorry?” I snapped. “He was always mean to you.”

“Don’t say that!” Emma sounded upset. “Mama says it’s awful bad luck to speak ill of the dead.”

My mama said that too.

Emma thought for a moment. “Buster liked my mama’s biscuits. It’s not much nice to say about him, but it’s something.”

It was true. Buster hadn’t been all bad. I remembered playing marbles with him when we were small and roasting chestnuts and swimming in the Black Warrior. He’d gotten real quiet when his pa left and real loud when Emma came to town. While we were doing the play, I’d thought maybe he was changing again. Now we’d never know how he would have turned out.

“I ain’t never known someone my own age who died,” I said finally.

“I did,” Emma said. “A girl in Boston.”

“What happened?”

“She was playing in the street and got hit by a streetcar.”

“Was she a good friend?”

“Not really. But I went to her funeral and played a song on the piano.”

“Did it make you feel better?” I asked.

“A little.”

If Buster could die, other people I knew could die. Like Doc Haley. Course I’d known he’d been sentenced to death, but I didn’t quite believe it, not even after hearing the verdict read. But now, it suddenly seemed possible. And that was just too scary to think about. “It ain’t fair,” I mumbled.

“No, it’s not.” Emma reached out from her bed and took my hand. Made me feel a little bit better.

Mrs. Walker came in carrying a tray of food. Emma quickly dropped my hand.