The Emancipation of Robert Sadler (21 page)

In November of 1932 Franklin Delano Roosevelt was elected president. I knew a little more now about presidents, but not much more about elections.

I dedicated myself to studying that year. I spent every spare minute reading and practicing my writing.

In the spring I went to visit Mrs. Black. I found her in a field near her house picking dandelion greens. She smiled her broad, toothless grin when she saw me. “Robert! Ah declare!” We went back to her house, and she put the greens on to boil with a hunk of salt pork, and then she dipped the yellow tops in batter and deep-fried them. With warm corn bread from the oven and cold buttermilk, I smacked my lips with every bite. “Robert,” she asked me after we had eaten, “how much room do the Lord have in yor life?” I nearly fell from my chair when she asked me that.

“Hunh?”

“Give Him room, son, give Him room.”

“Well, I—”

“You gots thet worried look about ye, and they ain't no good to worryin. That's what we got a Lord fer so
He
can do the worryin.”

When it began to grow dark, I kissed her good-bye and headed back to the school.

“Yoll come back, and we'll pick us some poke salad!”

I did go back, at least once a week, until the month before summer break in 1933. Mrs. Black was like tonic on a wound. I could hardly wait to get an outside job and rent a room at her house again.

It was a hot afternoon when I walked up the road to her little wood-frame house on the hill a month later. I felt good, and I was glad the hot weather was here again and glad for the chance to work and make some money to send home to Margie. I looked forward to the quiet evenings with Mrs. Black, her good cooking, and her warm, loving friendship.

I mounted the wooden steps and noticed the door was bolted and the curtains drawn across the windows. I knocked and waited for the sound of her bare feet padding along the linoleum floor. There was no answer. I knocked again. When there was no answer I went around to the back. The back door was shut tight with a padlock nailed on the outside. I never knew her to lock anything. I picked up my grip and went back around to the front to wait. Maybe she was visiting.

I had waited for over an hour when a heavyset colored woman carrying some packages in her arms came puffing up the hill. She looked up at me and called, “You waitin on Miz Black?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Honey, she done died.” I sucked in my breath and my throat tightened. “They found her las week in that house. She had been dead for almost a month and nobody knew it. You a kin o' hers?”

“—Uh—a kin? No . . .”

“Well, they didn't have no funeral on account o' she didn't have no kin and nobody to give her one, so they took her out and buried her. I see they ain't boarded the place up yit. Well, they oughta. People gonna break in there and—”

The woman stood by the steps and talked for what seemed like forever. I hardly heard a word she said.

Finally I interrupted. “How did they find her?”

“Insurance man come by. Insurance man knocked on the door and smelled somethin terrible. He peek in and there she was—on the kitchen floor. Half-rotten, they say. Insurance man never did get his money.”

I rose to my feet and picked up my grip. “Ain't that a shame?” the woman continued. “No kin to cash in that insurance money or to get this house—”

I walked for hours, around in circles I think, unaware of the beautiful summer day. Sometime in the late afternoon I came to the familiar clearing where the neighborhood variety store was. It had a gas pump outside, and inside was a little bit of everything, including groceries, dry goods, and a counter where food was served. I opened the screen door and went inside. Met by the lazy drone of a fan and a “Hiyoll” from the Negro lady behind the counter, I sat down on a stool, took a deep breath, and ordered pie.

I spent the summer of 1933 painting houses and doing handyman jobs around town. I rented a room from a family three blocks from campus. I was able to save over fifty dollars, which I put in an envelope and took home to Anderson for Margie at the end of the summer.

It was wonderful to see Margie again. She seemed more worn and tired than the last time I had seen her but her spirit was high. I asked her how she learned to write. She told me that after I went off to school, she had prayed and asked the Lord to make it possible for her to learn how to read and write, too.

“Chile, it wasn't two days later but they was a knock on the door and a lady standin there tellin me about free classes in readin and writin jes two blocks yonder. I thought she was a white angel. You think they's any white angels, Robert? Hee! Hee! Praise the Lord!”

The vacation ended all too soon, and before I knew it I was getting ready to catch the bus back to Seneca. Margie watched me pull the strap closed on my grip. “Honey,” she said with a shaky voice, “yoll take care of yoself and don't get into any trouble, hear?” From the look on her face, I knew she meant more than what she had said.

“Now what you tryin to tell me, girl?” I asked.

Margie's chin quivered. “And another thing,
don't forgit me
.”

“Hunh?”

“Now thassall. Gimme a kiss.”

Sitting on the bus with the dry, pungent smells of upholstery and cigar smoke, I thought of Margie's face. Even though she was tough, fearless, and strong as an ox, her thirty-one years seemed more like sixty. She acted like maybe I was never coming back. I leaned my head against the window. Only dying could keep me from her, I thought. And Lord, I sure didn't want to die yet.

———

Back at school, I found a new interest in extracurricular activities. Luke Small was a big influence on me. “I'm fed up with this place,” he would grumble. “I's leavin this here place.” I didn't pay any attention to him at first, but as the weeks went by, I found myself agreeing with him. “Yeah,” I grumbled along with him, “this place is strifling.”

Late night hours and a poor attitude caused me to get behind in my schoolwork. Soon I began cutting classes and piling up unexcused absences.

In late October, after I had been at school for more than three years, I was coming from the small log cabin library and walking toward the men's dorm when Small came running from across the lawn toward me.

“Sadler,” he said with a large grin, “you and me is leavin this here place tomorrow.”

“Hunh?”

“Thas right, man. We is leavin.”

“What you mean—
we
?”

“You and me, brother. You and me. We is hoppin the ole freight and goin on to Ohio!”

“O-Ohio?”

“We'll hobo to my house in Bellaire. Howzat sound?”

“Well—I—”

I thought of Margie and the money she had worked overtime to send to me so I could get an education, and the promise I made to myself to honor Bo's memory. “Uh, I donno—”

Before I had a chance to say anything more, Luke Small was waving and jitterbugging down the path toward the dining hall.

That afternoon, instead of doing my studying, I left the campus and walked along the dirt path which led through the wooded area onto the winding dirt road I knew well. Tiny houses and shanties were scattered along the edge of the road, and I walked slowly, kicking pebbles and looking at the shacks.
How many of the blacks in those houses can read?
I wondered.
How many of them can write numbers and figure out if they are being cheated or not on their groceries or their rent receipts?

I could read and write pretty well now, and I was proud of my book learning. If I stayed at Seneca, I could graduate and go on to college. Maybe even be a lawyer—somebody to help my people.

A little black child about three years old ran to the edge of the road. “Hi,” I called. She gave me a shy smile. I looked beyond her to her mother hanging wash on the line. Wearing an old cotton dress, wet with perspiration, barefoot, her hair covered in a rag, she paused for a second to look at me and then continued her work.

She lived over here in a shack, sweating and struggling to make enough food for her family, and I lived over there across the road up in the big school being educated so someday I wouldn't have to live like her. And maybe if I made it through I'd be able to do something so others wouldn't have to live like her either.

But the love of learning was wearing off, and I was becoming critical and restless.
Oh Lord, what'll I do?

When I arrived back at school later that afternoon, I was met by the dorm counselor. “Sadler,” he said, taking me by the shoulder, “you already been on probation once; you ain't going to get much mercy if you keep skipping classes.”

“Oh . . . yeah . . .”

“By the way, how you doing in your classes?”

“I uh—OK, I guess. Jes fine.”

“In other words, you're failing.”

“Yessuh.”

“Man, Sadler, you gonna get yourself the title of First Man of the Year to Be Expelled.”

I sucked in my breath.
Expelled!
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Small leave the building. I left the dorm counselor standing there shaking his head and chased after Small.

“Small! Listen, Small, you still fixin to leave tomorrow?”

“Sure enough.”

“OK, it's a deal.”

He smiled, pulling his shoulders back. “OK, Sadler. I'll tell you when.”

I went back to my room and began packing my things. I could still hear the voice of the dorm counselor, “First Man of the Year to Be Expelled.” I had no choice. I had to leave before they kicked me out.

When I had a few belongings packed in boxes, Small insisted we send it to his house in Bellaire, Ohio. “Why your place?” I asked him.

“Cause that's where we goin!”

I didn't like the idea, but we carried the boxes to the post office, addressed to his house in Bellaire. I paid for the postage because Small had no money.

We carried nothing with us—no change of clothes, no hair brush, nothing. By the time we got to the railroad tracks that night, I was so scared my knees trembled. Small started educating me on how to hitch a train.

“When you grabs on, you throws your body out like this here,” he told me. “You got to be careful, but once you gits holt of that handhold and you swings your feets on up on the rung, you're OK. Got it?”

“Small, I never done this before. What if—”

“Listen! Here she come! Now watch how I do it, and then you grab on right after me! Git ready!”

The train was moving slowly out of the station toward us. We would jump on just before it picked up speed.
My Lord!
I didn't realize how loud a train could be up close!
Jesus, help me!
The wheels were like death, powerful crashing steel against the rails.
There went Small!
I saw his body fly out exactly as he had told me, then his knees curled under him, and he was safe on the metal ladder. Here it came. The swaying boxcars rumbled past, loud as howling wolves. I took to running alongside, grabbed the cold metal handhold, and threw my body out like Small had instructed, hanging on with all my strength. When I felt my feet underneath me on the rung and the cool night air whipping at my face, I knew I had made it. I was leaving the solid South and on my way to Ohio.

Small crawled along the top of the car to me, and we rode in the blind. “This here is the passenger train,” he shouted. “We'll take it to Atlanta, Georgie, and then we'll take a freight!”

I nodded without knowing what he was talking about. “Then we take the freight to Knoxville! We gets into a coal car and covers ourselves with coal. That way the cops won't find us.”

“Cops?”

“Sure. These trains is loaded with them. Each stop they inspect the cars, lookin for hobos.”

When the train began to slow down, Small explained that we were stopping for water. “Now listen, hang on right where you is until you see a cop comin. When you see the cop, cross over to the other side of the car and hang on till he pass. That way he won't catch you.”

I didn't know what he meant. When the train stopped, I hopped down and landed smack into a cop. Before I could say anything or do anything, he grabbed me.

“That's far enough, bub!”

“But I got to get on the train,” I tried to explain, as if he were listening. The train pulled out without me, and the cop ordered me to git or he'd put me behind bars. I watched the train rumble into the distance, and when its sounds were gone I crossed the tracks and began walking in the silent countryside. I didn't have any idea where I was so I followed the tracks hoping another train would come along before the day was up. When it grew dark, I slept in the weeds with the crickets. I awoke when I heard the whistle of a train. It was going north so I knew I had to get on it.

Remembering Small's instructions, I ran alongside the cars, but they were going a lot faster than the other time. Groaning, I grabbed the handhold, threw my body out and hung on for dear life. Finally, I got my legs under me, and my feet touched the rungs of the ladder. I had made it. I climbed up to the top of the ladder and got on the roof of the boxcar and sat down. I didn't know what was shaking more—me or the train. After a while, though, I began to feel pretty good up there, and I began to sing and clap as the train clacked along. It wasn't long before I heard someone shout and, startled, I looked down into a white man's face. “Hey you!” he called. “Git offa the roof!”

I must have looked horrified because the man shouted, “I ain't no cop!”

He waved his arms at me. “Git offa the roof!” He beckoned me down and I crawled onto the ladder on the side of the car and made my way to the empty coal car in front of us.

“Look!” the man pointed. We were entering a tunnel. I would have been killed if I had been sitting on the roof. There was no headroom. “Got a rag or somethin?” the mysterious man asked. “Yeah,” I answered, pulling a handkerchief Margie had sent me from my pocket. “Cover your face. You'll strangle to death in the smoke if you don't.”

At Atlanta I jumped out of the coal car and my new friend pointed out the next train I needed to hop. “It'll take you to Knoxville. From there, catch the train to Cincinnati. Then you're on your own.” I was grateful to him, but before I got a chance to thank him, he was gone.

I made it to Knoxville—cold, exhausted, dirty, and hungry, and without a penny to my name.

I got confused at the train yard and couldn't find the train to Cincinnati. I walked up and down the tracks ducking behind cars every time I saw someone coming. It soon became clear to me that I wasn't going to find the train to Cincinnati, and there was nothing to do but find something to eat and somewhere to sleep in Knoxville.

Tumble-down shacks and heaps of old junk spread along the train yard edge. I looked beyond at the Smoky Mountains in the distance, beautiful and blue in the grey sky. The downtown district was hilly with narrow streets and low buildings. As I climbed and dipped with the hills, I could see church spires reaching upward behind the hills and along the building tops. I found a small park and stretched out on the grass. It was two weeks before I got back to the train yard.

Panhandling, bumming, cooking outside over an open fire, sleeping on the grass in the park until the police kicked me out, and then dropping to sleep in doorways, back alleys, and empty lots was the way I spent those two weeks.

Then one rainy afternoon I met a fuzzy-faced old hobo huddled under a tree in the park. We got to talking. “Yeah-suh,” he drawled, “ah reckon ah'm goin' to take me a trip to Cincie.”

I was overjoyed. “If yoll wouldn't be mindin, I'd like to tarry along with yoll.” We headed for the train yard in the rain and hopped the right train with no trouble. The ride was smooth going all the way. I slept that night in some wet weeds on a bank of the Ohio River and the next morning hopped the freight to Bellaire.

When I arrived in Bellaire, I didn't know where to go to find Small, but I did remember he lived on Noble Street, where we sent our boxes. That was all I knew. I began to walk. I asked directions from several people, and I wearied myself trying to figure them out. “Lord, show me the place,” I prayed. Finally, I found myself standing in front of a two-story brick house with tall hedges around it. I stared up at it. This was Noble Street. I might as well start here. I walked up the stairs and rang the bell. A middle-aged, brown-skinned woman, grey hair smoothed into two buns on either side of her face, answered.

“Afternoon, Ma'am, I'm coming from Seneca Junior College, and I'm a friend of Luke Small—”

“A friend of Luke's!” the woman exclaimed. “Come in! Come in!” The Lord had answered my prayer. The woman took my arm and ushered me into a small, cozy living room. “Nancy! Come on in here.” A young, pretty woman hurried into the room, her eyes wide, a little smile on her lips.

“How is Luke? Is he with you?” the older woman asked.

I stared back dumbly. “He ain't here yet? We left school together nearly three weeks ago. I lost him before we got to Atlanta.”

A little boy about three years old bounced into the hallway and stood grinning at me from the door. The older woman smiled. “This is Eddie,” she said. “Luke's son. Eddie will be so happy to see his daddy again.” Then, indicating the young woman, she said, “This is Nancy, Luke's wife. I'm sure Luke has told you all about
her.
” Then laughing she added, “And I'm Luke's mother.”

I stared at Luke's wife, my mouth hanging open dumbly. “I'm uh—Robert. Robert Sadler, Ma'am.”

Luke, you dog!

They fluttered around me asking questions about their Luke, and I just kept staring at his lovely little wife in amazement. Small's son pulled at my pant leg and grinned up at me, wanting to play.