The Road to Memphis (2 page)

Christopher-John suddenly turned. “Y’all hear that?” he said. “Something’s coming.”

Little Man and I both listened, for Christopher-John had a
keen ear. We heard an engine, but the sound was coming west from the bridge, not from the east. “Wrong direction,” I said. Still, we all looked toward the bridge waiting to see what was coming, and soon a pickup truck appeared. It came up the road and parked in front of the Wallace store. Two young men hopped down from the back, and two others got out of the cab. One of the young men was blond and slight. He was Jeremy Simms. The other three were his cousins, Statler, Troy, and Leon Aames, all brothers. Jeremy glanced across the road at us as he stepped onto the porch of the store and gave a nod. We nodded back. Jeremy was all right, but I wouldn’t have taken a nickel for the other three put together. The four of them went into the store. Still looking at the store, I said, “Hope we get away from here before Statler and them come out messing.”

Christopher-John agreed. Little Man, though, said nothing as he turned moodily away. Little Man had a strong dislike for the Aames brothers as we all did. He was silent for some moments, then looking southward, he said, “That Harris coming up yonder?”

I turned to look and saw a figure lumbering slowly up the road. “Can’t be anybody but Harris,” I quickly noted, for Harris Mitchum could hardly ever be mistaken for anybody else. Harris was a right sizeable boy. The same age as I was, and at about the same height, Harris weighed a good three hundred-fifty pounds. Wearing a pair of giant, baggy overalls and no shirt, he moved awkwardly up the road, dabbing at his face and neck with a dishtowel-sized handkerchief. As he drew closer, we yelled out to him. “’Ey, Harris!”

“’Ey!” he returned. He passed the store and came over to the wagon. “What y’all doin’ here?”

“Waiting on Stacey,” replied Little Man.

“They ain’t come in yet?”

“Bus is late,” I explained. “What you doing here? Figured you’d be in the fields what with all the cotton to pick.”

Harris grinned sheepishly. “I . . . I kinda sneaked off. Too hot to work.”

“Well, you right about that. We left the fields a good two hours ago.”

“You know you lucky, Cassie, No more picking cotton for you after today. You still leaving for school tomorrow, ain’tcha?”

“Tomorrow afternoon sometime. Papa and Mama, they’re going to be driving me up in the truck.”

“Stacey and them, they goin’ back with you then?”

The “them” he spoke of were two of Stacey’s best friends, Moe Turner and Little Willie Wiggins, both of whom were from down here too, but who, like Stacey, now worked in Jackson at the box factory. “How else you think they’re getting back?” I said. “Bus won’t be here again until midweek. Fact, they couldn’t’ve even come home today if Papa wasn’t going to be driving back, not if they’re going to be at work come Monday morning. They took off work today as it is. They’re supposed to work Saturdays.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Harris, stepping away. “Well, I best get on in this store. Gotta get me some shells for my shotgun.”

Little Man’s interest was quickly whetted. “You going hunting?” he asked. Little Man loved to hunt.

“Yeah . . . gonna hunt me some squirrel.”

“When you going?”

“I get me a break from my grandmama, next week sometime. Goin’ huntin’ for coon t’night, though, me and Clarence.” He was silent a moment, then looked at us with anticipation. “Y’all wanna come? Me and Clarence, we done got the traps ready and everything. We could have ourselves a good time.
Stacey and Moe and Willie come, why, it be like old times, ’fore y’all gone t’ Jackson, Cassie. All us huntin’ down on the Rosa Lee . . . ”

“Well, it depends on Stacey and Willie and Moe, what they want to do,” said Little Man, “but I figure they’ll most likely want to come along.”

“Well, y’all let me know.”

“Yeah, sure will.”

Harris gave a wave. “I see y’all in a bit. Bus come and I’m in the store there, tell Stacey and them not t’ get ’way from here ’ fore I holler at ’em.”

As he started across the road I jumped off the wagon and stopped him. “’Ey, Harris! Wait up a minute. I’m going in with you.”

Christopher-John scowled down at me. “Cassie, you know you’re not supposed to be going in that store.”

Yes, I did know that. “I want to find out about that bus. See if those folks in there know something we don’t about what’s keeping it.”

My reason did nothing to quell Christopher-John’s disapproval. “Every time we set foot in there, Cassie, there’s trouble, and we don’t need any more trouble. You know we got no business in that store.”

That was sure enough the truth, all right. Our family and the Wallaces had had more than one run-in. Besides that, long ago Mama and Papa had set the store off limits to us; they didn’t want us going in. Yet, too, more than one time we had defied that ruling. “Don’t worry, won’t be any trouble,” I said as Little Man also got down. Christopher-John, frown lines furrowing, said nothing more as Little Man and I joined Harris and crossed the road to the store. At the steps we heard laughter coming from inside, stopped, and glanced through
the screen doors. We saw the storekeeper, Kaleb Wallace, leaning against a counter doing the talking, and Jeremy Simms, the Aames boys, and some other white men seated at a table drinking soda pop. Everybody in the store was white, and except for Jeremy, we had no good words for them.

Little Man now hesitated. “You know, Cassie, maybe Christopher-John’s right,” he said, calmly assessing the situation without the heat of his sometimes fiery temperament. “Maybe we best not go in, not with Statler and them in there anyway. You know how they like to start messing.”

I glanced back into the store, knowing he was just as right as Christopher-John had been. “But I want to find out about that bus—”

“I’ll find out for ya, Cassie,” Harris volunteered. He had no restrictions set on him about the store. “I gots to go in for my shells anyways.”

“Thanks, Harris. We’ll wait here for you,” I said, and he went on in.

As Harris stepped into the store, Kaleb Wallace glanced over, then paid no more attention to him. Kaleb Wallace was in the middle of telling a story, and despite his new customer, he went on with his story in a most leisurely fashion. Harris didn’t say a word. He just stood at the far end of the counter, away from the others, patiently waiting for Kaleb Wallace to conclude. When the story finally ended, Kaleb Wallace turned to Harris and greeted him. “’Ey, there Harris! What bring you in here, boy? Your Grandma Batie needin’ herself some more snuff already?”

“No, suh,” answered Harris, ignoring Kaleb Wallace’s belittling tone. “Come in for some shells.”

“Shells?”

“Yes, suh. Figures to go huntin’.”

“That a fact? Wheres ’bout?”

“Down ’long the Rosa Lee.”

“Well, what ya huntin’?”

“Squirrel,” said Harris.

“Squirrel?” retorted Kaleb Wallace. “Why, boy, don’t you know it’s coon huntin’ season now!”

“Yes, suh, sho does. Already gots my traps ready to set. We be huntin’ coon t’night—”

Statler Aames let go a laugh, taking a sudden interest in the conversation. “Coon! That’s a good one. Coon huntin’ coon! You ever heard the story ’bout the coon and the monkey, boy?”

There was a pause from Harris before he answered. “N-no, suh, Mr. Statler . . . I don’t believes so.”

“Oh, Lord,” I muttered to Little Man, “he’s about to start up.” Little Man concurred with a nod. Statler Aames and his brothers got a big kick out of teasing colored folks, and for the most part all colored folks could do was stand and take it, for white folks ruled things, and talking back to them with a smart mouth could only get you into big trouble. Hitting one of them could get you killed. That was the way of things.

“Well, seems there was this monkey was hunting this coon,” said Statler, getting on with his story, “and this ole monkey, he chases the coon up a tree. Then he gets the coon cornered, but he ain’t been able to get his hands on him. ’Stead, the coon, he shines a light on the monkey and says, you lookin’ for me? And the monkey, he says, yeah, I’m lookin’ for you all right, and see I done got ya too. And the coon, he says, well, come on up! Well, then the coon, he turns off the flashlight, and the monkey, he hurries after him. When he gets to the top of the tree, he hollers to the coon, where are ya, coon? And the coon, he shines a light on the monkey, and the monkey looks down and sees that ole coon is out the tree and standing
on the ground. And the coon says, I guess it’s true what folks say. And what’s that? asks the monkey. And the coon, he says, monkey see, monkey do!” With that Statler howled with laughter; so did Leon and Troy, Kaleb Wallace, and the other men, all except Jeremy Simms, who fingered his soda bottle and looked down solemnly at the table. Harris smiled politely. Then Statler said to Harris, “Now, just which one are you, boy? The monkey or the coon?”

Harris grinned awkwardly and stepped away from the counter. Statler laughed again and didn’t press him to answer. But Kaleb Wallace said, “Where you goin’, Harris? You ain’t yet got your shells.”

Harris apologized. “No, suh, I guess I ain’t,” he said, and stepped back to the counter. Kaleb Wallace got the shells, and Harris thanked him, paid for them, and turned to leave. He got as far as the door, then Statler started in on him again.

“’Ey, fat boy!” he called. “You sure you wanna be huntin’ coon, hot as it is?”

Harris looked around. “Gets hungry, Mr. Statler, no matter what the weather.”

“Yeah, well, we can tell that. See you got a mighty fine appetite there.”

Harris nodded in silent agreement and again turned away.

“Boy!” Statler got up and stepped toward him. “Ya know, my brothers and my cousin here, we been thinkin’ on doin’ some huntin’ ourselves tonight. How’d you like to join us?”

Harris looked baffled at the invitation. “Well, suh, that’s kindly of ya, but Clarence Hopkins and me, we was gonna go down to the Rosa Lee—”

“Clarence and you, huh? You sayin’ you ain’t wantin’ to hunt with us?”

I knew Statler was only teasing. Maybe Harris knew it,
too, yet he looked cautiously around at the others before he replied, and when he did, fear was in his voice. “Why—why, no, suh, I ain’t sayin’ that—”

“I find that insultin’.”

“Why, no, suh . . . ain’t meant it t’ be. I was jus’ sayin’—”

“Or maybe you too dumb to know when you insultin’ somebody. Listenin’ to you here, I’m thinkin’ maybe you make a better monkey than a coon. Seem like to me you a bit too dumb to make a good coon. I’m figurin’ a coon’s too smart for you, boy. But you tell me, Harris, which one you figure you be?”

Harris stared at Statler in fearful silence, his mouth agape.

“Well, answer me, boy!”

“I—I—”

“He can’t answer, Stat,” said Leon, grinning, “maybe he can show ya.”

Statler smiled at the suggestion. “Yeah . . . yeah, that’s an idea, all right. Harris, go ’head and show us how good a monkey you can be. Show us how a monkey act.”

Poor Harris just stood there with his bag of shells, not knowing what to do. Little Man looked at me and I looked at him and we were uncertain what we could do to help Harris. But then Jeremy got up and said, “Ah, Stat, leave him be.”

Statler turned. “What you say there, Cousin?”

“Said . . . said, leave him be. He ain’t done nothing. Harris, you go on.”

Harris looked from Jeremy to Statler and waited for Statler’s approval. Statler silently studied Jeremy, then said, “How come you always defending niggers, Jeremy?”

Jeremy shook his head. “I—I ain’t defendin’ him. He just wasn’t doin’ nothin’. Just figure you oughta let him go on and leave.”

Statler stared long at Jeremy, then gave Harris a nod. “All right, boy, you go on.”

Harris gratefully hurried out, passed Little Man and me, and crossed the road to the wagon. We followed. Christopher-John took note of our faces and got down. “What is it?” he asked, but Harris didn’t answer. So I did.

“Statler Aames and them were in there messing with Harris,” I told him. “Somebody needs to knock him out!”

“Wish it could be me,” said Little Man vengefully, then slammed the flat of his hand against the side of the wagon.

“It . . . it don’t matter,” said Harris, shrugging off the humiliation. “He ain’t meant nothin’.”

“He’d’ve meant something if you’d’ve talked back to him!” I surmised.

“Cassie,” said Christopher-John, shaking his head in sympathetic admonishment for Harris.

I looked at him and was quiet. I knew he was right. Again. Harris probably was feeling bad enough without hearing from me.

Harris looked meekly at me in apology. “I . . . I’m sorry I ain’t found out ’bout the bus, Cassie.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” I said with a sigh. “They probably didn’t know anything anyway.”

“Jeremy, he wasn’t messing, was he?” asked Christopher-John as Jeremy came out onto the porch.

Harris looked over. “Naw. He don’t never mess.”

We watched Jeremy speak to the ruddy-faced travelers, then start across the road toward us. As he neared, Harris stepped around to the other side of the wagon.

“How y’all doin’?” asked Jeremy, joining us.

“All right. Yourself?” we said.

“All right, I ’spect, ’ceptin’ for this heat.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his neck. He looked at the wagon. “Y’all here pickin’ up a load?”

“We waiting on Stacey,” said Little Man.

“Stacey? He coming in from Jackson?”

“S’pose to be. Got a letter from him the other day, and he said he was. Little Willie and Moe coming, too, but the bus is late.”

“Well, it most times is.”

I turned, disgusted at that same fact being pointed out. “Anybody say anything inside about how come it’s late?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Don’t figure there’s cause for worry, though.”

“Suppose not.”

He glanced up the road, as if expecting the bus any minute, then looked again at me. “You going back to Jackson with Stacey this time, Cassie?”

“Suppose to.”

“‘Spect you lookin’ forward to it.”

I shrugged. “Not all that much. I get homesick way up there in Jackson.”