The Sittin' Up (5 page)

While she was waving, I remembered what Miss Lottie Pearl told us to ask Mrs. Gordon.

“Mrs. Gordon, Papa forgot to tell you that Miss Lottie Pearl would like for you to call up to Chicago to let the white folk know that Mr. Bro. Wiley dead. She want them to get word to Willie as soon as possible.”

“You tell Lottie Pearl that I will do it today and for her not to worry.”

“Hop in, Bean. We-we riding home with Mr. Gordon. I'll come back for Mule Bennett before the sun goes down,” Papa said.

“Okay, Papa, and I told Miss Gordon what to tell Willie's boss.” I said it with pride because I remembered. Then I looked at the hearse.

“We riding in the dead folks' car?”

“No, son, in my car,” Mr. Gordon said. “The hearse is to bring the body back to town.”

I couldn't believe it. I had never been in a new car before. I rode in Mr. Thomas's work truck all the time and Uncle Goat's car even though it broke down once a week. Mr. Gordon held the back door of his Ford for me—and just for a moment, I was a king. I looked at the silver dashboard with the nice radio. I could smell the black leather. I rubbed my hand on the seat. It was soft as butter.

Mr. Gordon winked at Papa. He was grown and he could wink all he pleased, but I was as happy as a tick on a dog.

The rest of the coloreds might be in a Depression but judging from his car I could tell Mr. Gordon wasn't hurting for money. Papa always said folk ain't gonna stop dying, so Mr. Gordon won't run out of money.

TJ and LJ followed us in the hearse. Folk walking and driving on Main Street slowed down for the funeral car out of respect. The colored women downtown shopping for the white folk waved.

Mama's friend and Mrs. Carter's maid, Miss Lillian, yelled out to Papa: “Iz Mr. Bro. Wiley gone?” She had enough smarts to know that was the only reason Papa would be with Mr. Gordon that early in the mornin'.

“He is gone,” Papa said without yelling but loud enough for Miss Lillian to hear him. The womenfolk began to weep and the menfolk tipped their hats.

The white folk lowered their heads like they were saying a prayer. If they cared about any one colored from the Low Meadows, I reckon it was Mr. Bro. Wiley.

“Papa, the white folk look sad too.”

“They-they sad for sure, child. Mr. Bro. Wiley was a good man. He somehow made people forget the color of his skin with his-his words of wisdom and love.”

“I wonder if they love him?”

“I don't know if they loved him, but he had earned their respect.”

“Sometimes respect is all a colored man will get in this town, son,” Mr. Gordon added before making a sharp left onto Low Meadows Lane.

Papa was watching me in the rearview mirror. He reached in the backseat and patted me on the knee. I cried. Not out loud. I cried inside my heart for the slave man who loved everybody, helped everybody, and taught us all something.

Mr. Bro. Wiley always said, “The young are strong, but the old know the way.” Who was gonna show us the way now?

Who?

M
a was standing on the front porch when we pulled into the yard. Miss Lottie Pearl was beside her along with half of the Low Meadows folk who sharecropped for Thomas Wiley. All the menfolk were lined up like soldiers on the right side of the door and the women on the left side. Pole stood with the womenfolk. I wondered if Mr. Thomas Wiley was on the way. Surely someone in town told him that death had come for Mr. Bro. Wiley.

Maybe it didn't really matter where Mr. Thomas Wiley was. The people who loved our friend the most were with us. They had known Mr. Bro. Wiley all their lives. People who hadn't lived no place but the Low Meadows stood in sorrow. They knew the land they stood on. Land their slave ancestors worked until their fingers bled.

“We ain't slaves, but sharecropping is still a part of our soul that ain't free,” Mr. Bro. Wiley told me and Pole last fall while we were fishing.

“How so?” Pole asked.

“'Cause, child, by the time Thomas Wiley loans folk money, food, and a place to live all year, he still has his boot on their neck.”

“Wonder why the Wileys gave you that log cabin and make everybody else pay rent?” Pole asked.

“Guilt, child. I remind them of their evil. I am the last former slave in this county,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said.

“You free from all that mess now,” I thought to myself as I looked at the Low Meadows folks.

Me, Papa, and Mr. Gordon got out the car and stood for a minute. We just looked at all the love on our porch. Mr. Gordon put on his white gloves and opened the back door to the hearse so that TJ and LJ could pull the casket out. Then Papa, Mr. Jabo, and men from the funeral home walked up the steps carrying the empty brown casket. I headed towards Ma till Papa said, “Stand-stand with the men today, Bean. Stand with the men.”

I crossed the porch. Deacon Ward and Miss Katie Lou's boy, Ralph, who was fourteen, held my shoulder when I joined the men. Ralph was only two years and a month older than me, but he always acted like a man. I reckon 'cause he stopped school in the sixth grade and worked in the field. Papa didn't think much of Deacon Ward letting Ralph quit school. He said we would never be so poor that I couldn't get an education.

Pole and Miss Lottie Pearl had their arms wrapped around Ma for support.

The menfolk were in the house about fifteen minutes before we heard them coming back to the porch. Pole opened the door. The Low Meadows menfolk tipped their straw hats as the women began to sing. Miss Katie Lou led the hymn.

“
I woke up this morning with my mind straight on Jesus. I woke up this morning with my mind straight on Jesus,
” they sang.

“I did the best I could for you, Bro. Wiley!” Ma cried. Miss Lottie Pearl held Ma back with both hands to keep her from climbing into the hearse. Ma knew good and well that was no way to carry on in front of that dignified man, but her heart was broken. She didn't seem to care. When Papa and Mr. Jabo finished helping get the casket inside the hearse, Papa came over and held her real tight. The same gust of wind I felt when Mr. Bro. Wiley took his last breath came across me again. I wondered if anyone else felt it. I didn't say a word. Just whispered a good-bye from my heart.

While TJ and LJ closed the doors of the hearse, Mr. Gordon placed a white plastic flower on the door. Ma turned her head. She couldn't stand the sight of “the flower of death.”

As soon as Mr. Gordon drove off, Ma fell down on her knees. He was taking away the only daddy she had left on earth. The womenfolk got to shouting all over the porch. The menfolk said, “Amen.” Me, Ralph, and Pole ran to the end of the path to watch the hearse head up the road for as long as we could.

“Bye, Mr. Bro. Wiley,” Pole said.

“He can't hear us, girl,” Ralph told her, like he didn't know she was smarter than both of us put together.

“I don't care that he can't hear anymore. Now tell him good-bye,” Pole insisted.

“Bye, Mr. Bro. Wiley,” me and Ralph singsonged. We knew better than to argue with Pole.

“Farewell, Mr. Bro. Wiley.” I could not believe my ears. It was Mr. Thomas's boy Christian standing at the end of his path. His face was as red as a beet.

“Hey, Mr. Christian,” Pole said, with me and Ralph echoing.

“Afternoon,” he said. Then he was gone as fast as he had appeared. I was surprised that he said a word because Mr. Christian never spoke to colored folks except Mr. Bro. Wiley. Folks say he almost drowned down at the river when he was a boy. Mr. Bro. Wiley heard him screaming and grabbed his little prejudice hind part out of the water.

After Mr. Gordon was out of sight, all the menfolk went off to do their Saturday chores—all except Papa. He went in the house to try to mend Ma's broken heart. Ralph went with his papa into town on horseback to get Mule Bennett. There was no need to go back to the field because it was almost noon. The women went home to get their pots going as they talked about who would cook what for the sittin' up that would start after church the next day and last a whole week. Miss Lottie Pearl went inside Mr. Bro. Wiley's room and took the death sheets off the bed. Me and Pole stood in the hallway and watched.

“What in the world we gonna do without him?” she said to Ma as they sat on the bare mattress, while Papa fanned his wife.

“We gonna give Mr. Bro. Wiley the kind of sittin' up he deserves before we take him down to the riverbank.”

They cried something awful.

J
ust like Mr. Bro. Wiley, Saturday passed away. We didn't go to church come Sunday. Papa said it was all right not to go to the Lord's house 'cause Ma was tore up with grief. Instead we sat around the house and collected food from the neighbors for the sittin' up. Miss Lottie Pearl was the first to arrive. You could smell her chicken potpie before she opened the door. Mr. Jabo was carrying a wooden box filled with pies that Pole told me her mama stayed up all night baking. I was some kind of glad to see my friend when she came in with her folks, carrying a pitcher of tea. I wanted to see how she was doing.

She had pulled herself together and managed to smile.

It wasn't long before our neighbor Miss Dora Mae, who lived across the road, came with some cabbage and white potatoes. Miss Moszella brought cornbread that she left in the skillet too long. The two women were best friends. Neither one had a husband, so they lived together. Both ladies had to be well into their seventies, but Miss Dora Mae could pick more cotton than the average man. Miss Moszella had 400 pounds on her bones, so she could not work in the fields. Mr. Thomas's wife, Miss Lilly, liked her sewing, so they let her live in the Low Meadows just like any field hands.

By three o'clock, you couldn't see the kitchen or dining room tables. We had a mess of sweet potato pies, peach cobbler, lemon pies, and green beans.

“I ain't never seen this much food in all my days,” Pole said.

“Me neither, Pole. I wonder when we get to eat.”

“I don't know, but I sure am hungry.” Then her stomach made a noise like a student rubbing their nails on the chalkboard at school.

Pole was so ladylike that her belly making a noise embarrassed her. She disappeared into the kitchen with the women. I watched over the food and thought about how much folk loved Mr. Bro. Wiley. Even in hard times they were cooking food to help us pay respect to our friend. I wondered how folk would eat the next week.

“If there is a heaven and I know there is, Mr. Bro. Wiley is surely there,” Miss Dora Mae told Miss Rose, who lived over on Bryantown Road.

“Yes, Lord. He is surely in heaven,” Miss Pottie agreed. She'd come over riding her black horse bareback like she was straight out of a cowboy movie. That kind of talk went on all evening. When folk weren't talking, they were eating. After the grown folk fixed their plates, me and Pole ate.

In between eating, one of the grown folk would tell a story about Mr. Bro. Wiley.

Miss Pottie was a happy woman, so she told happy stories.

“Y'all remember that time Mr. Bro. Wiley got mad at Goat for lying on Bean. Goat knew good and well he ate the pecans that Mr. Bro. Wiley and Bean picked up from Slave Grave. When Goat kept denying it, the old man just slammed the door in Goat's face. Locked poor Goat out in the rain.”

“That ain't so,” Goat said, walking in the door, trying to defend himself.

“You lying now, Goat!” Miss Pottie said. The whole room burst out in laughter.

It was nice to hear Low Meadows folk laugh.

• • •

When Monday morning came, I had a bellyache. I reckon everybody in the Low Meadows stomach was hurting. I had to drag myself out of bed and get ready to go to the field. I didn't like it one bit that I had to work during the week of death. If I could stay home from the Lord's house, it seemed to me I should have been able to stay out of the 'bacco field. But Papa said that Mr. Thomas wanted all that 'bacco picked and over in Rocky Mount before Labor Day. Papa was his own man but he always did what Mr. Thomas said. His goal was to keep a roof over our heads and to send me to college. As long as Mr. Thomas showed him respect, he said he could work for him all his days on earth.

Even in grief, Papa made sure everybody knew to be at work Monday morning. Everybody except Ma. It was just about time for her to stop working anyway so the baby could come. It was nothing for a Low Meadows woman to work up until the day the baby was born, but I overheard Papa say he was gonna stop that mess and he was gonna start with Ma.

Wanting to stay home with my mama was not the only reason I was hot under the collar. I was upset because it was the first day of school. Mr. Thomas went out to the schoolhouse and told Mr. Creecy that the Low Meadows children would not be coming to school for another three weeks.

According to Papa, Mr. Creecy said, “Not this year, Thomas. The children can only stay out for a week. That's if you don't want me to report you to the Board of Education up in Jackson.”

Mr. Creecy was gonna stop the colored children from staying home from school to work in the fields if it was the last thing he did. I wanted to be a fly on the wall at the café when Mr. Creecy broke that news to the white folk. Just the thought tickled me as I prepared for work.

“Ma, how am I gonna brush my hair if I can't look in the mirror?” I asked for the second time as she walked down the hall. Knowing I couldn't see myself for a whole week didn't make a lick of sense to me. I had been growing some kind of fast over the summer. Pole had been growing too. Heck, I might grow a whole inch before the funeral and I wouldn't even know it. Suppose my suit britches were too short. I started thinking about how I could sneak over to Stony Hill and look at myself in Pole's mirror. Or maybe I could just run down to Ole River and look at my reflection in the water.

“Did you hear my question, Ma?”

“Yes, Bean. You can feel, can't you? Brush your hair and go on in the kitchen and eat your breakfast.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I followed her into the kitchen, where Papa was sitting at the table having a cup of coffee. I could hardly bear to sit down without seeing Mr. Bro. Wiley across the table from me. I looked at his empty chair.

“Everything gonna be all right,” Papa said.

We prayed. Then we ate in silence.

“Time to go, Bean,” Papa finally said. I stuffed the last biscuit in my mouth. Ma never said a word and she didn't lift her head when we got up to leave. She just kept blowing into Mr. Bro. Wiley's favorite tin cup to cool off her tea. I kissed Ma and ran outside.

Papa wrapped his arm around Mama's shoulders. “Have a-a good morning, Wife. I'll be home to eat with you at noon. Don't touch the-the stove 'cause we got plenty leftovers from yesterday.”

“That be fine, Husband.” We left her sitting at the table with her heart in the tin cup.

“Papa, this is the first time I can ever remember going to the field and Mr. Bro. Wiley wasn't home,” I said as I climbed in the truck.

“That's the-the truth, child. That-that is the gospel truth.” Then Papa turned the radio on. That radio was about as raggedy as the truck. He found the weather channel just as the weatherman started talking about the storm coming at the end of the week. Folk was worried that the river was gonna overrun its banks and we'd have to leave our homes.

“Papa, what we gonna do if the storm comes? How we gonna have the sittin' up?”

“Don't worry-worry about God's work, child. He will make a way. If it rains, people will still come.”

My heart felt better after Papa told me not to worry. The two men I trusted the most in the world was Papa and Mr. Bro. Wiley. If he said not to worry, then it was gonna be all right.

He kept his word to Mr. Thomas Wiley too. By 6:00 a.m., everybody was in the field working. I joined the others while Papa parked the truck. Mr. Jabo was on the red tractor, driving real slow, while the field hands walked behind him cutting the 'bacco off the stalk. He drove slowly so we could throw an armful of 'bacco on the wagon hitched to the tractor. I always had more 'bacco under my arm than Pole. That didn't bother Pole one bit because she never had her mind on the fields.

“Stop rushing, Bean. Our pay is the same. A dollar a day no matter how much tobacco we prime. We should be in school anyway,” she said with her lips poked out.

“I know, Pole. I know. Don't you worry. Mr. Creecy said we'll be in school next week.”

“We sure will. I have no time for the fields.”

That's when I noticed her gloves.

“Girl, do your daddy know you got on his gloves again?”

“He sho' do. My hands for surgery, not priming tobacco. Did you know that colored doctors work as close to us as Raleigh?” Pole said with pride and excitement.

“And lawyers!” I said, to let Pole know that I had dreams too.

“That's right! Lawyers too. Stop rushing in this field.”

Ralph, who was working on the next row, never said a word. He had long given up on school and being anything other than a field hand. Papa was telling the truth about Deacon Ward letting Ralph stop school to work. That wasn't right at all. Looking around in the field made me sad because most of the sharecroppers had only second- and third-grade educations. This is where they'll work for the rest of their lives.

Papa interrupted my thoughts as he walked into the field.

“Can y'all stop priming for a minute. I want to tell you about the-the plans for Mr. Bro. Wiley. We-we gonna have the sittin' up all week and view the body on Friday night at seven. The funeral at one o'clock on Saturday,” Papa said as Mr. Jabo stopped the tractor.

“We will do what we can do to help y'all out,” Mr. Jabo told Papa. The rest of the Low Meadows folk echoed him.

“We sure will,” Miss Lottie Pearl said. Then something came over her. She got to shouting, “Thank you for the life of Mr. Bro. Wiley!”

She stomped her feet so hard that mud flew up as high as the 'bacco.

The other women praised the Lord with her. They carried on for 'bout ten minutes.

“All right, Stanbury,” she said in between tears, “I'll go help Magnolia clean up and write the obituary.”