The Sittin' Up (6 page)

I
was glad when my pocket watch struck twelve. We usually ate a can of beans and crackers for lunch under the walnut tree. That day we went home.

When we got there, Ma was doing her washing in the silver washtub on the back porch.

“Wife, it's hot out-out here. We got plenty of clean clothes.”

“I wanted to see if I could get Mr. Bro. Wiley's shirt a little white for the funeral.”

Papa grabbed Ma's wet hand.

“Let it soak awhile. You need to eat.”

“Did you tell folk that the funeral gonna be Saturday?” Ma asked.

“Yes, I-I did.”

I ate all the neck bones, cabbage, and cornbread that my belly could hold while Ma and Papa talked about the sittin' up. No one in the Low Meadows was buried without a sittin' up. Ma thought it was a sin for folk not to be able to come to the house to eat, to sit around and talk about the dead.

“Bean, your eyes is bigger than your belly. It ain't gonna be nothing left for company.”

Ma's fussing was fine with me. I was full again and it was time to go back to the 'bacco field. Besides, if she was fussing she didn't have time to think about Mr. Bro. Wiley.

She stood in the door and rubbed her big belly as she watched us pull off. Me and Papa went back to the field and worked until six. The womenfolk talked about what they were gonna cook and the menfolk fussed over who should be the pallbearers.

• • •

The Cofields came to our house soon as they changed clothes that evening. I was sitting in the kitchen, eating peach pie with Pole, while Ma and Miss Lottie Pearl made the funeral arrangements at the dining room table. Papa and Mr. Jabo went on the back porch to smoke their pipes and decide who was gonna carry the casket. The kitchen was the best spot for me and Pole to listen to everybody.

“Don't know who-who to pick 'cause every man in the Low Meadows loved Mr. Bro. Wiley. They all feel they got a-a right to carry him to his grave,” Papa told Mr. Jabo.

“Ain't that the truth. The best thing to do is let the Masons carry him like we always do. That way the other men wouldn't think you showing favor.”

Papa blew smoke out his pipe.

“That is-is the right way,” he said. He sounded satisfied that Mr. Jabo had made the decision for him. I didn't know much about the Masons; I just knew they were a group of colored men that had secret meetings once a month. Mr. Bro. Wiley had been the oldest living Mason in the county.

“Pole,” Ma yelled. “You almost a teenager now. Do you reckon you can be a flower girl at the funeral?”

“Yes, ma'am. I would be real proud to carry flowers for Mr. Bro. Wiley,” Pole said as we rushed in the dining room. Her face lit up and she pushed me in the side for a reaction.

“That's real good, Pole.”

“Maybe Ma gonna include me too,” I whispered.

We went back in the kitchen to celebrate. I be doggone if Pole wasn't walking different. Walking like she had won a teddy bear at the state fair. Nobody in the Low Meadows was as sassy as Pole, and being a flower girl just turned her up a notch or two. From that moment on, I knew it was gonna be a long week around my best friend.

“Papa said flower girls walk right behind the casket. Are you gonna be scared to walk behind Mr. Bro. Wiley?” I asked Pole.

“Nope, I would never be scared of Mr. Bro. Wiley. Ma has been a flower girl at a lot of funerals, so she'll tell me what to do.”

Sassy she might be, but I was some kind of proud of Pole.

I laid my fork down so that she could eat the last piece of pie.

“Thank you, Bean.”

After we finished our dessert, Pole and me stayed in the kitchen. Papa and Mr. Jabo went for a walk while the womenfolk talked about what songs would be heard at the funeral.

It wasn't long before there was a knock at the front door.

“Answer the door, children,” Ma yelled.

I just couldn't believe my eyes as I got closer. It was Miss Remie all dressed up in a navy blue suit with matching shoes and bag. Her silver hair was pulled back in a bun and her nose was turned up like our clean front porch did not smell good. Her blue eyes were not kind like Miss Margie's were. I wanted to take a piece of funeral fabric and wipe some of that makeup off her mean-looking face. She was holding a pretty chocolate cake in a glass-cover plate.

“Young man, is your mother home?” she asked.

I was speechless, so Pole answered for me. In all the years Mama had worked for her, she had never stepped foot in our house. Never!

“Miss Magnolia and my mama here, Miss Remie. I'll get them.”

Before Pole could get the womenfolk, they were standing behind us.

“Evening, Miss Remie,” they said.

“Would you like to come in?” Ma asked.

“No, I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am about Mr. Bro. Wiley.”

Miss Remie had no intentions of coming in because her colored driver, Mr. Jack Faison, never even turned the car off.

“Well, thank you. I feel some kinda bad that I can't come to work this week. You know we were all the family Mr. Bro. Wiley had, so the sittin' up is here. Folk been in and out the house since Saturday.”

“Magnolia, you come back when you can. You have ironed enough clothes for me to wear for a year.”

“Yes, ma'am. I didn't want you to think I had lost my mind,” Ma said as we all joined Miss Remie on the porch.

“Now, why would I think that? Death is a horrible thing, even for coloreds. Take all the time you need.”

I could hardly hold my tongue when she said “even for coloreds.” Didn't she know that colored folk have hearts too?

“‘Even for coloreds,'” Miss Lottie Pearl shouted out. Pole got her sassy ways from her mama for sure. Ma pushed Miss Lottie Pearl in the side with her elbow so she would shut up. I wanted to push her in the other side so she would keep talking. Miss Remie's eyes got big like she had never heard a colored person talk smart to her before.

“I brought you a cake that I purchased from Mr. Taylor's grocery just this morning. You can keep the cake plate,” Miss Remie said as she turned her back to us.

“Open the door, Jack,” Miss Remie said to Mr. Jack Faison. She should be shame of herself calling her eighty-year-old colored driver by his first name.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Mr. Faison said as he got out of the car.

“I'll see you next week,” Miss Remie told Ma.

“I thought you said she could take all the time she needed,” Miss Lottie Pearl said as Miss Remie walked faster. That's the reason she could only work in the field. She would run her mouth at every house she tried to work in. They would send her home on the first day.

“Lottie Pearl, stop your mess in front of company,” Ma said.

Miss Lottie Pearl kept on talking.

“And I know you don't want your cake plate because colored folks going to eat from it.”

“I'll be back for the sittin' up,” Mr. Faison managed to say before he drove off with his mad boss.

When they were gone, Ma turned to Miss Lottie Pearl, her hands on her hips.

“Woman, you know good and well I need my job when the sittin' up is over. What is wrong with you?”

“Girl, Miss Remie ain't gonna fire you 'cause ain't nobody gonna put up with her ways.” Then she grabbed the cake from Ma, went back in the house, and headed down the hall.

“Bye, Miss Remie!” we shouted as Ma ran in the house behind Miss Lottie Pearl. We followed them.

“Magnolia, did you hear her calling Mr. Faison by his first name. She ain't got no respect. That man too old for her to call him by his first name,” Miss Lottie Pearl said.

“Never mind that! Where you going with the cake?” Ma asked as we followed the grown folks.

“To feed the chickens, honey.”

Out the back door she went. Me and Pole ran outside and looked on in horror.

“Lottie Pearl, you best not throw that cake aw—” Before Ma could finish her sentence, the chickens were having dessert.

“Sister, that ain't the way to act in front of the children.”

“Tell them to close their eyes,” Miss Lottie Pearl shouted. She was still holding the cake plate in her hand and spreading the cake out on the ground with her foot.

“There! Even coloreds know how to serve a chicken.” Then she dropped the cake plate and the top on the ground.

“Pole, fill the top up with water. The chickens need a drink.”

Pole went on the back porch and started pumping a jug of water.

“I'll help you,” I said, following Pole.

Ma was so mad at Miss Lottie Pearl that she threw her hands up in the air and went in the house.

Miss Lottie Pearl screamed with laughter. Then she stopped her mess and fixed her eyes on me and Pole as we filled the cake plate top with water.

“Children, my way is not always right, but don't let nobody tell you that you ain't as good as the next person. White folk think we don't even have the right to grieve our dead.”

A
s soon as we knocked off work Tuesday the sittin' up started. The Cofields were the first to arrive again. Miss Lottie Pearl was still carrying on about Miss Remie acting ugly the day before. Truth be told, folk welcomed Miss Lottie Pearl's laughter in our house that was filled with grief.

“I just want to see Miss Remie again. I am gonna tell her off some more,” Miss Lottie Pearl boasted. Around nine Mr. Jabo finally got tired of his wife's mouth, so he saved the whole neighborhood from one more story.

“Well, Lottie Pearl, you know you left them butter beans soaking. Let's head on home.” Off they went with Pole laughing at how Mr. Jabo tricked his wife away from the sittin' up.

Wednesday was a sad day for us. Before leaving for the 'bacco field, Papa started going through Mr. Bro. Wiley's clothes to take to Mr. Gordon. He laid out Mr. Bro. Wiley's black suit along with his shoes and socks on his bed. Ma placed his shirt that she had washed until it was as white as snow 'side his other belongings.

“Where we going, Papa?” I asked when he turned towards Ole River instead of heading home after work.

“To-to Mr. Bro. Wiley's house.”

That was my first visit to the river since death had come.

The truck brakes made a loud noise when Papa stopped, but not loud enough to cover the sound of his crying. I had never wanted to scream so bad before in my life.

“Why did we come here?” I asked.

“Need to-to get his Mason pin. Mr. Bro. Wiley brought his clothes to our house, but he left his pin down here with all of the things he-he loved so much. I got to knock off work early tomorrow to take his stuff to Mr. Gordon.”

I knew better than to ask Papa anything about the Mason organization that he and half the coloreds in town belonged to.

When we got inside, Papa started searching the house. There really wasn't a lot to see in the two rooms that smelled like mothballs. Just a kitchen and the bedroom where Mr. Bro. Wiley said he was born in.

I sat on the wooden bed next to the milk crate where Mr. Bro. Wiley had placed a picture and a lantern. The house was not strange to Papa because the Masons had meetings there all the time.

“That-that is Mr. Bro. Wiley's mama. He told me Mr. Thomas gave him that picture. He found it when he was packing up to leave the Low Meadows.”

It was hard to believe that I was holding a picture of the woman that brought Mr. Bro. Wiley into the world. I touched her face. She was dark and pretty. Her head was wrapped in a rag and there was no smile on her face, just sadness. She just had to be good and kind to be Mr. Bro. Wiley's mama. In my heart I knew he came from a good woman for sure. While I was looking at the picture, I noticed a piece of paper tucked in between the frame and the glass.

“Can I open the back of the picture?”

“Go-go ahead, Son. I don't reckon Mr. Bro. Wiley would have minded at all.”

As I opened the back of the picture, his Mason pin fell out.

“That's what I-I need,” Papa said as he picked the pin up and placed it in his pocket.

Behind the glass was a list of names with prices next to each one. I realized quicker than a rooster could crow what I had in my hands. My history teacher, Mr. Pellam, had shown us slave papers in books at school. The numbers were the cost of Mr. Bro. Wiley's family. The price they were bought and sold for.

My eyes scrolled down the list.

There!

“Property of Thomas Wiley Sr. A baby boy named George Lewis Wiley, born July 5, 1840, $500.00,” I read as Papa looked over my shoulder. He could barely read but he understood what we were looking at.

“Bean, I want you to keep them papers. Mr. Bro. Wiley would surely want you to have them. Take-take care of them. Let them be a reminder to you of how blessed you are to be born free.”

“Thank you, Papa. I believe I will take the picture too. I don't want to leave his ma down here since Mr. Bro. Wiley ain't coming back to visit her.”

Putting the picture under my arm, I folded the slave paper and put it carefully in my pocket.

The gust of wind ran across my face again. Papa jumped.

“You felt it, didn't you?” I asked.

“I-I did! Mr. Bro. Wiley done come back to visit us before we put his body in the ground.”

“Sure have, Papa. Sure have.”