Let the Circle Be Unbroken (39 page)

A few minutes later when we were in the car and going down the trail, I whispered, “I seen Russell kiss you.”

Suzella glanced at me, a bit embarrassed. “It didn’t mean anything.”

I stared at her.

“Really,” she protested.

“You say so,” I said, letting her have her way about it.

As we pulled into the road, we saw Dubé Cross up ahead and Cousin Bud offered him a ride. Dubé hopped gratefully into the backseat with Suzella and me; he was headed over to the Harrison plantation. I told him about the visit from Mr. Sutton and Mr. Simms and what they had said about Mr. Wheeler’s being back. Dubé, however, claimed he didn’t know anything about Morris Wheeler. “I-I-I ain’t seen him,” he said earnestly enough, though I had my doubts about the truthfulness of his statement. “Th-th-they here, they must bbbb-be hidin’.”

“You sure you ain’t seen him?” I questioned. “Thought y’all was so close.”

“I-I-I jus’ helped ’em out s-s-sometime. I-I—” He stopped and stared out the side window. “Uh-oh! Th-there that Stuart.”

Coming toward the crossroads from the north was Joe Billy Montier’s car. We could see two other men in the car and figured they were Stuart Walker and Pierceson Wells.

Cousin Bud slowed, then turned onto the Granger Road. I kept my eyes on Joe Billy’s car as it picked up speed; I didn’t like the feel of it.

Joe Billy honked at us and Cousin Bud slowed down.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t stop.”

Cousin Bud looked in the rear view mirror at the car. “Ain’t gonna stop. Think they just wanna pass.”

Joe Billy’s car was now at our tail. Cousin Bud pulled
over to let them pass. They pulled along beside us. “Say, boy!” Stuart hollered from the front passenger seat. “Pull over a second! We wanna talk to ya!”

“Please, Cousin Bud, don’t,” I said. “I got me a feeling. Them boys, they up to no good. Dubé, you tell him.”

“C-C-Cassie, she most likely r-r-right. B-b-better speed on up.”

Cousin Bud glanced over at Stuart. “It’s probably nothing, I don’t make it anything. I’d better stop.”

He slowed to a stop and a nagging remembrance told me he was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

Joe Billy stopped as well, and Stuart and Pierceson Wells got out. Pierceson walked around to the other side of the car and put his foot on the front bumper. Stuart came over to Cousin Bud’s window and peeped inside; his eyes rested on Suzella. “Say, Suzella,” he said, “I hear your father’s here. This him?”

Suzella blanched and nodded.

Stuart stepped back from the car. “Well, well. So this is the boy who sired a pretty thing like you.”

Cousin Bud gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead.

“He don’t look quite light enough to me.” Stuart looked over at Joe Billy, then Pierceson. “What ’bout y’all?”

“Not that I can see,” Pierceson replied. Joe Billy did not answer.

Stuart laughed. “Ya know, this gal of yours, she pulled a pretty good one on me a while back. Had me thinking she was white. Had me bowing and scraping to her like she was a lady. . . . Yeah . . . I won’t be forgetting that.” His eyes settled on Suzella, lingering too long. She crimsoned as he stared, but did not look away. Finally Stuart stepped back and motioned Cousin Bud out of the car. “Get on out and let’s take a look at you.”

Joe Billy stepped from his car and came closer. Cousin Bud, his hands still gripping the wheel, looked over his shoulder at Suzella.

“Move, boy!” snapped Pierceson.

Cousin Bud released the wheel and got out. Dubé opened his door to get out as well, but Pierceson stopped him. “You, boy, you stay put now.”

Stuart circled Cousin Bud to inspect him. “Don’t look no lighter out here to me than he did inside,” he decided.

“Maybe it’s the sun got him so dark,” suggested Pierceson. “Probably he real light-skinned under that fine suit he got on. Maybe he need to just take that off.”

“Maybe so,” Stuart agreed.

“Please . . .” said Cousin Bud. “My daughter—”

“Now that’s just what we trying to find out . . . ’bout your daughter. Why she look so much like she white. Can you tell us why?”

Cousin Bud, as chilly as it was, began to sweat.

“Well, what you say, boy?”

“Her mother . . . she—she’s real light-skinned—”

“Yeah, now that’s just what we heard. Heard in fact she’s so light, she’s white. Now what you say ’bout that? You been bedding a white woman?”

“No, sir, I . . . it’s a colored girl’s Suzella’s mother.”

“Way I hear it,” Stuart continued, “up in New York they ’lows most anything. Even niggers wedding white women. You hear that too, Pierce?”

Pierceson nodded. “Yep, heard that too.”

Stuart turned back to Cousin Bud. “You hear that, boy?”

Cousin Bud swallowed hard, his eyes cast to the ground.

“Tell me, you ever sleep with a white woman?” Stuart taunted. “Ever want to? Huh? Bet you did. Don’t be scared. You can tell me.”

“You white trash. Leave him alone.”

There was a moment when nothing moved and nothing was said. Then slowly Stuart turned and stared in silence at Suzella. I waited, unable to breathe. Finally, very quietly, Stuart said: “You might look like you white, gal, but you best remember you ain’t. You vex me today and I’m gonna take you outa that car too.”

Suzella met his gaze and did not look away. “Don’t you hurt him. I mean that . . . don’t you hurt him.” Her voice was calm, yet threatening, and Stuart seemed not to know how to react to it. He started toward her.

Joe Billy moved forward quickly and grabbed his arm. “Ah, come on now, Stuart, this done gone far enough now—”

“I say what we oughta do is make the nigger strip,” said Pierceson.

Suzella leaned forward to protest, but Cousin Bud hissed sharply, “Hush, Suzella! Hush!”

Stuart took a deep breath and pulled his arm from Joe Billy’s grasp. He kept his eyes on Suzella a moment longer, then turned to Cousin Bud. “That’s an idea, Pierceson. We’ll see jus’ how light the nigger is. . . . All right, nigger, go ’head. Get them clothes off.”

Cousin Bud looked stunned. “Please, sirs, don’t make me do that. My daughter, the children—”

“But look here, can’t you see it’s for your own good? You light as you claim you are under all that clothing, we’ll have to believe what you say ’bout that gal’s mama. Go on now. Do like yon told—”

“Stuart, for God’s sake!” objected Joe Billy. “He’ll catch his death of cold out here!”

Stuart turned on him angrily. “You jus’ shut your mouth, Joe Billy. You ain’t got the stomach for this, then get back
in the car. As for me, I’m gonna find out ’bout this nigger—you heard me, boy. Get them clothes off!”

Cousin Bud’s whole body trembled. “Please,” he pleaded. “Not in front of my daughter—”

Stuart’s hand lashed out and struck Cousin Bud across the face.

“Oh, God!” Suzella cried and opened the car door. Before she could get out, Joe Billy slammed it shut. “Stay there,” he ordered.

Dubé leapt from the other side of the car. “P-p-please, Mr. Stuart—” He didn’t finish; Pierceson punched him hard in the stomach and Dubé fell to his knees.

“Dubé!” we cried from the car. Stunned, we gazed on as Pierceson grabbed Dubé and, pulling him up, slung him hard against the hood and twisted his left arm back to hold him. Blood spurted from Dubé’s nose and I felt the knot of fear tighten within me.

“All right,” Stuart said to Cousin Bud, “I’m waiting. Get them clothes off.”

Trembling, Cousin Bud took off his tie.

“Bet you strip a whole lot faster’n that when you got some gal waiting for you.” He laughed obscenely.

Cousin Bud glanced around at Suzella, then took off his coat, then his shirt.

“Get that undershirt off.”

Cousin Bud complied.

Stuart again walked around him as if examining a prime steer. “What you think, Pierce?”

Pierceson shrugged. “Still can’t tell. I think we’d better see his legs.”

Stuart nodded. “You heard him, boy. Take off them pants.”

“Please, just let me go down in the woods there—”

“Get ’em off!”

Cousin Bud did as he was told. He stood there, his back to us, his body shaking with only his shorts left to cover him. I looked away, feeling his humiliation.

“What you say now, nigger?” taunted Stuart. “You ever sleep with a white woman in New York? You know what we do down here to a nigger tries that, don’t you?” Cousin Bud lowered his head and stared at the ground. Stuart grabbed his chin and jerked it upward. “Wants the truth now! This gal’s mama white?”

Suddenly, before I could stop him, Little Man flung open the door and leapt from the car. Skirting Pierceson, he dashed madly up the road toward a wagon which had just appeared on the rise. Mr. Morrison was driving it.

Joe Billy stared at the wagon and turned back to his car. “We’d better go.”

Stuart laughed. “Just ’cause of some nigger in a wagon?”

“If I ain’t mistaken, that ain’t no ordinary nigra. That’s the one folks say broke Dewberry Wallace’s back and put Thurston’s arm in a sling.”

The wagon drew closer. Mr. Morrison, his eyes sure and steady, took in the scene. A few feet from us he stopped and pulled Little Man up beside him. Then he nodded toward Pierceson. “Be obliged you let go of that boy.”

Pierceson looked uncertain.

“Or you want, I’ll get down and you can try holdin’ my arm.”

Pierceson glanced over for Stuart’s approval, and getting no reaction released Dubé

“Uncle,” Stuart said, “you messing in something don’t concern you and I ain’t gonna hold for it, not from no—”

“Mr. Rankin, get your clothes on.”

“Nigger, look here now—”

“That y’all’s car there, then it be best y’all get in it and get on home and let us do the same.” Mr. Morrison’s voice was soft and quiet, as always, but the unspoken threat hung over the still forest.

Joe Billy got in. “Come on, Stuart,” he said.

Stuart stood in a rage, not moving, as he glared up at Mr. Morrison.

“I said come on!”

Stuart turned, then looked back again and pointed a finger at Mr. Morrison. “I ain’t gonna forget this!”

“I ain’t either,” said Mr. Morrison.

There seemed nothing else to say. Stuart got in the car; Pierceson followed him, slamming the back door angrily. Joe Billy turned the car around and drove off. Mr. Morrison waited until they could no longer be seen and spoke once again to Cousin Bud. “Mr. Rankin, put your clothes on and we’ll get on home.”

Cousin Bud nodded and reached for his clothes, but broken with fear, he retched upon them. Mr. Morrison got down from the wagon and, picking up the clothing, led Cousin Bud into the woods. Not knowing what to say, we said nothing while they were gone. In a few minutes they came back.

“Daddy, you all right?” asked Suzella, her face pale, her eyes filled with pain.

“Yeah, baby, I’m fine,” Cousin Bud replied, getting into the car, but his hands shook violently as he reached for the ignition.

“M-M-Mr. Rankin, I-I-I can drive, ya want me t-t-to,” said Dubé, holding the bottom of his shirt to his nose. “He ain’t hurt me n-n-none.”

Without looking at him, Cousin Bud scooted over.

Mr. Morrison, with Little Man beside him, turned the
wagon around and headed home. Silently we followed. Before the car rolled to a stop in the driveway, Cousin Bud got out and went to the outhouse, and when he finally came to the house, he would not look directly at anyone. That evening, before dusk, he and Suzella left for New York.

Little Man pressed his face against the front window, staring out at the misty rain which covered the land, and waited for New Year’s Day to pass. Several times Mama called him from the window and obediently he left it, but after a while he would return to it to stare out once again.

So far the new year had been uneventful. Mr. Wiggins, along with Little Willie and Maynard, had stopped by in the morning, and Big Ma had walked up to the Averys’ to visit, but now we sat, just the family, in front of the fire, not much wanting to leave it and not much wanting company either. Then as the afternoon darkened toward evening and Little Man still stood at the window, he turned suddenly, his
eyes bright, and announced that Mr. Jamison was coming.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Mr. Jamison said, sitting in the chair Uncle Hammer had vacated for him, “but I just heard from the sheriff of a town in Louisiana who had some information about some boys from Mississippi who’d worked a plantation near Baton Rouge.” His eyes swept our anxious faces. “He said there was a possibility one of those boys could have been Stacey.”

The room went silent, our eyes glued to Mr. Jamison.

“Where?” Mama asked breathlessly. “What’s the name of the town?”

“Buford. But I don’t really know that much yet. Mrs. Jamison and I’ve been out of town this whole Christmas week and just got back late last evening. This afternoon I checked my messages and mail at the office, and found a note from my secretary saying that a Sheriff Conroy had called a few days back about the letter we sent.”

Papa leaned forward. “You get a chance to talk to him?”

“I tried calling, but it being New Year’s, I couldn’t raise anybody at the jail. Operator said the sheriff would be in tomorrow. Thought, though, that you’d like to know about this as soon as possible.”

“How far is Buford into Louisiana?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s north of Baton Rouge.”

Mama leaned toward Papa. “We could leave now and be in Buford by tomorrow, couldn’t we?”

Before Papa could answer, Mr. Jamison said, “I wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Logan—go there, I mean. Not yet. I think it’d be better if I got a chance to talk to this Sheriff Conroy on the phone and see if those boys are actually there.” He took a moment to clear his throat. “One other thing. I checked with my secretary about the call . . . she said Sheriff Conroy mentioned something about some of the boys who
worked at that plantation being in jail in another county.”

“Jail!”

“Don’t alarm yourselves yet. We don’t even know if Stacey was at that particular plantation. I imagine a good number of Mississippi workers go into Louisiana to chop cane.”

“You say you’ll call tomorrow?”