An Elderberry Fall (20 page)

“I don't think so, ma'am,” I answered her.

“Why not?” she asked, in an insisting tone, and added, “It's a good living.”

“No, ma'am, not to me.”

“Most colored children love to cook,” Mrs. Ferguson continued as if she were an authority on colored folks.

Momma didn't mumble a sound; I cringed, bit my bottom lip and inhaled as deeply as I could.

“Chile, go on into the bedroom and do your homework,” Momma said in a serious tone. She could sense my rage.

“I'm finished,” I responded.

She cut her eyes at me, and fear washed over me. “Go on back there and read over your work again,” she instructed.

I tucked my head and went into my room, but not before cutting my eyes across the table in Mrs. Ferguson's direction, and hoping she would go home. She was a lady I truly despised. Her manner of looking down her nose at me and Momma shattered my nerves—the gall of her.

Mrs. Hall was different. She knew about the challenges of the Negro. Falling in love with Mr. Hall in a time when colored men were being murdered for even looking at a white woman in the face was a controversial decision. Mr. Hall was blessed to be still living. Even in the 1920s, colored men were not supposed to be bothered with white women. They were just trouble, some of the ole-timers would shout. After Momma's warm welcome, Mrs. Hall was no longer flushed. Her jowls were relaxed, and her shoulders rounded. She was comfortable.

I had gotten a can of pickles from the cupboard and Momma was making a dressing of oil and egg whites. Potato salad was something we usually made in the summer, However, Momma loved to serve it at Thanksgiving.

We had all finished cooking and prepping for the next day when someone knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Momma asked, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel.

“Oh, Lord, we don't need Bobby stopping by here tonight,” she mumbled as she walked to the front door. She gazed out the window. “I don't recognize this vehicle,” she said. “Lord have mercy.”

The knocks became intense. She cleared her throat. “Who's out there?”

There was not an answer. Simon went into Momma's room and came back with the shotgun. Mrs. Hall was red as a beet, and Mr. Hall was sweating like a hog.

No one said a word. The silence had me worried.

Momma opened the door and there stood my brother John, smiling from ear to ear.

“Lord, John, you gonna fool around and get shot.”

He came in. “I know y'all colored folks was scared to death.” His eyes popped out of his head when he noticed Mrs. Hall standing beside her husband.

M
s. Pearl had been locked up for more than two weeks. Bobby had her locked up at the station and wasn't letting anyone in to see her. It was to be expected. For years, Bobby's law was just like his daddy's. His daddy was a cold, red-necked man who, at every chance he got, put shackles on colored men. Now Bobby had stooped to a new low and was harassing colored women.

“Bobby is beside his self,” Ginny commented between the dressing and turkey on her fork.

“If there is no evidence against Ms. Pearl, then why is she still in jail?” John asked.

“She is probably guilty,” Momma said, as if she had seen her pull the trigger.

“This place is still the same and so are the people,” John said.

Nobody said a word, but I could read the concern on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hall.

“What are you saying, boy?” Ginny asked.

“Colored folks are the judge and jury. They think Ms. Pearl is guilty because of her lifestyle. Folk around here have adopted some of Bobby's ways. They don't believe in themselves.”

“If she hadn't of been so much of a floozy, none of this would have happened.”

“Momma, Ms. Pearl didn't pull the trigger. She didn't make no one else pull the trigger. My guess is she is as innocent as the people in this room.”

Momma rolled her eyes at him, and sucked her teeth. Ginny cleared her throat and took a sip of water. “Well, she ain't no saint.”

“Aunt Ginny, we can't accuse her of something she didn't do.”

Mrs. Hall appeared lost and out of tune with the conversation, drifting away at times and then interested and concerned.

“Who is Ms. Pearl?” she finally asked.

“She's a singer at the club in Jackson Heights,” Simon answered.

“Why is she in jail down here?”

“She is being held for another man's murder. Bobby is just picking with her, since he can. He claims to have jurisdiction even down here,” Simon said.

“Y'all got to get together and do something about it,” Mrs. Hall said.

“We colored,” Ginny said, raising her voice. “What in hell can we do about all this going on? Ain't nobody 'round here gonna listen to coloreds complaining.”

“Well, ma'am, something should be done. You can't hold somebody in jail just because you can. You need to have a legitimate reason. Being colored is not a good reason.”

Momma sucked her teeth. “We don't need to get involved in Pearl's mess,” Momma said. “She is a lowdown, dirty snake.”

“Momma, she is not that bad,” John said. “She's a product of this racist society.”

Mr. Hall shook his head in agreement like he wanted to testify to John's remarks, but he didn't mumble a word.

Carl and Mary listened intently to the conversation, and neither of them said a word. Carl squirmed in his seat and seemed moved
by all the words being slung across the table. All the talk about the murder appeared to make him uncomfortable. He was rubbing his hands together and his head was lowered. His wife was quiet as a mouse, fumbling with her wedding band. Finally, he spoke up, “Can we talk about something else? I'm tired of the same thing coming up.”

“This is news. It is the only thing the people around here want to talk about,” John replied.

“Did you know the preacher is planning on building a house down the road from us?” Carl asked.

“That's not news. It is boring in comparison to Ms. Pearl. I've been gone from home for some years now, and the only things of interest to the people around here is what happens when somebody dies. We could talk about voting rights and fair treatment for coloreds, but who would be interested? Camm and Willie being murdered is the biggest story around these parts. The last one was when Miss Topsie got raped by the deacon.”

“Now leave Topsie out of this,” Momma said.

“It is the truth, Momma,” John said, refusing to be quiet.

“Even so, leave Topsie out of this. Pearl and Topsie is nothing alike.”

“I was talking about news.”

“Well, you know Topsie loved the 'tention of men, too,” Ginny said.

“She never did anything out of the way with our husbands. The deacon did her wrong.”

I bit my lip. I fought to control my thoughts. Momma had been one of the churchgoing women who had said, Miss Topsie asked for it when the deacon had his way with her. Miss Topsie packed up and moved from Jefferson after they turned their backs and
pretended as if it was all her fault. Now Momma seemed to have a different memory of it all. I knew all the time; it was the deacon who was out of place. And he was a man of the church!

The Halls enjoyed the chat, the expressions on their faces changing with each comment. Finally Ginny said, “Well, we know Bobby is wrong. I guess one of us needs to say som'thing to 'em. That boy done made a lot of colored folk suffer.”

Momma cut a cold eye at Ginny. “Ain't nothing we can do!” she said in a sharp tone.

“There is always something we can do,” John argued.

“What?” Carl asked.

“I am a lawyer. I can go see the sheriff and have a little talk with him.”

“Now, John, leave it alone; you still a colored man, no matter how much education you get,” Momma said.

“We all know how the sheriff is. He is going to continue treating us wrong, arresting us whenever he feels like it, if we don't say something,” John said with authority. I was proud of his convictions and was enjoying the dialogue thoroughly.

“Pearl is not your family,” Momma said.

“I know, but she is a colored woman.”

Mrs. Hall sat straight up in her seat. “So would you do something if it was a white woman? All women get mistreated.”

Mr. Hall tapped her on the knee to silence her.

“I don't like wrongdoings, especially to coloreds,” John shot back.

Being outspoken is how John had always been. As a young boy, he'd gotten in a lot of trouble for his tongue. I remembered when Mrs. Ruth, our Sunday School teacher, slapped him right hard in the lips. She wiped the smile off his face. It was embarrassing, and Papa got him, too, when he found out about it. He took a strap to
his behind. He learned a lesson, but he still never hesitated to speak his mind. It is the reason we all rejoiced when he said he was going to be a lawyer. You sort of need a quick and deliberate tongue to argue for people. He had not changed.

“You didn't answer my question,” Mrs. Hall reminded John. Mr. Hall bit his lip, and tucked his head.

“I would defend you, Mrs. Hall. I am for righteousness and justice.”

Her face relaxed and a grin rolled across it.

Ginny relaxed her face. I had watched her green eyes squint and turn into slits when Mrs. Hall asked the question. Whenever she was perplexed, her eyes were the first to reveal it.

“You need to leave Pearl right where she is,” Momma commented, picking up the soiled plates from the table.

“I agree with Momma; leave it alone, John,” Carl pleaded.

John cut a serious eye in Carl's direction. Carl noticed and lowered his head. Afterward, John kept gazing at Carl from across the dinner table. It was as if he felt something was going on. I knew John; he had always been rebellious. He had defined his own path long before Papa passed. Even a few comments would spark a curious notion in his mind.

“I hope everyone is enjoying dinner,” John said.

“The food is fabulous,” Mrs. Hall replied, fidgeting with her napkin.

“As usual, Mae Lou done put her foot in it; this dressing is real good,” Ginny said, smacking her lips.

“It is pretty good, if I can say so myself,” Momma added.

Simon and I glanced at each other and smiles rolled across our faces.

After dinner was over, all of the women pitched in to help clean
the kitchen. Mrs. Hall seemed to fit right in. Ginny was having such a good time; she decided to spend the night. John slept on the davenport, and Ginny shared Momma's bed.

Mr. Hall and John played dominoes until the wick in the lamp burnt down. Afterward, they had a stiff drink and we all retired for the night.

The next morning, shortly after breakfast, I took a ride with John straight to the jail house. I sat in the car while he walked confidently up to the jail house door, his dark suit fitting him like it was made especially for him. He had a serious look on his face.

“Be careful,” I whispered, when he opened the car door.

“I'll be all right,” he said, adjusting his bow tie, and flattening out his suit jacket.

I silently prayed for him. I didn't know how Bobby would handle a colored man with education. I was sure he'd get nervous, since he had always gotten away with dirt.

John knocked on the door. The sound was intense and strong. I inhaled and held my breath. I grabbed a piece of my hair and twirled it in nervous frustration. I was afraid for my brother. Bobby was a cold, white man. He was known for calling us niggas and fools. His reputation was tarnished. We only tolerated him because he was white. And the community in Jefferson County was fearful of the white man. When the door swung open, my heart felt like it was coming out of my chest.

I cringed when John went inside the jail. I sat still, locked in fear. I wasn't sure about the time he was in there, but it seemed to be forever. Thoughts clouded my vision. I watched the trees swaying and heard the wind whistling. All I could think of was Momma pleading with John to stay away from Bobby. Just as I'd convinced myself to get out of the car and go see about him, John came out
the front door. He was not alone. Ms. Pearl was holding on to his arm as if he was her crutch.

We were about to pull out of the jail house yard when the sheriff rushed up to the car, his face flushed red, cold sweat trickling down his cheeks. “Now listen here, Pearl Brown, if I hear of any other person you know dying, at the blink of an eye, I am going to put your black ass back behind bars. You hear me?!”

“Yes, sir,” Ms. Pearl answered, nodding.

John glanced up at him, his face unyielding. “We are about to leave now.”

“Y'all get gone!” the sheriff demanded.

John drove out of the yard with Bobby still standing, watching with a defeated look.

We took the left turn right back to the house, but instead of turning down the road to Momma's, we took the road by the sycamore tree. “Thank you. I thought I'd be in jail the rest of my life.” Ms. Pearl's smile had disappeared and the jovial way she normally flirted with men, was not there any longer. Her face was minus the heavy makeup and her eyes were sad. She appeared innocent for the first time ever.