Midnight Without a Moon(49)
Hallelujah dismissed my comment with a wave of his hand. “If there’s gonna be a civil war in Mississippi between colored and white, I’ll be the first to sign up.”
“And maybe the first to die.”
“They can’t kill all of us.”
“Says who?”
“Eisenhower would send troops down here before he let that happen.”
I laughed. “You think the president of the United States cares about Negroes in Mississippi?”
“Abraham Lincoln did.”
I stood and stretched. “Well, I, for one, ain’t ready to die,” I said, yawning. “I want to live. And not in Mississippi.”
“Well, I’m not running. I’m staying. And I’m fighting.”
“Thought you were going to Ohio.”
“I am. But not anytime soon. Like I said, if there’s gonna be a civil war between coloreds and whites, I’m up for the task. If old man Preacher Wright won’t run, then neither will I.”
Maybe Hallelujah was right. Maybe it was time to fight. If Mississippi was willing to have a trial for two white men who killed a Negro, maybe the battle was already halfway won. But of course, there were always people who did what they could to dodge a war—?like Ma Pearl’s brother Elmer, who Papa said refused to fight in the First World War. Uncle Elmer said the fight wasn’t his business, much like Ma Pearl was always claiming the fight between coloreds and whites wasn’t hers.
Was it mine? I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t know if I could be as brave as Hallelujah or Preacher Mose or even Levi Jackson, who risked his life to fight for change.
“I’m proud of you. You know that?” I said, smiling at Hallelujah.
He tipped his hat. “You should be. I’m a man who’s going places. And right now I’m about to go in there and feast on whatever Miss Sweet cooked up for supper.”
I turned up my nose. “Cornbread. Warmed-up speckled butter beans we had at dinnertime today. Fried corn. Okra and stewed tomatoes.”
“Beats the air soup Preacher’s serving up at our place,” Hallelujah said, patting his stomach.
I tilted my head to one side and squinted to keep the evening sun from my eyes. “You been there before, haven’t you?”
“Where?”
“Money.”
Hallelujah shrugged. “A few times.”
“You ever been to that store? The one where they say Emmett Till talked to the woman?”
He nodded.
“You see her?”
Hallelujah turned his gaze from me and stared at the ground. “Twice.”
“She pretty?”
Hallelujah nodded.
“Would you have done it?”
“Whistled at her?”
“Yeah.”
Hallelujah stared at me for what felt like an entire five minutes before he finally said, “Heck, no. I’ll fight, but I ain’t crazy enough to start one.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14
IT WAS LATE, AND WE HAD JUST SETTLED IN FOR THE night after attending church. We were all kind of piddling around before we went to bed. I sat in the front room with Fred Lee, who was reading his history text while I looked at the funny pages from a week-old copy of the Jackson Clarion-Ledger. After reading through several chapters of the book of Jeremiah—?the “weeping prophet”—?during church service, I needed something to give me happy thoughts before going to sleep.
Across from us in the parlor sat Ma Pearl, Papa, and Queen. Ma Pearl and Queen listened to a show on the radio while Papa browsed the pages of a Sears and Roebuck catalog.
When the knock came, it surprised us. No one ever visited that late at night.
We all froze. Except Papa. Springs creaked when he rose from his chair.
He touched his finger to his lips, requesting our silence. As quietly as he could, except for the squeaking floorboards, he crept to his bedroom to retrieve his shotgun.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. The knock came again. My heart pounded so fast I thought it would beat out of my chest.
With his shotgun at his side, Papa called through the door, “Who there?”
“It’s me, Papa,” a weak voice came from the other side. “Open the door.”
“Ruthie?” Papa called.
When he opened the door, Aunt Ruthie and her children flooded inside. The children clung to her like cuckle bugs.
Ma Pearl, with Queen at her heels, stormed from the parlor. “Gal, what the devil is you doin’ with these chi’rens out this time a night?”
Aunt Ruthie stood in the middle of the floor, her face illuminated by the glow of the kerosene lamp. The two younger children, their faces buried in the fabric of her faded plaid dress, hugged her knees; the older ones circled her waist. The baby was cradled in her arms.
“Ruthie,” Papa said, his face puzzled, “what is you doin’ here?” He placed the shotgun against the wall and peered out the door. “How y’all get here?”
“Walked,” Aunt Ruthie muttered, her head hanging, a wide-brimmed straw hat covering her face.
“Walked?” asked Papa. “Seven miles?
Aunt Ruthie nodded.
“In the dark?”
Without raising her head, Aunt Ruthie lifted her arm and mumbled hoarsely, “I had a flashlight.”