Midnight Without a Moon(59)

“Do you love working for that white man living in his mansion down the road?” Monty asked, his sarcasm lingering in the air again.

“Matter of fact, I do,” said Papa. “I loved working for his daddy, too. Every white person ain’t full o’ evil, son.”

I thought about the day after Levi’s death, when I went to the Robinsons’ and Mr. Robinson was hosting a meeting for the White Citizens’ Council. From what Hallelujah had told me about the group, how they wanted to make sure the government didn’t interfere with the way things were in Mississippi, I couldn’t help but side with Monty.

“I didn’t say he was evil,” Monty said. “But you have to agree that the living conditions are unfair.”

Papa raised his brows. “Who told you life was fair? You think ’cause a man don’t live in a mansion he can’t be happy? I never go to bed hungry, son. I ain’t never went without clothes on my back. And this roof over my head don’t leak. This furniture,” he said, gesturing around the room, “I didn’t pay a dime for it, but it sets as good as anything you can git in one of them catalogs lying there on the floor.”

Monty was silent.

“Mr. Robinson never done me no wrong, son,” Papa said quietly. “Neither his father. They were both good to me.”

Aunt Belle threw in her garbled two cents. “They oughth thue be. Everythinth they own is becauth of Negroes workin’ them fieldths.”

“Daughter, I ain’t complaining,” Papa said. “This is where the good Lord saw fit for Paul Elias Carter to be born, right here in Stillwater, Mississippi. He knowed I’d love the land before I was even here. He shaped me in my mother’s womb and fitted me to farm. And with that I’m happy. With that I’m content. Ain’t no shame in serving others.”

When nobody said anything else, Papa continued. “The minute I saw you,” he said to Aunt Belle, smiling, “I knowed you’d be like Isabelle. That’s why I wanted to call you Belle. Isabelle was never happy with the land. She hated the outdoors. She hated the fields. She wouldn’t even plant a garden or go fishin’. She loved taking care of the house. But she always wanted one of her own. A big one. The first chance she got, she caught that train to Saint Louis and took a job housekeeping for that old white man after his wife died. When he died, his chi’ren give that house to Isabelle. She made herself a living by opening that house up and serving others.”

Aunt Belle’s face hardened. “Doesth Mama know thath?”

Papa nodded. “She know.”

“Humph,” Aunt Belle said with a grunt.

This land is your land. This land is my land. Maybe that’s why the ninth-grade teacher wanted the class to do a patriotic play and sing that song. Perhaps she, like Papa, considered Mississippi home. This land was her land as much as it was any white person’s land. Mississippi. This land was my land too. And I had a right not to let anybody chase me away from it the way they had done Mama and Mr. Pete. All that land. And he sold it to rent something called an apartment.

A battle raged within me. What if I remained in Mississippi and never became more than a field worker or some white woman’s maid? What if I never finished school? I admired Papa for his strength. For his contentment. But I couldn’t emulate it. I knew I could never be happy living in a shack on some white man’s cotton plantation. Nor could I be happy living in a town where I had to look down at the ground whenever I saw a white person approaching. I couldn’t be happy living in a place where I was made to feel less than human. Either things had to change in Mississippi, or I had to leave it. Someday.

“What about me, Papa?” I asked. “What did you think when I was born?”

A smile spread across Papa’s face. But before he could speak, Aunt Belle chimed in. “I rememberth when thu were born,” she said, smiling.

Monty patted her hand and said, “Rest that jaw, baby.”

“Soon as old Addie left the room, Belle ran in there to see you. You was as pink as you could be,” Papa said, laughing. “Belle begged Anna Mae to call you Rose.”

“You did?” I asked Aunt Belle.

She nodded and said, “Rotha. I called you Rotha.”

“Rosa?” I asked.

Aunt Belle smiled and nodded.

“How did it get to be Rose?” I asked.

“Pearl,” Papa answered briskly. “She said Rosa wadn’t a real name.” He paused and chuckled. “Old Addie wrote Rosa on the birth record anyway,” he said, “no matter how many times Pearl told her your name was Rose.”

“She still calls me that,” I said. “Hallelujah, too.”

“Rosa,” Monty piped in. “It’s Italian. Comes from Rose of Viterbo, a saint from Italy. But the name also means ‘dew.’”

“Like the stuff on the grass in the morning?” I asked.

Monty nodded. “Like the dew in the morning, gently refreshing the earth. The bearers of this name tend to want to analyze and understand the world. They search for deeper truths than simply what’s on the surface.” He winked at me and said, “Rosa. I like that. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, right?”

I smiled. Maybe having a walking, talking Encyclopedia Britannica as an uncle wouldn’t be so bad after all.