The Friendship (2 page)

Stacey watched him go into the store, then looked back to the road. There wasn’t much to see. There was a lone gas pump in front of the store. There were two red roads that crossed each other, and a dark forest that loomed on
the other three corners of the crossroads. That was all, yet Stacey was staring out intensely as if there were more to see. A troubled look was on his face and anger was in his eyes.

“You figure we best head on home?” I asked.

“Reckon we can wait, Mr. Tom Bee don’t take too long,” he said, then leaned moodily back against the post. I knew his moods and I knew this one had nothing to do with Mr. Tom Bee. So I let him be and sat down on the steps in the shade of the porch trying to escape some of the heat. It was miserably hot. But then it most days was in a Mississippi summer. Christopher-John sat down too, but not Little Man. He remained by the open doors staring into the store. Christopher-John noticed him there and immediately hopped back up again. Always sympathizing with other folks’ feelings, he went over to Little Man and tried to comfort him. “Don’tcha worry now, Man,” he said, patting his shoulder. “Don’tcha worry! We knows you ain’t dirty!”

“That ain’t what they said!” shrieked Little Man, his voice revealing the hurt he felt. Little Man took great pride in being clean.

Stacey turned to them. “Man, forget about what they said. You can’t pay them no mind.”

“But, St-Stacey! They said they could plant seeds on me!” he cried indignantly.

I looked back at him. “Ah, shoot, boy! You know they can’t do no such-a thing!”

Skeptically Little Man looked to Stacey for affirmation.

Stacey nodded. “They can do plenty all right, but they can’t do nothin’ like that.”

“But—but, Stacey, th-they s-said they was g-gonna c-cut off my hands. They done s-said they gonna do that c-cause they…they dirty!”

Stacey said nothing for a moment, then pulled from the post and went over to him. “They was jus’ teasin’ you, Man,” he said softly, “that’s all. They was jus’ teasin’. Their way of funnin’.”

“Wasn’t nothin’ ’bout it funny to me,” I remarked, feeling Little Man’s hurt.

Stacey’s eyes met mine and I knew he was feeling the same. He brought Little Man back to the steps and the two
of them sat down. Little Man, seemingly comforted with Stacey beside him, was silent now. But after a few moments he did a strange thing. He reached down and placed his hand flat to the dirt. He looked at his hand, looked at the dirt, then drew back again. Without a word, he folded his hands tightly together and held them very still in his lap.

I looked at the ground, then at him. “Now what was all that about?”

Little Man looked at me, his eyes deeply troubled. And once again, Stacey said, “Forget it, Man, forget it.”

Little Man said nothing, but I could tell he wasn’t forgetting anything. I stared down at the dirt. I wasn’t forgetting either.

“’Ey, y’all.”

We turned. Jeremy Simms was standing at the corner of the porch.

“Boy, I thought you was gone!” I said.

Stacey nudged me to be quiet, but didn’t say anything to Jeremy himself. Jeremy bit at his lip, his face reddening. Rubbing one bare foot against the other, he pushed his
hands deep into his overall pockets. “C-come up here to wait on my pa and R.W. and Melvin,” he explained. “Got a load to pick up. Been waiting a good while now.”

Stacey nodded. There wasn’t anything to say to that. Jeremy seemed to understand there was nothing to say. A fly buzzed near his face. He brushed it away, looked out at the crossroads, then sat down at the end of the porch and leaned against a post facing us. He pulled one leg up toward his chest and left the other leg dangling over the side of the porch. He glanced at us, looked out at the crossroads, then back at us again. “Y’all…y’all been doin’ a lotta fishin’ here lately?”

Stacey glanced over. “Fish when we can.”

“Over on the Rosa Lee?”

Stacey nodded his answer.

“I fish over there sometimes….”

“Most folks do….” said Stacey.

Jeremy was silent a moment as if thinking on what he should say next. “Y’all…y’all spect to be goin’ fishin’ again anyways soon?”

Stacey shook his head. “Cotton time’s here. Got too much work to do now for much fishin’.”

“Yeah, me too I reckon….”

Jeremy looked away once more and was quiet once more. I watched him, trying to figure him out. The boy was a mighty puzzlement to me, the way he was always talking friendly to us. I didn’t understand it. He was white.

Stacey saw me staring and shook his head, letting me know I shouldn’t be doing it. So I stopped. After that we all just sat there in the muggy midday heat listening to the sounds of bees and flies and cawing blackbirds and kept our silence. Then we heard voices rising inside the store and turned to look. Mr. Tom Bee, the string of fish and the fishing pole still in his hand, was standing before the counter listening to Dewberry.

“Now look here, old uncle,” said Dewberry, “I told you three times my daddy’s busy! You tell me what you want or get on outa here. I ain’t got all day to fool with you.”

Mr. Tom Bee was a slightly built man, and that along with his age made him look somewhat frail, and especially
so as he faced the much younger Dewberry. But that look of frailty didn’t keep him from speaking his mind. There was a sharp-edged stubbornness to Mr. Tom Bee. His eyes ran over both Dewberry and Thurston and he snapped: “Give me some-a them sardines! Needs me four cans!”

Dewberry leaned across the counter. “You already got plenty-a charges, Tom. You don’t need no sardines. Ya stinkin’ of fish as it is.”

I nudged Stacey. “Now how he know what Mr. Tom Bee need?”

Stacey told me to hush.

“Well, shoot! Mr. Tom Bee been grown more years than ’bout anybody ’round here! He oughta know what he need!”

“Cassie, I said hush!” Stacey glanced back toward the store as if afraid somebody inside might have heard. Then he glanced over at Jeremy, who bit his lower lip and looked away again as if he had heard nothing at all.

Saying nothing else, Stacey looked back at the crossroads. I cut my eyes at him, then sighed. I was tired of always having
to watch my mouth whenever white folks were around. Wishing Mr. Tom Bee would get his stuff and come on, I got up and crossed the porch to the doorway. It was then I saw that Christopher-John had eased back inside and was again staring up at the candy jars. I started to tell Stacey that Christopher-John was in the store, then realized Mr. Tom Bee had noticed him too. Seeing Christopher-John standing there, Mr. Tom Bee pointed to the candy and said to Dewberry, “An’ you can jus’ give me some-a them candy canes there too.”

“Don’t need no candy canes neither, Tom,” decided Dewberry. “Got no teeth to chew ’em with.”

Mr. Tom Bee stood his ground. “Y’all can’t get them sardines and that candy for me, y’all go get y’alls daddy and let him get it! Where John anyway?” he demanded. “He give me what I ask for, you sorry boys won’t!”

Suddenly the store went quiet. I could feel something was wrong. Stacey got up. I looked at him. We both knew this name business was a touchy thing. I didn’t really understand why, but it was. White folks took it seriously. Mighty seriously. They took it seriously to call every grown black person straight out by their first name without placing a “mister” or a “missus” or a “miss” anywhere. White folks, young and old, called Mama and Papa straight out by their first names. They called Big Ma by her first name or they sometimes called her aunty because she was in her sixties now and that was their way of showing her age some respect, though Big Ma said she didn’t need that kind of respect. She wasn’t
their
aunty. They took seriously too the way we addressed them. All the white grown folks I knew expected to be addressed proper with that “mister” and “missus” sounding loud ahead of their names. No, I didn’t understand it. But I understood enough to know Mr. Tom Bee could be in trouble standing up in this store calling Dewberry and Thurston’s father John straight out.

Jeremy glanced from the store to us, watching, his lips pressed tight. I could tell he understood the seriousness of names too. Stacey moved toward me. It was then he saw Christopher-John inside the store. He bit his lip nervously,
as if trying to decide if he should bring attention to Christopher-John by going in to get him. I think the quiet made him wait.

Dewberry pointed a warning finger at Mr. Tom Bee. “Old nigger,” he said, “don’t you never in this life speak to me that way again. And don’t you never stand up there with yo’ black face and speak of my daddy or any other white man without the proper respect. You might be of a forgetful mind at yo’ age, but you forgettin’ the wrong thing when you forgettin’ who you are. A nigger, nothin’ but a nigger. You may be old, Tom, but you ain’t too old to teach and you ain’t too old to whip!”

My breath caught and I shivered. It was such a little thing, I figured, this thing about a name. I just couldn’t understand it. I just couldn’t understand it at all.

The back door to the store slammed and a man appeared in the doorway. He was average-built and looked to be somewhere in his fifties. The man was John Wallace, Dewberry and Thurston’s father. He looked at Mr. Tom Bee, then motioned to his sons. “I take care-a this,” he said.

Mr. Tom Bee grinned. “Well, howdy there, John!” he exclaimed. “Glad ya finally done brought yourself on in here! These here boys-a yours ain’t been none too friendly.”

John Wallace looked solemnly at Mr. Tom Bee. “What ya want, Tom?”

“Wants me my sardines and some candy there, John.”

Dewberry slammed his fist hard upon the counter. “Daddy! How come you to let this old nigger disrespect ya this here way? Just lettin’ him stand there and talk to you like he was a white man! He need teachin’, Daddy! He need teachin’!”

“Dew’s right,” said Thurston. “Them old britches done stretched way too big!”

John Wallace wheeled around and fixed hard, unrelenting eyes on his sons. “Y’all hush up and get on to ya business! There’s stackin’ to be done out back!”

“But, Daddy—”

“I said get!”

For a moment Dewberry and Thurston didn’t move. The heat seemed more stifling. The quiet more quiet. John
Wallace kept eyes on his sons. Dewberry and Thurston left the store.

As the back door closed behind them Stacey went in and got Christopher-John. Mr. John Wallace took note of him, took note of all of us, and as Stacey and Christopher-John came out he came behind and closed the doors. But he forgot the open windows. He turned back to Mr. Tom Bee. “Now, Tom,” he said, “I done told you before ’bout calling me by my Christian name, it ain’t jus’ the two of us. It ain’t seemly, you here a nigger and me a white man. Now you ain’t used to do it. Some folks say it’s yo’ old age. Say your age is making you forget ’bout way things is. But I say it ain’t your age, it’s your orneriness.”

Mr. Tom Bee squared his shoulders. “An’ I done tole you, it ain’t seemly t’ me to be callin’ no white man mister when I done saved his sorry hide when he wasn’t hardly no older’n them younguns standin’ out yonder! You owes me, John. Ya knows ya owes me too.”

John Wallace walked back to the counter. “Ain’t necessarily what I’m wanting, but what’s gotta be. You just can’t
keep going ’round callin’ me by my first name no more. Folks been taking note. Makes me look bad. Even my boys been questionin’ me on why I lets ya do it.”