Together is All We Need (25 page)

M
E
AND
M
Y
P
APA
42

T
HE SUMMER CAME ON
. I
T GOT HOT AND DRY AND
the cotton grew.

By the middle of August Henry was starting to come out and check on it every few days.

One day in the middle of the morning I saw Mr. Ward standing at the kitchen window looking out. I went and stood beside him. There was Henry in the distance walking through one of the fields.

‘‘Why is Henry always looking over the cotton?'' he asked.

‘‘He's looking to see when it's ready to pick. Then we've got to start harvesting.''

‘‘How will he know?''

‘‘Come on,'' I said. ‘‘I'll show you.''

We went out into the cotton field.

‘‘We've got to start the harvest as soon as we can, the minute it's ready,'' I said. ‘‘You've got to get it in when it's dry. Two years ago a huge storm came and ruined half the crop before we were done and we didn't get enough to pay off the whole loan at the bank. That's why Katie looked so hard for your gold that she finally found where her mama had hidden it.''

We walked about a little further and I picked a few bolls and showed him the growing cotton and what to look for.

‘‘When it's ready, how do you harvest it?'' he asked.

‘‘Like this,'' I said, showing him how to pluck it with your fingers. ‘‘It's slow, hot work,'' I said. ‘‘That's why plantation owners had so many slaves. But we all work together. You should see Katie. You'd be real proud of her. She's real good at it. Henry's the best. He can pick so fast you can hardly see his fingers. Are you going to help, Mr. Ward?''

‘‘I suppose I'll have to do what my foreman tells me,'' he answered with a smile.

He seemed more interested than usual and stood a long time looking at the field and just walking around among the rows. As we started back to the house, there was my papa walking out to join us.

‘‘What are you two up to?'' he asked, with his familiar grin.

‘‘I was showing Mr. Ward the cotton,'' I said.

‘‘And are you now an expert, Brother Ward?'' he said.

‘‘Not quite yet!'' laughed Mr. Ward. ‘‘That will take a little longer, I'm afraid.''

He continued on toward the house, and my papa and I walked off together in the other direction toward the river.

‘‘What's going to happen?'' I said after a while. ‘‘What will happen to me and the others?''

‘‘What do you mean?'' he asked.

‘‘Mr. Ward . . . I mean, will he want us to leave?''

‘‘Don't you mean your
uncle
Ward?''

‘‘I reckon, though I still have a hard time thinking of him that way. But do you think, after he learns how to do everything, he'll want to run Rosewood by himself without the rest of us—like Burchard Clairborne was going to do?''

‘‘No, of course not. What would make you think that?''

‘‘I don't know. It's hard to know what he's thinking.''

‘‘I suppose that's true. He can be quiet at times. Sometimes men are like that, and you can't go reading more into it than is there. He's got a lot on his mind. But he especially wouldn't make you leave whatever happened. You're his kin, just like Kathleen is. He knows that you're my girl. No . . . Ward may be a little quiet, but he would never do anything like that.''

We reached the edge of the river and stood watching it for a while in silence.

‘‘Two years ago, when it flooded,'' I said, ‘‘the river came all the way over the bank and spread out almost all the way to the house.''

‘‘That must have been something to see!''

‘‘It was scary.''

We turned and began walking back toward the house.

‘‘Uncle Ward doesn't seem to take to the work like you do,'' I said as we went.

‘‘Give him time, Mary Ann,'' said my papa.

‘‘What about Emma and Josepha?'' I asked.

‘‘He won't do a thing without talking to me—I'm his foreman, remember! We're a family, Mary Ann, and Emma and Josepha are part of it too. I won't let anything happen to anyone.''

‘‘Thank you, Papa,'' I said.

A N
EW
B
LACK
G
ENERATION
43

B
EING A MAMA WAS HARD WORK
. A
LL YOU HAD TO
do was watch Emma for a day to know that. She'd been a slave but had never really known hard work as I had. But she was sure ahead of me in learning to be a mama. Every day she was learning new things about it. Having a baby who was getting on to two years old to look after—running around and getting into things all day long—wasn't easy.

I walked into the parlor one Sunday morning. Katie and I liked to gather everyone in the parlor on Sundays and read out of the Bible and sing a few hymns. Emma sure could sing! But I could tell she was tired.

After our singing on that day, Katie read for a while, and the sound of her voice gradually put Emma and William, and even Josepha, to sleep. The rest of us left after a bit as quietly as we could to go do our own kind of resting. Katie went out for a walk. Papa and Uncle Ward went out to the barn to saddle the horses, and I heard them ride off a little while later. I went upstairs to our room to practice my reading.

After a while I heard sounds on the stairs. I got up and went to the landing. There was William slowly crawling up the steps talking to himself the way little children do, though most of it was just babble. Well, I guess I don't really know how children talk to themselves other than from listening to my brothers and sisters when they were little. William could walk and even run, but the steps were too high for his little legs, and he couldn't quite walk up and down them yet. I sat down on the top step and waited for him to reach me. When he got to the top and saw me, a big grin came to his face and he hurried toward me and crawled into my lap. I gave him a hug.

‘‘You're going to be a history-making baby, did you know that?'' I said. ‘‘You are living between the history of the slaves and the free coloreds. There's no telling what life will be like for you when you grow up. I guess now maybe we're all living in that history. But you'll get to be part of more of it than I will. You haven't ever been a slave. You won't ever know what it was like. And that's something not too many colored folks can say. So you're a lucky little fellow.''

William stared up at me with his big dark eyes surrounded by white. He probably couldn't understand a thing I was saying, yet somehow it almost seemed like he could. But I think he thought I was telling him a story.

‘‘If you'd have been born even just five years ago,'' I went on, ‘‘you might have had a completely different life by now. Your mama might have been sold away. You might never have even known who your daddy was—well, maybe that's not going to be different for you. But you sure wouldn't have had your mama with you every day all day long like you do.''

By now William was losing interest and was starting to squiggle out of my lap. I guess my story had gotten a little too long!

But saying what I had to him got me thinking, and I found myself thinking about it for the rest of the day. Later that afternoon I was shelling peas in the kitchen. Josepha was at the breadboard kneading a new loaf of bread. I had a huge basket of peas and wasn't even near half done. I'd been thinking about my mama and brothers and sisters and how my mama had lived up north with the Daniels family but had by a long way around ended up at the McSimmons plantation. My mind was wandering with the pea shelling, and I found myself wondering how Josepha had wound up there.

‘‘Josepha,'' I said.

‘‘Yes, chil'.''

‘‘Where were you born?''

She turned around to face me, her hands covered with flour. Then she began to chuckle.

‘‘Now what in tarnashun does where I wuz bo'n hab ter do wiff dem peas or dese here biscuits an' bread?''

‘‘Nothing, I suppose,'' I said. ‘‘I just wondered. It seems like a lot of us don't know much about where we came from.''

‘‘Dat's right,'' said Josepha. ‘‘Speshully ef you got sol' a few times an' separated from yo elders.''

‘‘Do you know anything about your parents?''

‘‘Nuffin' at all. I always reckoned dat I just sorter happened,'' Josepha said with another chuckle. ‘‘By da time I was old enuff ter 'member, I wuz jus' one er a parcel ob colored slave girls gittin' sol' ter Master McSimmons in sum big city. I don' eben know which one. We wuz all young an' too scared ter pay much attention t' nuthin 'cept stayin' alive. I wound up in da kitchen an' sum er dem wound up in da fields. Dat's all I know.''

She turned around and looked at me again. But she wasn't chuckling now. ‘‘You's be a right lucky girl, Mayme, chil','' she said. ‘‘I know you's been through a lot an' has seen yo share er killin'. But you foun' out who you is an' who yo daddy is. You got er family, an' dat's mighty nice.''

I could tell she was happy for me.

‘‘You've got a family now too, Josepha.''

‘‘I know dat, chil', an' I's got you to thank fo' it too.''

Papa and Uncle Ward had come back from their ride. While Papa was getting in a little Sunday afternoon snooze, right about the same time Josepha and I were talking in the kitchen, Uncle Ward came upon Emma and William out by the laundry tub, where Emma'd been washing him up and giving him a bath. She was so involved she didn't hear him approach and went on chattering and babbling with William like she did. He stood and just listened for a minute or two, hardly able to understand a word. Gradually she became aware that William was looking at someone behind her. She turned and the instant she saw him went silent. She kept on with bathing William but now not saying a word.

‘‘How come you always clam up when I'm around, Emma?'' said Uncle Ward, walking over to her.

She didn't answer.

‘‘You act like you're afraid of me or something. You're not afraid of me, are you, Emma?''

‘‘I learned my lesson, dat's all,'' she said.

‘‘What lesson?''

‘‘I learned dat it's bes' fer a colored ter keep her mouf shut aroun' white men. Hit's jes' bes' ter avoid dem.''

‘‘Why's that?''

‘‘ 'Cuz you neber know what a white man's gwine do.''

‘‘You mean you don't trust white men?''

‘‘Dat's sumfin' like it.''

‘‘What about Templeton? You seem to get along all right with him.''

‘‘Mr. Templeton's different. He's got a colored girl who's his daughter. Dat makes him different, an' I's used ter him.'' She thought a moment about what she had said. ‘‘But now I's thinkin' 'bout it,'' she added, ‘‘maybe he weren't no different after all back den.''

‘‘But I'm not different, is that it?''

Emma didn't reply.

‘‘Why, Emma,'' Uncle Ward went on after a minute, ‘‘I'm surprised at you—you're not too proud to talk to me just because my skin is white, are you?''

‘‘I din't say nuthin' like dat, Mr. Ward.''

‘‘You said you avoided white men.''

‘‘On account ob what dey might do ter me.''

‘‘When have I ever given you cause to make you think I'd hurt you?''

‘‘Neber, Mr. Ward. I reckon you an' Mr. Templeton's 'bout as kind as white men could be.''

‘‘But you still don't want to talk when I'm around? That don't seem right. If we're all a family around here, seems like you gotta do your part in accepting me just like I accept you. Ain't that right?''

‘‘I reckon so.''

‘‘We gotta be family to each other whatever the color of our skin. I don't have any family but this. Do you, Emma?''

‘‘No, I ain't.''

‘‘So we all gotta be family to each other.—So why don't you put William down a minute and come here, Emma.''

Emma looked at him a little skeptically, then slowly set William down and stood up.

‘‘Come on, let's shake hands, Emma, and be friends,'' said Uncle Ward.

Slowly Emma approached with a wary look on her face as Uncle Ward held out his hand to her. It was obvious that she was nervous, but she had always been taught to do what any white man said.

She allowed Ward to shake her hand, then pulled hers away quickly.

‘‘That wasn't so bad, was it?'' he asked.

‘‘I reckon not.''

‘‘I'll never let anyone hurt you, Emma. You can trust me and your uncle Templeton to take care of you just like we do the others. From now on I want you to call me and Templeton Uncle Ward and Uncle Templeton, just like Kathleen and Mary Ann do.''

Emma looked down at the ground. ‘‘I's try . . .'' she said.

A
NOTHER
H
ARVEST
44

T
HE SUMMER WAS A HOT ONE
. B
Y THE MIDDLE OF
August most of the plantations in Shenandoah County were starting to pick.

A morning came when I woke up real early. It was almost like I could feel the fields calling to me, and I knew I had to get up and go out. There's something about the approach of a harvest that gets into you like that. You know how much work it's going to be, but the anticipation can't help but fill you with excitement. Even though it comes every year, there's a feeling of challenge, almost adventure.

I got up and tried to dress quietly and sneak outside without waking Katie up. But I couldn't.