A Thousand Never Evers Page 2

  What’s so special about the vote? Mama always carries on about it, but what difference could one of her votes make anyway? Well, one thing’s clear: she thinks Medgar Evers’s work to help Negroes vote is more important than eating dinner while it’s hot.

  Now Mama shakes her head like she just can’t believe this Medgar guy’s dead and gone. “Lord, you listen to me,” she says. “You bless Medgar’s hardworking, full-of-courage soul.”

  After that, how am I supposed to eat? Hen or no hen, my stomach’s knotted up knowing someone can get killed for doing heaps of good.

  CHAPTER 2

  June 16, 1963

  Old Man Adams, our boss, comes from a long line of white folk. He used to own the five-hundred-acre cotton plantation that separates Kuckachoo from Franklindale, but he sold that off. The only land he kept was his garden that’s right here in his backyard.

  Sometimes the old man’s garden is full of tomatoes, purple hull peas, and a whole lot of squash, and other times it’s covered with watermelon, collards, and string beans. That’s because he’s always changing his mind about which crops are best, though one thing’s clear: at six acres, Old Man Adams’s garden is the largest in town. Why, I reckon the whole Negro side of Kuckachoo could fit right inside it!

  I was five when I started working his garden. It was only last year, when I turned eleven, that Uncle Bump decided I knew enough cooking to help Elmira in the kitchen. Now instead of hunching over to pick squash, I stand up straight and fill gleaming vases with daffodils that have already been picked by someone else. And instead of cutting my fingers when I dig up sweet potatoes, I turn the silvery handles on the kitchen faucet till the sparkly water flows out.

  My favorite thing to do here in the big house is a secret. Sometimes I watch television in Old Man Adams’s living room. So long as the other servants aren’t around, Uncle Bump lets me. I flip through the three channels on the black-and-white set till I decide which show is best. After that, I settle onto the sofa and press my bare calves against the cool leather. One time, Uncle Bump even made lemonade and plunked down next to me. Then we watched the old film Poor Little Rich Girl from start to finish.

  Today, even though I’m working beside Elmira in Old Man Adams’s kitchen, everything’s different than usual. I look over my shoulder into the dining room, where Uncle Bump gives the old man some slippery elm to help clear his airway. The old man, just a shadow, sits in his rocking chair beside the oak table, while the chandelier above the table lights up each of his chalky wrinkles.

  The mayor, the sheriff, the white preacher, and seven other white men join Uncle Bump hovering by the old man’s side. That’s because everyone knows how much is at stake once the stale air blows out his nostrils for the last time. You see, Old Man Adams has no siblings, was never married, and has no other relatives to speak of, so the white folk are sure when he passes, he’ll leave his property to one of them.

  While the white folk feast, Uncle Bump steps into the kitchen to see how me and Elmira are getting on. And that’s when Elmira tells him the dreaded news. “I seen many a man close to death, and right now our dear Adams is too.”

  Me? I’ve never seen a dead man before.

  But now Elmira says, “It’s time to take the pillow from behind his head, Bump. When you’re ready for home, all the everlasting tea in China can’t keep you on earth.”

  So Uncle Bump sighs and returns to the dining room to do as Elmira says. But I won’t let my uncle be there alone. I follow him, and to make like I’m busy, I take a shiny pitcher from the cabinet and polish it some more.

  After Uncle Bump removes the pillow from behind his head, Old Man Adams wheezes one last time. Then his face falls gently onto the table beside a vanilla cake.

  While the white preacher lifts his hands above Old Man Adams and murmurs a prayer, I drag myself back to the kitchen. I remember how Old Man Adams’s ivory corpse was filled with life, how a year ago he welcomed me to the big house and showed me where he hid his chocolate under the fruit in the refrigerator. “Here’s for when you need somethin’ sweet,” he told me with a wink. Of course, I never dared take a piece. I didn’t want to give Elmira a reason to send me back to the fields.

  When the men from the funeral parlor arrive, they heave Old Man Adams’s body onto a stretcher. They drape a sheet over him and haul him out the front door. But the click of the closing door, it has nowhere to settle. And with the old man gone, there’s too much echo left in the dining room and no reason for the white folks to stick around. They file outside, heads low, voices lower, all of them praying Old Man Adams left them the property in his will.

  Now Uncle Bump lumbers into the kitchen, where I’m waiting to give him a hug. But he steps right past me, out the servants’ door.

  Unlike Uncle Bump, Elmira’s grief erupts out each pore. “No better man,” she cries. She leans her elbows on the sink, hangs her head between them. “No better man.” Elmira dries her eyes on the corner of her apron, then leaves the big house too.

  While I follow her out the servants’ door, I try not to think of all the good laughs we had in the kitchen. I try not to think it’s the last time I’ll ever be in Old Man Adams’s place.

  Outside, Elmira and me can’t find Uncle Bump anywhere. Then a ghostlike note dances through the air. We trail the sound through the backyard. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s my uncle, his back against the garden gate, blowing grief out his harmonica.

  CHAPTER 3

  June 22, 1963

  They went and buried Old Man Adams a couple days back, but none of us Negro hands were allowed to attend. Of course, ever since he went and died, I’ve got no work. And sure I’m sad he’s gone, but I’m not going to mope. At least now I’ve got time to jump double Dutch. Trouble is I can’t find anyone to jump with me. My best friend Delilah’s sewing at the tailor shop across town. And besides, now that she’s passed fifth grade, she says she’s not interested in jumping ever again. My next-best friend Lovetta’s chopping grass on the cotton plantation sunup to sundown, so she isn’t around either.

  Without any work and without anyone to jump with, I reckon now’s the time to dye my dress a brilliant yellow and get it ready for my first day of junior high school, even though it’s still months away.

  So here I am, standing on the porch, hunched over the washbasin, minding my business, when I spot a white man I’ve never seen before hobbling toward me. First thing I notice: his prickly white beard runs over his dimpled cheeks. Second thing: he was picked before he was ripe. He’s no taller than me.

  “This the Pickett home?” he asks when he gets close.

  Here I am, my sopping school dress in my hands. “Yes, sir,” I tell him. “I’m Addie Ann Pickett.”

  I can’t imagine what this little man wants. I notice he’s got a paper in his hands, and his hands, they’re shaking. Well, maybe it’s the heat. Or maybe it’s the shacks we live in. Sure he probably heard the Negroes are dirt-dog-poor—maybe he even drove past our houses—but I reckon seeing close-up that a whole family lives in a home the size of his garden shed can be a bit of a surprise.

  “Lawyer for Mr. Adams,” he says.

  A lawyer? I’m not sure exactly what that is, but I know it’s got something to do with the law, and from everything I’ve heard, that’s not good.

  While the lawyer looks at his paper, I squeeze my wet dress in my fists, afraid there might be trouble. But then the most amazing thing happens! The little lawyer looks at me and says, “Addie Ann Pickett, you and your uncle, Charles ‘Bump’ Dawson, are requested at the estate at four p.m. for the reading of the will. Mr. Adams left you each a gift.”

  And wouldn’t you know it, my heart flies up and clogs my throat. There’s no way for words to get out. Never in ten billion years did I think Old Man Adams would go and leave presents for Uncle Bump and me!

  The lawyer makes me promise to tell my uncle the news right away. Then he asks, “Now where would I find the cook, Mrs. Grady?”

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p; It’s the best I can do to point round the bend. Even if I could speak right now, I wouldn’t tell him Elmira hates when folks call her Mrs. Grady, because it makes her feel old as the stars.

  As soon as the little man struts away, I drop my school dress on the edge of the basin and run round back, where Mama’s pinning clothes on the line. I tell her what the lawyer man said.

  “Don’t that take the whole biscuit!” Mama says, and grins. Together, the two of us dash across the yard to bang on the door of Uncle Bump’s shed.

  As soon as he opens it, I tell him, “Old Man Adams left us presents!”

  Then Mama explains about the will.

  “My, oh my!” Uncle Bump grins.

  “Now then, I’ve gotta get this girl ready,” Mama says to Uncle Bump. “You gonna tidy up too?” she asks, and rubs her chin.

  “Oh, sure,” Uncle Bump says. He touches his beard. “Sure.”

  Mama and me shuffle back across the yard and into our kitchen. Mama sits on a chair and I plop down on the floorboards between her legs. Well, all I can say is Mama’s fingers work real good under pressure. Lickety-split, she braids up my hair in a hundred little rows. Then I slip into the white dress I usually save for church.

  An hour later, I’m standing in the yard between our house and Uncle Bump’s shed, wondering whether Old Man Adams left me all the chocolate he hid under the fruit in the refrigerator. “Come on,” I call through the window of Uncle Bump’s shed. “We can’t be late for this!”

  Uncle Bump steps out the door. He’s trimmed his beard real short and nice. Together, we take it down the lane. While we walk, the keys to Old Man Adams’s place jangle from his belt loop. But those keys have been hanging there so many years that now the sound of them seems no louder than the sound of his breathing.

  After we turn the bend, we stop to get Elmira, who’s equally round on her bosom and bottom, which is lucky for her, because it keeps her upright while she waddles back and forth across town.

  The three of us set off down the lane and across the railroad tracks, to Magnolia Row, which runs alongside Old Man Adams’s field at the edge of town. Today white magnolia petals litter the path. Springtime fills up my lungs. I see one blossom still on the branch. Through that flower, Old Man Adams sends me a message: life keeps blooming, things keep on.

  After we get to the big house, we walk up the side steps, only to find the servants’ door already unlocked. That’s when I get a bad ache in my chest. For as long as I can remember, Uncle Bump has unlocked these doors, raised the curtains, and given servants their orders, but now a little lawyer’s taken charge, and I can’t help but feel my uncle’s been thrown out like trash.

  Inside the big house, there’s no smell of roast beef or sweet potato pie. The air is empty and stale. Elmira clings to the kitchen sink. But Uncle Bump steps into the dining room. I’m about to follow him in there, when I spot the sheriff and the mayor sitting at the oak table. The sheriff’s arms are folded across his giant body, but his head is small, so it looks like God mixed up the parts. As for the mayor, he wears a stiff smile on his face, so it looks like his lips are curtains tied up at the corners with ribbons. No doubt both the sheriff and the mayor have been tossing in their nightclothes, because rumors are flying that Old Man Adams left his house and land to one of them. And everyone knows that whoever it is, he’ll be a very rich man.

  Now I plant myself in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. I watch the little lawyer strut into the dining room from the hallway. He sets his black suitcase on the table. Then he unlatches the suitcase, takes out a pile of paper, and reads aloud like he’s mumbling instructions for how to build a scrubboard, like nothing could possibly be duller.

  But you can bet my ears, they perk right up when he reads out Uncle Bump’s gift: “‘I bequeath my gold pocket watch to my head servant, Bump Dawson.’”

  The lawyer removes a small felt bag from his suitcase.

  As Uncle Bump crosses the room to pick up the pocket watch, the sheriff mutters, “What kind of name is ‘Bump’?”

  The mayor guffaws.

  My cheeks burn. To hear them poke fun at a man kind and patient as Uncle Bump makes me want to hurl them into a bucket of dirty mop water. If they knew Uncle Bump’s friends named him for the bumpy muscles in his arms, they’d both hush up quicker than a dog can lick a dish.

  But Uncle Bump walks to the lawyer as if he’s heard nothing and slips the sack into his pant’s pocket.

  Then the little lawyer reads, “‘To Elmira Grady, my cook, I leave my Dutch oven.’”

  Elmira throws her hands over her mouth and waddles from the sink to the Dutch oven to examine her new prize. Not that she’s got more food to cook in it, but still, she releases a sob of joy.

  Then the lawyer reads, “‘To Miss Addie Ann Pickett, my cook’s assistant…’” I reckon that little man said my name. He’s talking about me! I don’t think I’ve ever heard a white person say my whole name before. “‘I leave my television set.’”

  It’s too much to believe! I’m going to be the only person on the Negro side with a working set. I can see all the movies starring Shirley Temple. There’s no doubt about it: I’ll be the most popular girl in school. Cool Breeze Huddleston will pray I invite him over to watch! One day I’ll be on television myself. I’m going to be a television geography teacher! Not an ordinary geography teacher. A television geography teacher like Miss Shirley Smith. I read all about her in Ebony magazine, the one I got from the church lending library. Miss Smith teaches children about all the countries in the world. Her program comes on in Ohio. Mine will come on in Mississippi! Why, my family will watch me on this very set!

  But wouldn’t you know it, the happiest moment in my whole entire life is chopped off like the branch of a dead hickory tree.

  The mayor snickers, “There ain’t no…”

  And the sheriff howls, “No electricity…”

  “On Kuckachoo Lane!” snuffles the mayor.

  And there you have it. No electricity? I was so excited I didn’t stop to think. But it’s true. Ever since the tornado last month, the power lines have been down on our lane. No matter how many times Uncle Bump complains, no one comes to put them back up.

  While the sheriff and the mayor yuk it up good, Uncle Bump rests his bulky arm round my shoulders and draws me toward him. Tears burn under my lids. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not going to let them see me cry. I’m not! I’ll save that television set for sometime soon. Sometime soon when we get our electricity back.

  “I’ve got to get going, so listen up,” the lawyer says. The sheriff and the mayor swallow their chuckles.

  The lawyer picks up the papers. Then he clears his throat and reads, “‘I hereby bequeath my furniture, my books, and the remaining contents of my home to my alma mater, Ole Miss.’”

  The lawyer reads on: “‘The house itself will be used as a gathering spot for the people of Kuckachoo. I expect the annual Christmas party to carry on without me.’”

  The sheriff and the mayor are whomper-jawed! The old man didn’t leave the house to either one of them! Now they’re desperate to know which of them will get the land.

  But the next thing we know, the lawyer reads this: “‘Most importantly, I leave my land to all the people of my community. Together whites and Negroes shall plant a garden.’”

  The instant the words leave the lawyer’s mouth, a train of gasps ricochets from the sheriff to Elmira to the mayor to Uncle Bump to me.

  Then Elmira throws up her arms and cries, “Hallelujah!”

  None of us can believe Old Man Adams left 417 beautiful rows for us to sow together, plus his huge house for all Kuckachookians! And those rows are smack in the middle of town. Sure we knew Old Man Adams was freehearted, but this is another breed!

  All of a sudden, my stomach gurgles. I can smell the delicious food that will come from that land: corn chowder, pumpkin pie, and best of all, warm button squash with cane syrup dripping down the sides! I’ll
bet we can sell the vegetables we grow at the farmers’ market. Then we’ll take our money and buy batches of Mr. Mudge’s famous chocolate chip cookies! I’ll bet those will keep our tummies full all night long.

  The lawyer fumbles with his papers till they’re all buckled inside his suitcase. “I’ll keep the will in my office,” he says to us all. Then he looks at the sheriff and the mayor and says, “As leaders of Kuckachoo, you two are responsible for seeing that the home and the land are used according to the will.”

  The sheriff stands and strokes the holster of his shotgun like it’s a puppy. And by the way that little lawyer hustles to the front door, I reckon he can’t leave the big house fast enough.

  As soon as the lawyer’s gone, the mayor smacks his palms flat against the dining room table, cranes his torso across it, and shouts, “You heard what that man said!”

  “We’re in charge!” bellows the two-ton sheriff. Then he turns to Uncle Bump and shouts, “Give us the keys!”

  There’s the key to the big house, the key to the garden gate, and the key to the garden cabin. But Uncle Bump doesn’t hand any of them over. Instead, he reaches down to his belt loop and clenches those keys tight in his fist.

  So the sheriff picks up his shotgun and cocks it with a loud clackity-clack.

  Nothing about the scene stays put: the bulging veins in the sheriff’s neck, the bald circle on the mayor’s scalp, the rocking chair beside the dining room table. Everything shimmers like it isn’t real, like I’m not real, like this isn’t happening.

  I want to yell what I know is true: This land, it’s ours too! But the words are stuck inside me. I’m afraid we’re all going to die. And I wonder if it’s worth it, for the land.

  Then the sheriff points his gun at the ceiling and blasts who’s who and what’s what sharply into focus, just in case we didn’t already know who was boss here. The chandelier crashes down on the dining room table, and a thousand glass beads thunder onto the wooden floor.