Let the Circle Be Unbroken: Chapters 7–10

As Papa drove Jack over the length of the field pulling the planter—a plowlike implement with a small container attached that cut the earth, then dropped seeds along the opening and covered them—the rest of us came behind covering any seeds left uncovered and packing the dirt snugly over them.

He closed the door and crossed the porch to the water pail hanging on a rafter nail.

I kept my eyes riveted on the horseshoe I had successfully thrown and didn’t answer.

Big Ma's fingers moved deftly over the patch that had once been a part of Little Man’s trousers to make sure it hadn’t puckered.

The most devoted of students, she listened intently to Mama’s explanations of the constitution and laboriously attempted to commit them to memory.

None of us thought he had paid any attention to anything that was going on until one afternoon when Mrs. Lee Annie was trying, with difficulty, to explain to Mama what “jurisdiction” meant and he suddenly exclaimed: “Naw, naw, Lee Annie! Don’t ya ’member? What you talkin’ ’bout is a jury. Jurisdiction tells ya’ who got the power in a thing.”

But despite his feigned lack of interest, Mama and I both noted that more and more often he was at Mrs. Lee Annie’s when we arrived, and on several occasions even accompanied Mrs. Lee Annie down to our house for the lessons held there.

Stacey’s brow furrowed.

He laughed then, a raucous, distasteful laugh, and Stacey pushed us on.

Mr. Harrison watched him hurry off, then turned to Stacey, a look of piercing scrutiny in his eyes.

I suppose he guessed he was lucky as well to have what he called his "mustache,” a simple fuzz line which he cultivated with delicate daily care and about which, upon Mama’s advice, I wisely kept quiet.

I had always accepted Stacey’s need to have friends his own age, just as the rest of us did, but always before, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I had been accepted, no matter how grudgingly, in whatever he was doing, and he had to some extent confided in us.

Suzella greeted Stacey with adultlike poise and I could see that the resentment which had been in Stacey's face upon greeting Cousin Bud was not there as he met his daughter.

Since her arrival, she had managed to endear herself to just about everyone. Christopher-John and Little Man couldn’t do enough for her, and Stacey, who never had time for me anymore, always could find time for Suzella.

Joining us, he had stood nervously and silently by as Clarence and Little Willie, among others of Stacey’s friends, had sauntered over in feigned nonchalance.

Instead she had stayed close to Mama and Big Ma, and allowed none of the boys a moment alone with her. Nonetheless, everyone adored her, and by the time Cousin Bud left a few days later, she had not only been accepted by the community but was firmly entrenched in the family circle as well.

This was Suzella’s first trip into the forest, and she seemed enthralled by the pines and the oaks and the sweet gums surrounding us.

Feeling dejected, I sat on the plank step and looked out at the house.

“Well, I got a pin!” cried Don Lee, as captivated as the rest of the boys.

I saw Joe and asked him about Wordell. He told me he hadn’t seen him since before Sunday school. Despondent, I joined Son-Boy and Maynard, who were standing with Little Willie, Moe, Clarence, and two ninth-grade boys, Ron and Don Shorter.

“Sure,” said Ron derisively.

I sighed, then objectively tried to assess my good points. Though my facial features favored Papa, my skin coloring was a yellowish brown like Mama’s and my body build was slender—at least that was good.

“Noooooo!” cried Moe, his voice rending the morning like the crack of summer thunder.

"Get a move on ya, Orris,” Deputy Haynes ordered impatiently.
As if in a stupor, Mr. Turner glanced at the deputy, then walked behind the barn and brought back his mule.

For a while the older boys continued standing in the road talking of this new revelation and what could happen at the meeting, but Christopher-John, Little Man, and I, growing restless, started slowly down the road; Suzella went with us.

Immediately, he started in about the union, his voice rising in angry indignation as he quoted Mr. Wheeler about the reasons for the plow-ups, then about the conditions of sharecroppers and day laborers across the South.

Mr. Morrison saw me and let out a bemused laugh. “You figure you got enough muscle on you, girl, to be doing that?”

Had the father been black, Mr. Peters could have seen to it that the boy married Jacey and Jacey’s future could have been saved, but with a white boy there was no recourse.

Mama decided that it was too late for them to think about going anywhere farther tonight, and she and Stacey set about making pallets for them on the floor in the boys’ room.

Mama was a good fourteen years older than Stuart, and for her to have to show him respect when he did not do the same for her was galling.

While Suzella dallied with Mama and Big Ma in the other room, I made up my pallet, then returned to Mama’s room, where Big Ma sat doing some late-evening darning and Mama and Suzella were writing letters.

While Suzella dallied with Mama and Big Ma in the other room, I made up my pallet, then returned to Mama’s room, where Big Ma sat doing some late-evening darning and Mama and Suzella were writing letters.

“Good night, Cassie,” Mama answered with a lilt to her voice.

“Can't believe them younguns done gone off alone,” Mrs. Lanier lamented.

More plans for the search were made, then before everyone departed all heads bowed in prayer and Reverend Gabson, for once keeping it short, beseeched God to lead us to Stacey and Moe.

“He’ll be back, ya know. He’ll be all right too.” He caught the misgivings in our eyes and chastised us gently for our poor faith.

He caught the misgivings in our eyes and chastised us gently for our poor faith. “Y’all ain’t give up, have ya? Why, Stacey, he gone all the way to Louisiana by hisself over two years ago now and he was a lot younger then. Y’all forgotten that?”

Little Man was fortunate enough to have Miss Rosella Sayers, a young teacher from Jackson, but poor Christopher-John, now in the fourth grade, had fallen into the hands of Miss Daisy Crocker. I greatly sympathized with him, but as in everything else, Christopher-John tried to see the bright side in having to face such a shrew each morning.

In the mornings I awoke with the dread of Stacey’s absence hanging in the air, and throughout each day I was consumed with the hope of seeing him walking in that loping gait of his past the old oak and the cotton fields, and up the drive.