Let the Circle Be Unbroken: Chapters 4–6

And it was cold. Not the windy cold like Uncle Hammer said swept the northern winter, but a frosty, idle cold that seeped across a hot land ever looking toward the days of green and ripening fields, a cold that lay uneasy during its short stay as it crept through the cracks of poorly constructed wooden houses and forced the people inside huddled around ever-burning fires to wish it gone.

Had the school year extended any longer, classrooms would have been empty, for cotton sustained life, and no matter how greatly learning was respected, the cotton had to be planted, chopped, weeded, and picked if the family was to survive.

Nevertheless, a quiet rebuke of me welled from not only Stacey but Christopher-John and Little Man as well for having said anything.

“Don’t care ’bout no deducts," he said impassively.

But the truth of the matter is, all the people that signed for the program had to list everybody had a lien on their cotton.

“This tax is an understandable thing when you look at it right. After all, how’re we gonna keep prices up if folks keep glutting the market? You and me both know prices’ll fall to six, maybe five cents again.”

What I’d like to do is help y’all out. Now we done had our differences and I gotta admit you done riled me good several times—both you and Mary, and your mama too—but y’all done a good thing for me last summer keeping that fire from spreading 'cross to my place, and I ain’t forgot.

“No wonder Mr. Granger can afford a new Packard,” I surmised.

“But Stacey, don’t it mean he’s thinkin’ ’bout not goin’ back?” Christopher-John asked, undaunted.

Despite the fact that her teaching style was no more exciting than Miss Crocker’s, at least she didn’t continuously repeat herself about the same boring nothing, and she tended to be more sympathetic to my lapses into inattention, so I was content.

Today as she presented the rudiments of United States government to students whose major concerns were picking cotton and slopping hogs, the boredom of it all was suddenly broken by my recognition of a name she had just written on the blackboard.

Miss Crocker, loudly upbraiding the two girls, led them back to the class buildings.

She nodded toward the bureau.

“I had any gumption, maybe I’d even go try and vote.”

Wordell’s eyes were unwavering.

Seeing that my discourse on music was getting me nowhere, I decided to try another tack.

When Claude did come to school, he separated himself from the other students and often could be seen sitting on a stump at the woods’ edge mourning for T.J. in sobbing, hacking spasms that made everyone turn away from him, embarrassed.

Running heedlessly down the steep decline was Jeremy Simms.

With examinations less than a week away, students soon overflowed the sitting area, but Mama, unperturbed, opened up other rooms and, dividing the students into groups, moved from one room to another reviewing lessons, answering questions, and assigning review exercises.

Mr. Morrison waved languidly toward three-year-old Dynamite, who was staring sourly out at us.

"Not me! I’m gonna ride Jack,” declared Christopher-John, who for some strange reason always preferred the sturdy plod of the ornery mule to the sleek swiftness of Lady.

“Why not?” questioned Uncle Hammer, a smile spreading across his face at Little Man’s conservatism.

"Mama, now I know y'all done had breakfast a long time ago and dinner’s still a good couple of hours away, but I tell you what my mouth’s really watered up for, and that’s some of them fine biscuits of yours, some oil sausages, and some clabber milk and some good ole cane syrup. Think I could bother you for some?”

In less than an hour Big Ma had not only rolled out a batch of biscuits for Uncle Hammer, but cooked a pot of grits, oil sausages, gravy, and eggs as well.

Papa looked from Jacey to Stuart, who eyed him insolently.

On Sunday morning Uncle Hammer, neat and dapper as always in a brown serge suit, backed the car out of the barn.

Joe timidly put out his hand and ran his callused fingers gingerly along the car’s hood.

“Jake,” interrupted Mr. Randall, looking haplessly from Uncle Hammer to his friend, trying to stop him.

Stacey and I looked at each other, then back to Uncle Hammer, who after a solemn appraisal of Mr. Willis, said: “Luck, Mr. Willis, ain’t had a thing to do with it.”

Jake Willis waited a moment before agreeing, then, with sudden consternation, looked around the circle. “Hey...I sho’ hope I ain’t said nothin’ out of place or anything. I sho’ didn’t mean no offense....”

But then when the wise men and the shepherds had paid their visit and Mary, Joseph, and the baby had fled into Egypt, my attention began to wane.

Reverend Gabson began to expound on the theory that too many of us were like King Herod, suspicious and jealous of someone who wasn’t even thinking about us, and that we should be loving our neighbors instead of sitting around worrying about what they were doing.

Unfortunately, because he preached here only every other Sunday, dividing his time between Great Faith and New Hope in Strawberry, he seemed to think he would be remiss in dismissing the congregation after only one hour.

Cousin Bud was a handsome man with a winsome smile and a pleasant way about him.

From their faces I could tell that the boys knew it too, for white people were part of another world, distant strangers who ruled our lives and were better left alone. When they entered our lives, they were to be treated courteously, but with aloofness, and sent away as quickly as possible.

Uncle Hammer kept his eyes on him a moment longer, his look contemptuous, then crossed to the side door and went out.

Christopher-John speculated as to what this half-white cousin would be like while Stacey commented sullenly once again that Cousin Bud should never have come.

I knew also that in defending me—and Jeremy—Stacey had now brought the brunt of Uncle Hammer’s displeasure down upon himself.

If that girl had’ve been mine, I would’ve whipped her till she would’ve been thinking twice ’fore she went sashaying ’round white boys again, and if her folks don’t get her straight soon, it’s gonna be one sorry mess, 'cause that sorta thing don’t ever come to no good.

Then, like a man beaten, he met Uncle Hammer’s unrelenting gaze and went back into the kitchen.