A Perilous Proposal (35 page)

M
R
. T
HURSTON'S
B
OX

48

M
R.
W
ATSON WAS WAITING FOR ONE OF HIS WAGONS
 to get back before Jeremiah could load it for a delivery. While they were waiting, he sent Jeremiah to Mrs. Hammond's store to pick up his mail.

By now Mrs. Hammond knew who Jeremiah was and how he was involved with the goings-on at Rosewood. But even though she pretended to have been in on the scheme all along, that didn't make her treat Jeremiah any nicer. It didn't make her treat
any
of them nicer. Jeremiah reckoned she enjoyed being ornery and contrary. Some folks are like that.

Mrs. Hammond glanced up when Jeremiah entered her shop, her nose tilting slightly into the air.

“Mo'nin' ter you, Mrs. Hammon',” said Jeremiah. “Mr. Watson sent me ter fetch his mail.”

“I'm not about to give . . .
you
someone else's mail,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm just not, that's why.”

“All right, den,” said Jeremiah, turning to go. “I's jes' tell him I axed for it an' dat you refused to give him his mail.”

He took several quick steps toward the door.

“Wait . . . young man,” said Mrs. Hammond behind him.
Mr. Watson was one of the town's leading citizens and she didn't want to anger him. “I . . . uh, don't suppose there is any harm in it . . . that is,
if
he told you to pick it up for him.”

“Dat he did, ma'am.”

Mrs. Hammond handed him Mr. Watson's mail.

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Jeremiah with a mischievous grin.

He left the store and walked along the boardwalk.

A wagon was rumbling along in front of the store. The man guiding his team of two plough horses gave a wave to Jeremiah as he passed. A few seconds later a small bump in the street caused a box on the back of the wagon to jostle and fall to the ground. Jeremiah saw and ran after it.

“Mr. Thurston,” he called. “Mr. Thurston, you's los' one ob yo parcels!”

Mr. Thurston, one of the few local men who had developed a friendship with the Daniels brothers as their closest neighbor, reined in and looked around at the voice calling at him. He saw Jeremiah running into the street to pick up the box and bring it to him. He also saw Deke Steeves, Jesse Earl, and Weed Jenkins from Oakmont on the other side of the street where they had been watching Jeremiah since before he had gone into Mrs. Hammond's, trying to decide how to cause him trouble without too much danger. They were afraid of Jeremiah's fists, so they had to plan their mischief carefully. Steeves was holding a length of wood about three feet long he had picked up somewhere.

“Hey . . . nigger boy, what you think you're doing!” called out Steeves' voice from where he stood leaning against a post.

Jeremiah stood up with the box he had just picked up. He glanced toward them, then walked toward the wagon where Mr. Thurston had just bounced to a stop.

“Hey, we're talking to you,” said young Jenkins in a highpitched boy's voice, trying to sound tough. His nickname had
been given him because he was tall and scrawny as a weed, and he had a voice to match. Though Steeves was the obvious ringleader, the other two were anxious to show Deke they could be as mean as he.

“That's a white man's box, boy,” added Jesse Earl. “He didn't want your filthy nigger hands all over it.”

Jeremiah continued to ignore them and walked toward the wagon.

Steeves now strode into the street in front of Jeremiah with a cocky swagger, running his left hand up and down the club he held in his right. Jeremiah stopped. Steeves walked toward him.

“You don't seem to hear too good, boy,” he said. “We're talking to you. Now you set that box down. I'll see that it gets back up on the wagon.”

Jeremiah stared into his eyes, but did not flinch.

Behind him, he heard Mr. Thurston jump down from his wagon onto the dirt.

“Steeves, you are a good-for-nothing blowhard,” he said, walking toward them. “Now get away from this young man and stop trying to bully him into a fight. He would pulverize you anyway. If he didn't, I'd horsewhip you myself.”

Stunned to hear the white man taking Jeremiah's part, Steeves took a step or two back with a look of disbelief and rage on his face.

“You young fools,” Mr. Thurston went on, glancing back and forth between Steeves and the other two, “if you had half the sense of this boy here, you'd try to make something of yourselves instead of going about causing trouble.”

Jeremiah handed him the box. Mr. Thurston thanked him, and turned back toward his wagon.

“Hey, Deke, look what I found,” cried Weed Jenkins behind them. “He dropped some letters.”

Jeremiah glanced about and suddenly realized he'd set down the mail in his hands when he went after the box.

“I didn't know niggers could read or write!” said Earl. “What do they say, Weed?”

“I don't know . . . I'll open them and find out!”

“Hey, dat's Mr. Watson's mail, you gimme dat back,” said Jeremiah, walking toward them.

But seeing Jeremiah make a move toward them, still holding the envelopes he had picked up, lanky Weed Jenkins took off running in the opposite direction. Three seconds later he was tackled from behind and sent sprawling to the ground.

Jeremiah climbed off him and began to stand up when a shadow fell on the street beside him. He glanced up to see Deke Steeves standing over him, the piece of wood now in both hands and raised in the air. The look on his face said clearly enough what he intended to do with it.

Again Mr. Thurston's voice put a stop to his plans. “Don't even think about it, son!” yelled Thurston. “You so much as make a move to hurt that boy, you'll regret it.”

He walked to the scene, grabbed the club from Steeves' hand, and tossed it away as Jeremiah climbed to his feet.

“Now you, young Jenkins—pick up the man's mail.”

Weed glanced toward Deke Steeves, then back at Mr. Thurston.

“Go on . . . pick it up,” repeated Thurston.

Muttering something to himself, the boy did so, then stood.

“Now hand it back to Patterson here.”

Again Jenkins glanced at his ringleader. But even at three to two, Deke Steeves was not anxious to tangle with Mr. Thurston, who was a big man and who knew how to handle himself.

Steeves stood silent. Slowly Weed walked forward and handed Jeremiah Mr. Watson's mail. Jeremiah nodded, then turned and walked away. When he was gone, Mr. Thurston
also turned and went back to his wagon.

“You'll pay for this, Thurston!” Steeves called after him, incensed to appear so powerless in front of his friends. “You'll pay, I tell you. I won't forget this!”

A T
HOUGHTFUL
D
AY

49

I
t seemed like washday sure came around often. I reckon there were more of us now, and we were washing all the men's clothes, and there were four of them and they all worked hard and their clothes got dirty. It was a lot of work running a plantation!

Papa and Uncle Ward had dragged out the big pots and got the fire ready the night before. Then as soon as it warmed up the next morning, Katie and Emma and I got started on the wash. Josepha let us do most of it ourselves. She was a hard worker in the kitchen, but she wasn't too keen on washing, though she'd help us hang the clean clothes on the line sometimes.

It was a hot day and we started to get silly like we had that other day right after Emma had come. Pretty soon we were splashing water on each other and laughing and running around as if we were little girls again. By the time we were almost finished, we were soaked. I was just filling a bucket half full of water to throw at Katie when suddenly I realized we weren't alone.

I looked up. There was Jeremiah watching us and grinning real big.

It took me so by surprise, and I guess I was a little
embarrassed to have him see me like that, and I forgot about the others. Emma took advantage of the distraction and suddenly I felt a bucketful of water dump on my head! Emma was nearly beside herself with delight at having gotten me so good. She ran off toward the pump to refill her bucket and go after Katie.

Jeremiah walked toward me while the others went on, still laughing and throwing water at each other. He was staring at me with the oddest expression.

“What . . . what are you looking at!” I laughed, water dripping from my head.

“You's jes' real pretty, dat's all.”

“I'm a mess!”

“Dat's not what I's talkin' about. It's who you are dat's pretty. You's even pretty when you's all wet.”

“My mama used to say men could be exasperating—but I didn't expect it out of you!”

“What you talkin' about!” laughed Jeremiah.

“Just you talking about me being pretty on a day like this.”

“Why shouldn't I? You are.”

“The other day I was all dressed up in my new brown dress and you didn't even notice. But now that I'm soaking wet, you go saying those kinds of things about being pretty. I know I'm not pretty anyway.”

“I did notice you dat day,” said Jeremiah. “I saw you standin' dere on da porch as I wuz walkin' up.”

“I never saw you,” I said.

“I wuz comin' up behind you. But den I saw you kind ob lookin' out, wiff a thoughtful expression on yo face, and I stopped. It didn't seem right dat I should disturb you right den. But if I had, it would er been ter tell you dat you wuz da prettiest girl I'd eber seen, an' dat you looked so old an' growed-up, jes' like a real lady. An' dere I wuz in my work clothes an' my dirty hat . . .
you looked too good fo me. Dat's why I stopped an' didn't come no further.”

I looked away and felt the heat rising up the back of my neck. I remembered the day vividly. I had been thinking about Jeremiah at the very moment when he'd been watching me and I hadn't known it. I'd been wondering what would become of us, what our future would be. I was wondering if I was good enough for Jeremiah, just like he had been about me!

“So what did you do,” I said, “on that day, I mean, when you saw me standing on the porch?”

“I jes' looked at you fo anudder little bit, and den lef' an' went back ter what I'd been doing,” said Jeremiah. “But seein' you like dis—all happy an' laughin' and workin' hard an' havin' fun . . . it's different. Den it's jes' shinin' out from inside ob you. Like I said— you's jes' real pretty, dat's all.”

“That's about the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me, Jeremiah,” I said, looking toward him with a smile. “Thank you.”

Suddenly a shriek put an end to our conversation.

“Mayme!” shouted Emma. “Kin you run after dat wet little scamp!”

I looked where she was pointing and saw William running after one of the barn cats. He was heading behind the barn.

Jeremiah and I ran after him. I was more than a little relieved. I wasn't used to talk about how pretty I was!