Judy's Journey (7 page)

“We been sleepin' on the ground ever since we left home,” said Joe Bob.

“We got a mattress,” said Mama proudly. “We make pallet beds out of quilts for the young uns.”

“On the
ground
?” asked the captain, shocked.

“Shore,” said Mama. “When we stop for one night, we don't trouble to set up the iron bed.”

“We been havin' a cold spell,” said the captain. “Hit went clear down to 40° the other night, and the paper says hit might freeze tonight.”

“Huh!” sniffed Mama. “It's a heap colder'n that where we come from. This feels warm to us.”

“We always aim to help the destitute,” said the captain lamely.

“We ain't destitute,” said Mama.

“We got a goat,” said Joe Bob.

“Me—eh! Me—eh!” bleated Missy.

The captain gave up and went away.

Then a newspaper reporter came. He took a large camera out of his car, set it up on a tripod and pointed it at the tent.

“What you want?” demanded Mama.

The children stood and stared. Judy held Lonnie who began to cry.

“Stand still just as you are,” said the man. “I'll take your picture before it gets too dark and then I'd like to get your story. It's for the local paper. I'm a reporter.” He worked fast and before they knew it, had snapped the picture.

“What story?” asked Mama.

“Oh, just who you are and where you came from, and how many children you got, and what you're doing here, and where you're going,” said the man. Briskly he got out his notebook and pencil. “Captain Pendleton's been to see you, hasn't he?”

Mama hesitated. She didn't know what to do or say. “Judy,” she called. “Look see, is Papa comin'?”

“No, I don't see him, Mama,” said Judy. “Here, you take Lonnie and put him to bed. I'll talk to this feller. You jest leave him to me.”

“Now, be mannerly,” said Mama. “Don't say nothin' to rile him.”

Mama went into the tent. Judy stepped up to the man, her arms akimbo, her bright eyes flashing.

“You're outa your place, mister, a-runnin' round here takin' pictures of people who all they want is to be let alone. We ain't hurtin' nobody and we never said we wanted to have our picture in the paper, 'cause we don't.”

“Not if it helped your father to get a job and a house to live in?” asked the reporter.

Joe Bob stepped up. “I'd jest like to cut that thing to pieces—that thing you take pictures with. If I jest had a knife, I'd …”

The man folded up his tripod hastily.

“What you takin' our pictures for?” demanded Judy. “We ain't done nothin' wrong. You'll be tryin' to put us in jail next. Well, my Papa
asked
if we could camp here and the man said yes!”

Without a backward glance, the reporter climbed into his car and drove off. He hadn't been gone long before a large shiny black car pulled up and two well-dressed, middle-aged ladies stepped out.

“We're from the Women's Philanthropic Welfare Circle,” they said. Mama came out of the tent and frowned.

“Oh, how cold you poor people must be, camping in this damp place on a cold night like this,” said the first lady.

“No, we ain't cold,” Mama said patiently. “This seems warm to us.”

The women stared at Judy and the children. “At least your children might put on their shoes and stockings. Their legs look blue,” said the second lady.

“Ain't got no shoes,” said Joe Bob.

“Ain't got no stockin's,” said Judy.

“How long since they've had a bath?” asked the first lady.

Mama turned her back and did not answer.

“I will be glad to let you and your children sleep on my back porch, if you'll come home with me,” said the second lady. “You can all have nice warm baths in the bathroom first. Just how many are there of you? You folks always have such big families.”

“We don't like baths,” said Joe Bob.

“We like to be dirty,” said Judy.

“We like to play in the dirt,” said Cora Jane.

It was fun to be obstinate. All the children's impudence was coming out—they were trying to make their unwelcome visitors go away. Mama heard Lonnie cry and brought him out of the tent in her arms.

“And that's your poor baby,” said the first lady. “He's sickly, isn't he?”

“No, jest ornery,” said Mama.

“And your poor husband has no job?” asked the second lady.

“He's gone to see about gittin' one,” said Mama.

“You won't come home with me then?”

“Can't leave all our plunder here by the lake and be gone when the old man gits back,” said Mama patiently.

“How long since you've had a good meal?” asked the first lady.

“Half an hour,” said Mama.

Judy could stand it no longer. Mama was tired and the women were pestering her to death. She walked boldly up—as boldly as if she were facing Old Man Reeves himself, and spoke loudly: “Why can't you-all go away and leave us alone?”

But the ladies, intent upon doing good, ignored her. “I'll get your husband a job in one of the citrus plants in the morning,” the second lady said.

“And I know where there's a nice little house for you to live in,” said the other.

“Don't want your nice little ole …” began Judy, but she stopped suddenly. They
did
want a house and a home and a job for Papa. They wanted it more than anything in the world. Judy was stricken with regret that she had been rude to the ladies. She bit her tongue. That fortune-teller was right—her hot tongue was always getting her into trouble. Then she listened to what Mama was saying. Mama was always patient. Mama never lost her temper. First she had been annoyed by that captain and then by that reporter and now by these prying women, but Mama never said a rude word.

“Jim won't take a job inside,” Mama was saying quietly. “He can't stand it to be cooped up indoors. Can he git a job pickin' oranges?”

“No,” said the lady, “that's done by colored men—experienced pickers, trained for the work. Of course if your husband is a good grove man——”

“What's that?” asked Mama.

“A man who knows all about growing oranges and grapefruit and work on a grove.”

“Jim never saw an orange tree in his life until three days ago,” said Mama. “He was born and bred in an Alabama cotton field.”

“Too bad,” said the lady. “Too bad we can't help you.”

“We don't need help,” said Mama. “We'll make out. We always have.”

The ladies went to their car, shaking their heads. Their words floated back: “You try to give them food and shelter, and a good steady job, but they refuse it all. They
like
to live like that, unwashed, improperly fed.” As they drove off, one lady leaned her head out and called cheerfully, “We'll be back to see you in the morning. We'll bring you some clean clothes and a basket of groceries.”

It got dark and Mama and the children went inside the tent. When Papa returned from town, they were all awake, sitting in the darkness, waiting for him.

“Did you get you a job?” asked Mama.

“No,” said Papa. “The plants were all closed, but I talked to some men about it. The trouble about citrus is this—you got to work in the packing plant, 'cause all the outside work, pickin' the fruit and takin' care of the trees, is done by colored men. I don't think I want to start workin' indoors in nice weather like this.”

“Just what I told them ladies,” said Mama.

“What ladies?”

Then the story of the unwelcome visitors came out.

“Puttin' our picture in the paper!” Papa was mad. “I'd like to put a stop to that. Campin' on the highway ain't so good, even if we did git permission. People botherin' their heads about us is worse than bein' ordered off the place. We go from the fryin' pan into the fire, don't we?”

“They mean well, I reckon,” said Mama.

“Papa, one lady said she had a little house for us to live in,” said Judy wistfully.

“We don't want her little ole house,” said Papa.

“But the jalopy might break down and we couldn't go no farther,” said Joe Bob.

“Don't worry, son, I can fix it,” said Papa.

“If the lady gits you a job, Papa, we won't always have to be drivin' to a new place,” said Judy.

“Gittin' tard o' travelin', honey?” asked Papa. “I thought you liked to go rollin' along.”

“I'm dog-tard of it,” said Judy.

“So are we all,” said Papa, “but we got a little farther to go … We ain't got to Heaven yet, have we, Calla?”

Mama shook her head and hushed Lonnie.

“They're comin' back first thing in the mornin' and bringin' us clothes and vittles in a basket,” sang out Joe Bob. “I heard 'em say so.”

“Do you reckon they'll bring shoes and stockin's?” asked Judy, her eyes aglow with eagerness.

If only she could get a pair of shoes, she would be willing to do without the stockings. A pair of shoes—any size, whether they fitted her or not.
Oh, if I'd a been nice to them ladies, they mighta brought me stockin's too. But I was mean. I said mean things. But likely they'll bring shoes and stockin's anyway——

“Go to bed and get to sleep,” said Papa. “We'll make a soon start in the mornin'.”

“
You'll wait till them ladies come back, won't you, Papa
?” cried Judy. In her voice was all the longing she felt.

“What for, honey?”

Judy couldn't say out loud what she was thinking. Papa wouldn't understand. He didn't know how badly she wanted shoes, and she couldn't find the words to tell him.

“You done right to say we're not destitute, Calla,” said Papa. “Why, we're
rich
. We're not exactly loaded down with this world's goods, but we got each other, and we got four nice kids, and we ain't never starved yet. We're not destitute, and we don't take
charity
off nobody. We still got our pride.”

The next morning at daybreak, the tent came down and the jalopy drove off with the trailer behind it. Not a trace of the last night's camping except broken-down grasses could be seen when a large shiny black car pulled up and stopped later in the day.

“They're gone,” said a lady inside the car. “What did I tell you?”

“Thankless ingratitude,” said her companion.

Papa stopped at a filling station and talked for a long time to some men there. When he came back to the car, he had a new map and he pointed out the route the man had showed him. Judy read off the names of the towns: Lake Wales, Frostproof, Avon Park, Sebring, Childs, Hicoria and Moore Haven.

“Oh, see all the lakes on the map!” cried Judy. “This one, where we're goin', is the biggest of all. O—kee—cho—bee! What a funny name.”

“Indian name for ‘big water,' the man told me,” said Papa. “Advised me to go down around the southeast corner of the lake, near Belle Glade. He said a family can make twenty to thirty dollars a week in beans.”

“What kind o' work?” asked Mama.

“Gradin' beans,” said Papa. “It's light work that women folks can do—just watchin' the stuff go by on the belt and pickin' out the culls.”

“Go by on a belt? What you mean, Papa?” asked Judy.

“It's in a packing house, where they pack beans and green stuff to ship up north,” explained Papa. “There's machinery that keeps a wide belt movin', and the beans come along on the belt, and you pick out the bad ones and toss 'em in a basket. That's all there is to it.”

“Sounds easy,” said Mama. “But will you like workin' indoors, Jim?”

“I can stand it for a while, jest to make a little cash money,” said Papa thoughtfully.

It was dark by the time they reached Moore Haven, and everybody was tired and sleepy, so Papa lost no time making camp in a vacant lot on the edge of town. Soon the Drummonds were all fast asleep.