Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) (5 page)

T
he afternoon goes by fast as we pick strawberries and Grandma and Ma talk in codes about Grandpa. That's fine with me. Because Uncle Buddy already taught me to listen in code.

“You know, Mer, I was thinking while you-all were in town.”

“Thinking about what, Ma Babe?”

“Well, I reckon I'm going to take your Cousin Irene up on her offer to have a telephone put in the house.”

“Really? That's a surprise.”

Our Cousin Irene, my aunt Rosie's gal, who lives
in Newark, New Jersey, has tried for years to have Grandpa and Grandma put a telephone in. Grandpa said, “Fine,” but Grandma didn't want one. She said she don't want to talk to nobody that don't live on Rehobeth Road. She just stands at the end of the road and yell over to Miss Doleebuck. Miss Doleebuck stands on her porch and yells back. They do that mess all day long.

“Nothing but someone to worry me to death,” Grandma declared the last time Irene mention the telephone man coming out.

“I was thinking that Braxton ain't well and if anything happened to him late at night, Lord knows I ain't able to walk to Doleebuck's for help. Even when I get there, they don't have a phone either.”

“A telephone is a fine idea, Ma Babe. I will write Irene tonight and tell her. I'm sure she will send the money right away.”

I don't have any idea why Grandma can't just go in the jar and take out the money she need for the telephone instead of Irene sending it. Then again, I do know. Uncle Buddy said, “Grandma is a spoil little somebody.”

I'm not even trying to pretend I'm not listening at this point.

A telephone on Rehobeth Road. I just can't imagine that. I will tell Uncle Buddy this news when we are going into town tonight, and I can't wait to write and tell BarJean. She will pass the word on to Coy. Just think, I will be able to call her sometimes. I wonder what our number will be.

Only the fact that it is quitting time is getting my mind off of this telephone business.

“It's five, Ma.”

“Okay, Pattie Mae, you can stop now.”

She never questions me about the time, even if I have never owned a watch in my life. I just follow the sun with my body just like Grandpa taught me. If you can touch the head of your shadow with your foot, it's high noon. If you look straight up at the sun without bending your neck, it's 5 o'clock.

There!

On the nose 5 o'clock.

“Can I check on Grandpa?”

“Yes, but if he is sleeping, don't wake him up.”

“All right, Ma.” I put my strawberries in the
basket under the shed that my grandpa built and go to check on him.

That should be at least a dollar's worth of strawberries, I think as I wrap them in a cooling sack so the ants can't eat them.

When I look in on Grandpa, he is sitting up in bed. Hudson is up too.

“Grandpa, you're up?”

“Yes, gal, I am. Now come on over here and lend me your shoulder. I want to get out of this bed and take a walk.”

“I don't know about this, Grandpa. Ma will be mad.”

“I'm her daddy, she ain't my mama. Now stand straight.”

Grandpa put both his hands on my shoulders and before I know it he is standing up. Somehow he has managed to put his overall back on over his short-sleeved checker shirt that he said is his favorite. He takes small steps as we walk across the floor like two rats trying not to be heard. Before we make it to the door, Grandma is back in the house, through the kitchen, into the bedroom.

“Braxton Jones, you best get back in that bed!”

Grandpa don't say a word. He just looks at Grandma and she moves faster than I knew she could. I want to laugh, but over her shoulder stands Ma giving me the “You have done it now” look.

“Leave her alone, Mer. I want to go for a walk and she is going with me.”

No one argues with my grandpa when he's mad, not even the controlling women. We walk out that door like we have won a war. Hobo stands at the bottom of the steps, wagging his tail like he has won too. He barks once and follows us on our evening walk with his enemy, Hudson. I think he and Hudson even smile at each other for the first time. We get as far as Mer's tree when Grandpa wants to stop and rest.

“Are you okay, Grandpa?”

“I'm fine. Let's sit a minute.”

I help him to the ground. Hudson jumps in his lap and Hobo jumps on my lap. The evening sun is not as hot as it was when we were picking strawberries earlier. But it is hot enough to dry the land
for chopping on Monday. I don't even want to think about chopping right now. I just want to enjoy my special time with Grandpa.

I sit beside him and close my eyes. I wish that he will be well when I open them.

He is smiling at me when I open my eyes.

“Daydreaming again?”

“Yes sir, I guess I am. I can't help it. I feel like I can make anything happen in my dreams, Grandpa. Anything.”

“Like what, child?”

“Well, I can dream about you being well, like you used to be. I can dream about going North.”

“Now, going North is something to dream about. But dreaming about me, child, ain't nothing but a waste of time. See, if don't nothing else catch up with you, time will.”

Now, I'm not sure what he means by that, but I think it has something to do with dying. I don't know why old folks talk about dying so much anyway. They talk about dying like they are sure they going to heaven. I mean, they say stuff like, “When they carry me to Chapel Hill, I'll get some rest
then.” They don't mean for church services, they mean for their funeral. I have never seen anything like it in my life. If I want to rest, I don't want to die; I want to go to bed.

So I just change the subject when they talk about dying this and dying that. It's just too much for my twelve-year-old heart to take.

“Would you like me to read you the letter I got from BarJean?” I ask to get away from time catching up with him.

“Go ahead.”

I read Grandpa my letter, and we laugh about Coy getting married. So much for keeping secrets. We sit there and watch the sun. It changes its position from 5:30 to 6:00 in silence.

The peace.

The quiet.

But that is short lived.

“Braxton Jones, you and Pattie Mae best come in this house and eat supper.”

All the way across Jones Property, Grandma yells.

“She's controlling us again, ain't she, Grandpa?”

“Yep, I'm afraid so. Help me up, child, before she come out here at us.”

“I'll help, too,” Uncle Buddy says.

We look up and it is my uncle all covered with sawdust.

“Hey, Uncle Buddy, you off earlier.”

“I sure am. I got me a date with my niece today.”

“Give us a hand, boy,” Grandpa says with authority as he reaches up and grabs Uncle Buddy's hand.

We both help Grandpa up. Clearing his throat, he leans against Uncle Buddy for support. Then he stands at the fence that divides Jones Property from Mr. Bay's dairy farm, like he wants to change something in his life. He wants to say something, but he is thinking first. Uncle Buddy is always in a hurry, except around Grandpa. He just stands there and let Grandpa take his time. One day I asked him why he has so much patience with Grandpa and no one else.

“You should always listen to your grandpa. He ain't got no schooling, he just know what he know. Besides, the young are strong, but the old know the way.”

That was my moment to ask the big question.

“What about Grandma? She is old and you don't listen to her.”

“That's because she's a woman.”

I think that makes Uncle Buddy that word I heard Mrs. Wilson at the grocery store call Mr. Wilson—“male chauvinist pig.” I looked up the word “chauvinist” in the dictionary. After I read my Webster Dictionary, I knew Mrs. Wilson was right about that husband of hers. And the meaning fit Uncle Buddy, too.

Stroking my hair, Grandpa asks me the questions he has been asking me as long as I've been old enough to listen.

“You see that tree, gal?”

“Yes, sir, I see it.”

“From the tree to this fence is Jones Property. I bought it from Wynter Waters, a grandson of a slave owner. Well, I didn't really buy it. I worked for it. Four long years. Not a dime did he give me for my labor for four years. His daddy owned my daddy and his granddaddy owned my granddaddy. I sharecropped free for Wynter until he got tired of
farming and moved up North. He said he traded this land for my labor because slavery shamed him. I don't know how true that might be. I reckon he made the trade because no one else wanted to buy land on Rehobeth Road. Whatever his reason was, this is Jones Property now. And it belongs to your ma, Buddy, and their sisters, Louise and Rosie. One day it will belong to you.

“That means you will have a home right here on Rehobeth Road for as long as you live. No matter what you do in life, remember you got Jones blood and a place to call home. Can't nobody take that away from you, nobody.”

Uncle Buddy stands there with us and smiles as Grandpa tells us the same story that he tells us at least once a month. I don't mind listening, but I never plan to live on Rehobeth Road after I'm eighteen. But I always let Grandpa have his say. Me, I'm going to get me a train ticket up in Rocky Mount and I will be on my way North forever. Just imagine me living in New York. In Harlem. I hope it is as beautiful as it has been in my dreams.

W
e always have Friday night supper on Jones Property. Uncle Buddy don't even stop at the slave house to clean up. He comes straight to the dinner table from the sawmill. Grandma fuss about that sawdust falling everywhere, but Uncle Buddy comes anyway. Catfish, potato salad, green beans, and strawberries for dessert.

Grandma even puts flowers from the flower garden on the table. Yellow daisies in the summer, pansies in the winter. It's so nice. Today Grandma is so happy about her new table, she even goes into the cupboard and put the yellow vase Coy brought
her from Harlem on the table. But I'm not interested in food, tables, or fancy flowers today. I just want to eat and get dressed.

“Slow down, child, that food ain't going nowhere.”

Slow down. She must be kidding.

Lord, if I could just talk back to grown folks. If I could, I'd tell her that I have been waiting five years to go to the movie house. I better not say a word. I'm going to finish this food and get out of this kitchen.

After putting my last strawberry in my mouth, I look at Ma.

“Can I be excused to get dressed?”

“Excused? Girl, you got dishes to wash.”

Grandpa quickly comes to my aid. “Let the child go now. You can do the dishes.”

Ma don't like it, but she always gives in to Grandpa.

“Go on, girl, and you best behave tonight.”

Uncle Buddy look at me and winks his eye and I wink back, just like he taught me when I was eight.

Ma has her way of still babying me. When I get to my sleeping room, I notice Ma has filled the big
washtub up with water, so I would take a full bath, not just wash up. Lord knows I need to, after no bath this morning. Ma even left some of her powder out for me. I feel like a big girl for the first time.

After I finish dressing, I walk to the front porch where I hear Mr. Charlie, Grandpa, and Uncle Buddy talking. That's where they always talk after catfish supper on Friday nights.

Don't know if they plan to or not, but they sit in the same spot every Friday night. Grandpa in the green rocking chair, with Hudson in his lap, Mr. Charlie in the chair that doesn't rock, and Uncle Buddy on the doorstep. If the ladies come out, those controlling women go in the screened-in porch where the mosquitoes can't get them. I hope they stay inside tonight so Ma won't see my shoes.

“Where is Pattie Mae?” Grandpa jokingly asks Uncle Buddy.

“Don't know,” Uncle Buddy says, laughing.

“It's me, Grandpa! Stop playing.”

They get a kick out of seeing me all dressed up just to go to the movie house. Uncle Buddy doesn't
look bad himself. He has walked back to the slave house and changed into his Sunday go to meeting white shirt and black pants.

“I have the prettiest date in Rich Square. Actually I have two dates.”

I don't say anything, because that's grown folks business. But Uncle Buddy is bringing someone with us. I thought it was going to be just us two.

Better not say anything, because Ma will just make me march right back in the house and no picture show.

“Well, let's go, pretty lady.”

He don't have to tell me twice. I kiss Grandpa and Mr. Charlie good-bye, and arm in arm we walk across the grass on Jones Property, as the crickets get louder. They are singing like they are cheering for me.

The lightning bugs are everywhere, like they know it's a special night. Hobo is not barking or wagging his tail. He's mad because he ain't going.

“Good night,” Mr. Charlie and Grandpa yell across the hot summer air.

Ma and Grandma peep from the window and
wave. They join the men folks in teasing me. Ma claps and Grandma does, too. Then Ma yells, “Nice shoes, Pattie Mae.” Thank God she is going to let me live.

Uncle Buddy even opens Mr. Charlie's car door for me. They trade cars on Friday night, so that Uncle Buddy won't have to drive his pickup into town. Mr. Charlie says that boy ain't going to never find a wife driving that truck on courting nights. Besides, it smells like sawdust no matter how many times you wash it. Just as long as it's clean on the inside. “Never mind the smell, it's clean,” Uncle Buddy always says. He also swears he will never buy another city car. That's the one thing about Uncle Buddy that ain't citified. He says he don't want one down here in these sticks. Ma told me that one evening about a month after Uncle Buddy got here, he got off work and someone had peed all over his blue Cadillac and broke all the windows out. Ma said it was definitely jealous white folks. But Uncle Buddy ain't never told me nothing about that mess. It took every colored man that worked in town to keep Uncle Buddy from looking for the
men who took a leak on his car. He got rid of it so he wouldn't kill no white folks. Ma said that big mess scared her to death. She also said it was grown folks business and she only told me about it because she got tired of me asking what happen to the blue Cadillac Uncle Buddy rode down here from Harlem. After she told me that little bit, she never breathed a word about it. It don't matter to me what we ride in tonight. There is nothing I enjoy more than time alone with my uncle Buddy. Well, maybe being with my grandpa. But my time with Uncle Buddy is so special because he never treats me like a two-year-old. I can ask him anything.