Let the Circle Be Unbroken (12 page)

The boys and I stopped at the well to get some water, an excuse to listen further.

“But I ain’t had nothing to do with that. That decision came from Washington.” Mr. Farnsworth sighed and glanced out to the west field, already planted in corn. “And, David, I ain’t had nothing to do with that check business either.”

Papa only looked at Mr. Farnsworth and said nothing. The boys and I waited, knowing too well how put out Papa was with the government’s crop-reduction program. Although I found the government’s program confusing and understood very little about it, one thing I did understand was that the government had asked us, along with all the other farmers, to plow up nearly half of our cotton two years ago, cotton already planted and blooming in the fields, and they were supposed to pay us for it. Well, they had paid us all right, with a government check. The only problem was that Harlan Granger’s name had been on it.

Mr. Granger had claimed that he held a first mortgage on our cotton crop, and as Mr. Farnsworth explained it later, the government’s policy was to list first mortgage holders as copayees on the checks so that they would be sure to receive any money owed to them. Of course Mr. Granger had never held a mortgage on our crop, but since it was his word against ours, it seemed useless to fight him. As for the check, there was no way for us to cash it without Mr. Granger’s signature, and if Mr. Granger signed, part of the money would go to him. So Papa, Mama, and Big Ma had decided not to sign the check at all and Harlan Granger hadn’t pressed them to sign; after all, it wasn’t the money he wanted. He just didn’t want us to have it.

“Now I know what you thinking,” said Mr. Farnsworth. “I’m the one brought you the check to endorse and I’m the one representing the Agricultural Adjustment Administration. Well, that’s both so. 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. You remember that?”

“I remember,” Papa said. “I remember too I ain’t put Harlan Granger’s name on that contract.”

“Well . . . he come after you signed and said he had a lien. . . . I had to put his name down.”

Papa was silent.

Again Mr. Farnsworth glanced away. “Thing is, I had no idea the government was gonna issue the checks like they done, made out to the signer and to anybody had a first mortgage on the signer’s crops. It was my understanding the check was supposed to go to the farmers to give them some relief.”

“Well,” said Papa, “that ain’t what happened.”

Mr. Farnsworth nodded before going on. “Now last year you all didn’t join the program and you planted as much cotton as you wanted, but what’d it get you? You lost over a quarter of your crop anyway. If you’d’ve been part of the program, then you would’ve at least had the money the government would’ve paid you for not planting all your cotton acres.

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Well, I told you I would’ve made sure Mr. Granger’s name wasn’t on the check this time, even if he made the claim again. Anyway, it’s done with now and nothing we can do ’bout it. Last year’s contract was for thirty-four and thirty-five, so unless you want to sign for this year now, you won’t have to worry ’bout a contract . . . but you are gonna have to worry ’bout the new cotton tax.”

I glanced over at Stacey; he kept his eyes on Papa and Mr. Farnsworth.

“The government’s gonna have its way on this thing, David, and there ain’t nothing you or me or anybody else much can do about it.” He turned back to his car. “You’ve got the tax exemption forms there so you can put in, for your bale tags. You’ll need them to show how much you’re allowed to grow when you take your cotton to market.”

At the car he hesitated and looked again at Papa. “You know, David, I don’t like these restrictions any more’n you or most anybody else. Wish the government had just hired agents of their own to do this restricting business, and let us extension agents do what we was hired to do—help you farmers with your crops. Most folks don’t seem to understand that. They blame me for everything’s gone wrong. . . .” He looked at Papa as if wanting his understanding, then got into the car. “See you next week,” he said and backed out of the drive.

As Mr. Farnsworth headed east on the road, Mr. Granger’s sleek silver Packard came from the other direction and the two cars stopped. Papa watched them a moment, then crossed to the well. “Can I get a little of that too?” he said.

“Sure thing, Papa,” said Little Man. He filled the dipper with fresh water and handed it to him.

“Papa, this here cotton tax,” I said. “What that mean?”

Before Papa could answer, Stacey laid a hand on his shoulder and nodded toward the road. “Look like Mr. Granger’s coming up here.” We all stared at the Packard, keeping our eyes on it.

Of the four major landowners in the area—the others were the Montiers, the Harrisons, and the Walkers—Harlan Granger had the largest holdings and was the most powerful. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted, when he
wanted it, and one thing he had long wanted but had not gotten was our land.

The Packard sped up the road and slowed at the driveway. Mr. Granger honked his horn, summoning Papa. Papa stared at the car, then finished his water and gave the dipper back to Little Man before going down. The boys and I waited until he was halfway to the road before following him as far as the mulberry bush.

“David.”

“Mr. Granger.”

“Just seen Mr. Farnsworth on the road. Said he’d just been here to see y’all.”

“That’s right.”

“He told me he spoke to you ’bout the government’s tax.”

“He did.”

“You know why the government had to do that, don’t you? To keep folks not under contract from planting as much cotton as they feel like and making more money’n folks done joined the program.” He stared pointedly at Papa. “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.”

Mr. Granger waited as if expecting Papa to say something. When Papa didn’t, he added, “It’s for the good of everybody.”

“So I understand,” Papa said.

“Good. . . . You know, David, I like you. You run foolish sometimes, but far as I can see, you got a streak of sense in you and I admire that. 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. Now I know y’all need money, so I’d like to help y’all out if I can—maybe pay your taxes and y’all can pay me back when y’all can.”

Papa tilted his head slightly at the offer, but he said: “Well, Mr. Granger, I thank you kindly for your offer, but we always take care of our taxes ourselves.”

“Well, I’d be glad to. Wouldn’t’ve offered otherwise.”

“Like I said, I thank you.”

Mr. Granger’s eyes met Papa’s; he smiled again. “All right, David, but you change your mind, you let me know.”

“Don’t ’spect I’ll be changing it.”

“Well, you never know. . . .” Mr. Granger shifted gears and Papa stepped back from the car. “By the way, you hear tell of a union man talkin’ to anybody down in here?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Heard there was some socialist up organizing ’round Vicksburg.” He shook his head. “Hope that rottenness don’t come down in here. That’s a nasty business, that union, and no good’ll come of it.” He pulled into the drive and turned around. “One other thing, David. You find you don’t need all your bale tags, I’ll be glad to take them off your hands. Pay you a good price for ’em. Don’t forget my offer now ’bout your taxes. Be glad to help. Anytime.”

The boys and I went over to Papa, standing motionless watching the rolls of dust as the car sped back up the road. “Papa, how come Mr. Granger being so nice?” I asked.

“Nice?”

“Yes, sir. Offering to pay our taxes and all.”

Papa laughed. I shot him a puzzled look.

“Listen, sugar,” he said, putting his arm around me. “You boys, too, and remember. Any time that man offer something, you jus’ look to see how he gonna gain from it.”

“But, Papa, how could he?” asked Stacey. “He’d be putting out money.”

“’Cause, Stacey, he pay our taxes and his name’ll get on our tax record, and then one day he could put in his claim against our land. Could take it to court and the land maybe could become his.”

Stacey and I looked at each other.

Papa nodded. “That’s a fact. Most likely figured I didn’t know.” He put his other arm around Christopher-John’s shoulders and we headed back up the drive. “Something else to remember too. Gotta always stay one step ahead of folks like Harlan Granger . . . two if you can.”

At the entrance to the backyard, the boys and I turned toward the house. Christopher-John and Little Man ran noisily down the porch and into the kitchen, but Stacey lingered a moment by the entrance then ran after Papa, who was headed toward the barn. Curious, I followed.

“Papa, ’bout this tax Mr. Farnsworth mentioned, what was he talking ’bout?”

Papa looked at Stacey, and took a moment before he answered. “Bad news, son, that’s what it is. The government’s gonna charge us a fifty-percent tax on all the cotton we grow ’bove what they figure we oughta be growin’.”

“But we ain’t got no contract! We don’t hafta grow what they tell us!”

“Looks like we do now, son. Like Harlan Granger said, this here’s to keep everybody following the government’s program whether they got a contract or not.”

“But a fifty-percent tax! Papa at twelve cents a pound, that’d mean we’d only be getting six cents a pound. That ain’t hardly worth the trouble of planting!”

A wry smile edged Papa’s lips. “That’s what the government figures.”

I came closer. “Papa, I don’t rightly understand all this tax and contract business.”

Papa looked my way. “What don’t you understand, sugar?”

I frowned. “Well, the whole business . . . the government program and the contracts and now this here new tax.”

“Well, it ain’t exactly a new tax. Government put it on last year, after we’d already planted, but we didn’t feel it ’cause we’d lost so much of our cotton to the fire. . . . But I know it’s confusing all right.” He glanced out toward the walnut tree standing at the edge of the backyard near the garden. “Come on and let me see if I can clear it up for you.” The three of us walked over to the tree and sat on the bench under it. “Now you know we into what folks are calling a depression?”

I nodded. I knew that well enough. I had been hearing about it most of my life. “Well, with this here Depression, prices fell way low on a lotta things—corn and potatoes and hogs . . . fell on cotton too. Fell to five and six cents a pound.”

“And that’s way low?”

“That’s way low.” Papa shook his head and smiled. “Back in 1919—that was the year I met your mama—prices for cotton got up to thirty-five cents a pound.”

“Did?”

Papa nodded. “But right after that prices started falling, so come this here Depression, cotton prices were already low, and they just hit bottom with this five and six cents a pound.”

“And that’s when President Roosevelt come in,” said Stacey.

I shot him an irritated glance. “Papa’s telling this.”

“He’s right,” Papa said. “Back in thirty-three when Mr. Roosevelt become president, this here Agricultural Adjustment Administration—”

“The AAA?” I said.

“That’s right. It come into being. And the folks on this AAA figured that the way to get prices up again was to cut back on the amount of cotton grown and put on the market. Reasoning was that when something’s scarce and more people want what’s left, then folks’ll pay more for it—”

“And prices’ll rise?”

Papa smiled at me. “Exactly. Well, the government figured that they had to get their program started right away, so they come around in the summer of that same year—thirty-three—and they asked all the cotton farmers to plow up part of their crop—”

“And it was already blooming. I remember that.”

“It was blooming all right. Looked to be a good crop. But the government figured it couldn’t wait, so to get folks to plow up their cotton, they said they’d pay everybody for the acres they plowed up.”

“And that was in the contracts,” Stacey interrupted again. This time I didn’t say anything to him and Papa went on.

“Anyways, the contracts sounded pretty good, but then you know we signed like jus’ ’bout everybody else and you know what happened—Harlan Granger’s name was on our check.”

I nodded, remembering.

“The next year—thirty-four—the government come out with a new contract. Said they’d pay folks
not
to plant. Said if folks didn’t plant some thirty-five to forty-five percent of their acres they were used to planting in cotton, then they’d pay ’em so much per acre. For thirty-five, they wanted folks
not to plant some twenty-five percent of their cotton acres; said though they could plant crops to improve the soil or crops for use just on the farm. It all sounded good, but we decided we’d better not sign up again cause of that check business.”

“Yes, sir.” I was thoughtful a moment. “Moe said their government check go straight to Mr. Montier and he take all of the money.”

Papa shook his head at the injustice. “Folks ’croppin’ like the Turners and Miz Lee Annie and the Ellises, things are even harder for ’em now than they were before the government stepped in. They’re hard on us too—don’t get me wrong—but on ’croppin’ folks, well, it’s really bad. Lotta that money that was s’pose to go to them been ending up in the pockets of the landlords. Landlords claim the government money belongs to them ’cause of the credit they give to folks ’croppin’ their land. Claim all the people ’croppin’ on their places owe them money and some of ’em I guess are telling the truth on that. Still there’re some of these landlords that are making a nice tidy sum from the government and the AAA when they oughtn’t be.”

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

Papa laughed. So did Stacey.