Let the Circle Be Unbroken (28 page)

Without a sound Moe hung the water bucket onto the hook and waited for Mr. Peck’s next words.

“. . . uh . . . we’re finding that there’s been a miscalculation. The AAA committees made a mistake in figuring the likely production of certain acreage, and based on the figures they turned in to the state board, Mr. Farnsworth allowed too much cotton to be planted. Well, uh, now that the committees discovered their mistake, we’re gonna have to correct it. . . . You understand what I’m saying, Orris?”

Mr. Turner looked suspiciously at Mr. Peck. “I understands what Mr. Farnsworth told me. Early on this spring he told me how much cotton I s’pose to plant.”

“Well . . . uh . . . yes, that’s so. But we got a problem here, ya see. These mistakes—”

“Look here, Mr. Peck,” Deputy Haynes interrupted impatiently, “all these here explanations ain’t necessary. Don’t ya see the nigger don’t understand nothin’ you saying? Let’s jus’ do what we come to do and get on with it.”

Mr. Peck nodded meekly, glanced at Mr. Turner, then away again, as if he could not face him. Taking out a pad and pencil from his breast pocket, he walked past Mr. Turner and the deputy to the end of the field. There he stopped and looked over the field, then with his head bent to the pad scribbled madly for some time while we waited, wondering what it all meant. Finally, he put the pencil in
his pocket and stood for several moments staring at the pad. Then, as if he did not want to come back, he walked slowly up the field in measured steps. He stopped and pointed down the row.

“Now . . . uh . . . Orris . . . ya gonna have to plow up everything from the road to—”

“Noooooo!” cried Moe, his voice rending the morning like the crack of summer thunder. He dashed from the well and grabbed frantically at Mr. Peck. “Ya can’t make us plow it up! That’s our cotton out there! We done worked hard and ya can’t jus’ go make us plow it up! No way ya can!”

Mr. Turner rushed over and pulled Moe away from Mr. Peck before Deputy Haynes could get him. “It’s all right!” Mr. Peck cried to the deputy as he turned to take Moe from Mr. Turner. “It’s all right, Mr. Haynes.”

The deputy looked at Mr. Peck and after a long, tense moment stood aside.

“Papa, we can’t let ’em do it! We done put too much into it!”

“Hush, boy!”

“Maybe you gonna let ’em, but I ain’t!” Moe jerked from his father’s grasp and headed for the house. “I’ll stop ’em!”

Mr. Turner caught Moe again and this time he hit him, so hard that Moe fell backward onto the ground.

I let out a gasp; Big Ma told me to keep quiet.

Mr. Turner helped Moe up and held onto him. Mr. Peck, a sorrowful look in his eyes, wiped the perspiration from his face. “I know how y’all feel and I don’t like this no more’n y’all do. But it’s gotta be done. Ain’t nothin’ ’gainst y’all. This here’s happening to colored and white alike, and plenty of other folks gonna come under the same hardship. I’m the first one recognize all the work you folks done put in your crop. It’s a mighty fine-looking crop. But
we gonna hafta correct the figures.” He sighed hard and looked at Moe. “I don’t fault you, boy. I’d hate to lose this crop my own self.” He stared out at the field in silence, then stuck the stick he carried into the soil. “I jus’ hope y’all can understand this in time, Orris.”

Mr. Turner didn’t say anything.

Mr. Peck sighed once more and turned to face Mr. Turner, but it took him so long to speak, I wondered what he was waiting for. “You gonna have to do it now, Orris. I gotta see you plow it up.”

Mr. Turner stared blankly at the agent.

“Get a move on ya, Orris,” Deputy Haynes ordered impatiently.

As if in a stupor, Mr. Turner glanced at the deputy, then walked behind the barn and brought back his mule. Asking none of his children to help him, he went into the barn, returned with his plow, and hitched the mule to it. He led the mule to the marked row and, stopping, gazed out at his fields. Taking off his hat, he wiped his head with a red bandana, replaced the hat, and looking straight ahead yelled, “Ged on up, mule!”

As the plow cut through the earth, uprooting the plants to lie withering in the summer sun, Moe slowly followed his father out across the fields. Midway down the first plowed row he stopped and picked up one of the uprooted plants. For some time he stood unmoving, staring down at it. Then he bent his head to it; his shoulders shook and he cried.

I felt like crying too.

Mr. Peck had been right. The Turners weren’t the only ones to have their cotton plowed up. The Shorters and the Laniers lost an acre each, the Averys a quarter, the Ellises and Mrs. Lee Annie a third, as all through the community fields blooming with large cream-colored blossoms and plants hanging heavy with bolls beginning to fill with soft puffs of cotton were being turned back to the earth as they had been two years ago. But our fields were not touched; neither were the Wigginses’. Only plantation fields were being plowed up, including those of white farmers. As the hot days of summer moved into July and the plow-ups continued, dissatisfaction grew more intense and the grumblings louder.

“Shuckies, man,” said Ron Shorter as a group of us crossed the school lawn after a morning of Bible classes which were offered each summer, “I thought my papa was gonna bus’ somebody sure when that Mr. Peck and that little Deputy Haynes come tellin’ us we had to plow up that field. Lord have mercy! What they ’spect us to do?”

“S’pose to get a higher price,” Clarence reminded him. “Guaranteed.”

“Shoot!” Ron exclaimed. “Ya oughta know as well as me ain’t none of us sharecroppin’ gonna see no money, higher sellin’ price or not. It’s always the same. After the deducts, we got nothin’. I tell y’all, this kinda stuff keep up, me and Don thinkin’ bout goin’ into the CCC or maybe goin’ up to Jackson looking for work, ’cause we don’t much see how we gonna hold out this year we don’t get none of that government money Mr. Granger holding on to.”

Don nodded, affirming his brother’s statement.

I sighed, hoping they were both just talking.

“Well, shoot, man,” said Little Willie, “ain’t hardly no jobs no place ’ceptin’ at that hospital building site, and they ain’t even hiring now. Way I figure, you ain’t got a job, you most likely ain’t gonna get one.”

“What ’bout the cane fields?”

Little Willie stared apprehensively at Moe. “The cane fields?”

“In Louisiana.”

Stacey studied Moe. “You thinkin’ ’bout going?”

I looked at Moe, still feeling his pain at the loss of so much of his cotton.

“No reason much to stay here now. Be better I could get me work where I can get me some money.”

As we reached the road, Dubé Cross came running up and
the subject changed from cane fields to union. “Y-y-y’all hear ’bout the m-meeting? Wh-wh-white and colored. F-f-first time. Night after n-next.”

“Night!” exclaimed Little Willie. “Man, ain’t nobody in they right mind ’round here gonna be meeting with no white folks at night!”

“S-s-seven o’clock. Still be light. Over at M-Mr. Tate S-Sutton’s.”

“What’s it gonna be ’bout?” questioned Stacey. “The plow-ups?”

“A-A-Ain’t y’all heard?” he cried. “M-Mr. Wheeler back from W-W-Washington and say he know’d how c-c-come all this plowin’ up b-been goin’ on. W-W-Wasn’t ordered by Washington. Them folks on the AAA committees—M-Mr. Granger and Mr. Montier and th-th-them—th-they’s the ones at f-f-fault. SSS-Seems they figured a way to plant more cotton than they was s’pose to, and Mr. F-F-Farnsworth, he gone along with it, th-that’s what Mr. Wheeler f-figure. Th-Them ole landlords come tellin’ Mr. Peck th-they jus’ done made a mistake. Shoot! Th-They made a mistake all r-right. Th-they was plantin’ a whole bbb-buncha acres they wasn’t s’pose to be plantin’ and bbbb-buyin’ up other folk’s bale tags too so’s th-they wouldn’t hafta pay that fifty percent t-t-tax.”

Dubé stopped and looked at our stunned faces, then nodded firmly in confirmation of his own words.

“Th-That’s right! Th-They was gettin’ government money for th-them acres and then figures to g-get money from the cotton they grow’d on th-them same acres. G-G-Gettin’ money on ’em twice was what they was d-doin’. M-Mr. Wheeler, he say the Washington AAA folks was ’b-bout to come down here and dddd-do some checkin’ and these here
ole landlords heard ’b-b-bout it and set everybody to plowin’ to g-g-get they figures straight ’fore th-they checked. A-A-Ain’t that somethin’!”

“Lord!” said Moe. The word was no more than a whisper.

“Y-y’all tell y’all’s folks ’bout the m-meetin’, h-hear? I-I still g-g-gotta tell everybody up and d-down the road ’long th-this way, so I-I-I’m gonna hafta g-go.” He took off, running toward the Ellises’, then yelled back. “Stacey! S-see y’all later when I-I-I come up that way.”

For a while the older boys continued standing in the road talking of this new revelation and what could happen at the meeting, but Christopher-John, Little Man, and I, growing restless, started slowly down the road; Suzella went with us. By the time we reached the crossroads, Moe and Stacey still hadn’t caught up and we stopped to wait.

“Wish they’d come on,” I said.

“They be ’long directla,” said Christopher-John, then cocked his head. “Car comin’.”

We waited a moment. Stuart Walker’s Hudson appeared on the rise. As soon as I saw it, I sighed and turned back toward the school. Christopher-John and Little Man, understanding, followed my lead, but Suzella wanted to know why we were turning back. “Them boys always up to no good,” I explained as she unwillingly came behind us. “Better we meet up with Stacey and Moe.” We managed to get only a short distance down the road before the car rolled along beside us. “Keep on walking,” I ordered, not even looking around.

But then Stuart said, “Excuse me, ma’am.”

I turned, wondering who he was talking to.

“Would you mind stopping for a minute?”

Against my advice, Suzella stopped, so that we had to do
the same. Stuart, at the wheel, braked and, stepping out, took off his hat. He smiled somewhat sheepishly at Suzella and said, “Ma’am, excuse me, but by chance you Mr. Henry Harrison’s niece visiting from Shreveport?”

Suzella looked at him blankly.

“Not to be forward, ma’am, but we hear tell she’s here and we seen ya here with these younguns, and knowing they live next to Mr. Harrison’s place, we thought maybe they was escorting you someplace. Figured you might be her.”

I spoke up hastily, afraid where this was heading. “This here, she ain’t Mr. Harrison’s niece, this here’s—”

“My name’s Suzella,” she said, cutting me off. “Suzella Rankin.”

I stared at her, and shook my head at her stupidity.

“Where you from?”

“New York.”

“Ah, I see. You gonna be here long?”

“A few weeks.”

Stuart fumbled somewhat awkwardly with his hat; I had never seen him act like this before. “Well, Miss Suzella, my name’s Stuart Walker. My family owns a plantation on the other side of Strawberry.” He motioned toward the car. “That there’s Joe Billy Montier in the front seat . . .” Joe Billy immediately jumped out, swept off his hat, and nodded to Suzella. “And Pierceson Wells there in back.”

Pierceson respectfully touched his hat. “Ma’am.”

Stuart waited a moment for Suzella to speak. I waited too, afraid for her to say anything, afraid to say anything myself. Stuart had made an embarrassing mistake and I knew it wasn’t going to be very pleasant when he realized what he had done. “Who you visiting, if not Mr. Harrison?”

Suzella crimsoned. She kept her eyes on Stuart, away
from us. “It was nice to have met all of you, but I really have to be going on now.”

She started to turn away but Stuart stopped her. “Forgive me, Miss Suzella, but you being new to these parts, I’d be most happy to show you around.”

I shot a quick glance at Christopher-John and Little Man and their eyes said what I already knew; we had to put a stop to this. I braced myself. “Suzella, come on.”

Stuart’s eyes left Suzella and fell on me. “You best watch your manners, gal.”

“I—”

“Please don’t talk to her that way,” Suzella said.

Stuart’s voice ran smooth again. “You being from the North, Miss Suzella, you most likely don’t know that down here we demands respect from our nigras. We let something like this slide by, they’ll go walking all over us.”

My anger rose, fiery and hot, but I now knew better than to say what I felt.

Suzella moved away from Stuart. “We really have to be going. It was very nice to have met you.”

“My pleasure. One thing ’fore you go. I’d like to come calling on you, you don’t mind.”

For the first time Suzella appeared nervous. “No . . . that wouldn’t be possible.”

“I’m really quite a reputable person. I’m persistent too.” He smiled charmingly. “Maybe I could see you at church.”

I started down the road, about to explode. Little Man came with me. Christopher-John, torn, looked around indecisively and waited for Suzella.

“I . . . I really have to go,” she repeated and started walking.

“Can we give you a lift?”

“No . . . no, thank you.”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you again, though, Miss Suzella. I’ll make sure of that!”

The car door slammed, then the car passed us with a honk, moving slowly to avoid raising the dust. When the car was gone, Suzella ran to catch up with Little Man and me. “Cassie—”

I was burnt and let her know it too. “Don’t you talk to me, girl! Don’t you say one devilish word!”

“But, I—”

“Can’t stand you no way!”

She pulled back, her face growing pale at my attack. Then Christopher-John quietly reprimanded her. “Suzella, you was wrong to do what you done. Uncle Hammer, he say that kinda thing get you in trouble.”

“’Round here acting like you white,” grumbled a disenchanted Little Man with an angry, disappointed glance back at her.

On the way home, none of us said anything further about the meeting, and Stacey with his mind on other things seemed not to notice how quiet we all were. I certainly didn’t feel like talking, but I was surprised when neither Christopher-John or Little Man said anything either. I supposed they were feeling let down that Suzella had acted as she had; another idol had fallen. As for Suzella, I didn’t know what she was thinking and, frankly, I didn’t much care. I was tired of her.