Mississippi Cotton (7 page)

“Y’all waitin’ for your daddy?”

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said.

“Maybe he’ll give me a ride home. Had to put my truck in the shop earlier today. Saw y’all, and thought I’d catch a ride back home, maybe.”

“He’s gonna be here any time Mr. Hightower, I ‘magine,” Taylor said.

“And who do we have here?” he said, looking at me.

Oh, this is our cousin Jake. From Jackson—”

“Earl Hightower, son. Nice meetin’ ya.” He extended his huge hand. It seemed as big as a catcher’s mitt as he shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hightower.”

“What’s your last name, Jake?”

“Conner.” I didn’t tell him I knew who he was. I had heard Cousin Trek and Cousin Carol talking about him lots of times. And they always seemed to be saying nice things about him. But I didn’t say that. I just pretended not to know him.

“Jake likes hoeing cotton. Prob’ly likes pickin’ it too,” Taylor said.

Casey laughed. “He’s kind of stupid,” he said.

I punched him on the arm. I knew they were just playing with me, but it made me kind of mad—made me feel like a city slicker. “I didn’t say I liked it. I said I like to make the money.”

I wasn’t about to let it get out that I liked hoeing or picking cotton. Nobody in his right mind liked that, and I could be the laughing stock of the county if such a rumor got out.

“Well, don’t worry, Jake. I’ll keep your secret.” Mr. Hightower smiled and rubbed the top of my head, while reaching and grabbing Casey by the nose with two fingers, making him squeal like a piglet. “And if there’s any stupid goin’ round, this one’s got his share.” He laughed at Casey, then let go of his nose, giving him a little push backwards.

Casey faked great pain: “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” then laughed.

Daddy told me that hoeing cotton meant hoeing out the weeds during the growing season—usually from about April to the end of September. Cotton has a long growing season, which is one reason why it grows mostly in the South; that and the need for plenty of rain, which the Delta gets. Too many late freezes in the spring or early freezes in the fall are bad for cotton farmers. He said that cotton requires a certain amount of heat, and if it gets too cold when it is young in the ground, or when it is coming out almost ready to be picked, it can be damaged. In both cases the farmer’s yield is cut back a whole lot.

I knew that hoeing cotton wasn’t nearly as awful as picking it. Picking was brutal back-breaking work. But hoeing was slow, boring and hot. Not long after the sun rose, the temperature rose quickly to the mid eighties. By late-morning it could reach one hundred degrees.

If you had been picking every year since about an hour after you were born, you could get tired of cotton fast. But since I hadn’t I could at least make some money while on vacation.

“Your daddy says you’re gonna be helpin’ me and BB next week,” Mr. Hightower said.

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said.

“Who’s BB?” I asked.

Mr. Hightower said, “That’s Big Black Julius. We jus’ call him BB. His daddy jus’ calls him Julius. His football coach gave him the nickname Big Black Julius. You don’t know him, Mr. Jake?”

“No, sir. But Cousin Trek told us we were gonna be helpin’ him on Monday. Said he played football pretty good—”

“That’s what they say. Supposedly he could have got some kind of scholarship at Florida A&M. Jake Gathier wanted him—pretty good coach. That’s what the colored folks say. But he went in the army right outta high school. Said he didn’t care much ‘bout college right then.”

“Where’s Florida A&M?” Casey asked no one in particular.

“In Florida, dopey,” Taylor said.

I laughed. So did Mr. Hightower, but not as loud. It wasn’t that funny to him, I guess. “Well, I think it’s in Tallahassee. It’s a colored school. Usually have a pretty good football team. I know that.”

“And y’all know Big Black Julius pretty good?” I asked. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever heard the name when I’d come up here before.

“He’s a colored friend of ours,” Casey said.

“Yeah. A big guy, too,” Taylor added.

“Just got back from Korea,” Mr. Hightower said. “Big, strong boy; a hard worker, too. Julius Samuels is his whole name. His daddy is Ben Samuels. He says he might want to go to that new school for colored students at Itta Bena. Mississippi Valley State or something like that. Probably can’t play ball now though. His wound in Korea might not allow it. Least, that’s what I heard.”

Mr. Hightower took a toothpick from behind his ear and put it in his mouth. Lots of men did that—put a toothpick in their mouths for no reason. Just something to do, I guess. “Y’all got a big Saturday lined up? Or your daddy got y’all workin’ all day?”

“We’re goin’ fishin’. We don’t have any work ‘til Monday; at least none in the fields. Momma and Daddy always got summin’ to do around the house,” Taylor said. “We’re goin’ down to the branch at Cottonseed Road. Bet you anything we’ll pull in some big cats.”

“Y’all oughta get your daddy to take you over to the river, down at the bridge at Greenville. If y’all want big cats.”

“I don’t think he’s gonna have time while Jake’s here. He’ll be pretty busy gettin’ ready for pickin’.”

“Well, maybe I can take y’all after church next Sunday. I got a friend or two with boats down there. We could really do some catfishin’. Blues,  channels--they catch some giant spoonbills on trotlines down there, too.”

Just then Cousin Trek pulled up in the pickup. He stuck his head out of the window and held out his hand to shake Mr. Hightower’s. “Hello, Earl. Whadaya say? Makin’ a night on the town?”

“Not really. Jus’ havin’ coffee over at the café.”

Before Mr. Hightower could finish, Taylor piped up. “Can we give Mr. Hightower a ride, Daddy? His truck’s broke down.”

“Well, sure nuff. Jump up here in the front, Earl. You boys climb in the back.”

Viewing the rows of cotton in the daytime, it seemed they stretched for miles, and almost like a long straight highway in the distance, seemed to come to a point on the horizon. At night they disappeared into the darkness only a few yards away. Each row seemed to make me blink in the headlights as we drove by, a reminder that they would be there in the morning.

At night before the moon was up, there seemed to be a jillion stars. To me they looked like eyes that had come out to look at the land while the sun rested. It was much different out here in the country than it was in Jackson. As we passed the rows of cotton, I thought of the cottonseed plant in Jackson. When we drove downtown, Farley and I would always plead with Daddy to drive close to the cottonseed plant so that we could smell the cottonseed oil cooking. But out in the country there were things to smell that the city didn’t have.

It was an extra three or four miles out of the way to Mr. Hightower’s house, but that was fine with us. At night, the air felt good blowing on you. Riding in the back of the truck gave us a kind of free feeling that felt especially good as a change from the daytime heat. We had to shout to hear one another over the rush of the wind and the noise from the Firestones against the pavement.

“Did y’all hear about that dead guy they found in Greenville?”

“What dead guy?” said Taylor.

“What dead guy?” said Casey.

“A dead man they found in the river. He got shot two times. Then he was chunked in the river.” I guess in all the excitement of my arrival I’d forgotten to mention it. But when Mr. Hightower mentioned the bridge at Greenville, I remembered it.

“Aw, c’mon. Where’d you hear that?” Taylor asked.

“You mean y’all haven’t heard about it?”

“Aww you’re jus’ makin this up,” Taylor said.

“No, I’m not. The deputy sheriff told me.”

“A deputy told you?” Casey asked.

“Well, not really jus’ me. I was sittin’ at the counter at the bus station in Greenville and he kinda told everybody—at least everybody sittin’ there.”

“And you’re not makin’ this up?” Taylor asked.

“No, really. Some colored man and his son found the body.”

CHAPTER 6

We had a glass of milk when we got home. Then we were off to bed, well before eleven.

“Do y’all have to sleep in pajamas, still?” I asked. By a certain age, most boys were of the opinion that pajamas were a little sissy.

“Not really, but Momma would rather we did. Daddy said it wasn’t a big thing on his mind. Besides farm boys have to get up early and quick. Ain’t got time to fool with pajamas.”

I put mine back in the drawer. Mother had made me pack them, but she didn’t say I had to wear them.

Cousin Trek came in and told us to get to sleep and not lie down and talk all night, not if we expected to get up and go fishing. These were mostly standard instructions, and we went to sleep as soon as we could. We were excited about the three weeks ahead.

Cousin Carol let us sleep late, until seven. But we were still tired. We had whispered until after one.

“Hey, let’s eat and get on out,” Taylor said. He stood on the edge of the lower bunk and was holding on to the top edge while he poked me with his finger.

“I’m up. Have been for a while. Is Casey up?”

“I doubt it. He sleeps like a drunken sailor.” That must have been something he heard in a picture show, or maybe one of the men playing checkers had said it. I was pretty sure he had never seen a drunken sailor, sleeping or not.

“Get up. I’ll go get him,” Taylor said. He went through the open double doors into the adjoining room.

I threw back my sheet and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. There was a ladder at the end. That was for cowards, since real men jumped out of their beds like firemen or paratroopers. After jumping, I went through my assigned drawer looking for my most worn blue jeans. I was standing there in my underwear when Casey walked in.

He rubbed his eyes for a moment then stared at me. “Hey! You gotta hole in your underwear. Booty, booty, booty. I—see—your—booty,” he hollered.

Casey was only eight and he was always doing stuff you’d expect from a guy in the third grade. I dropped my underwear and mooned him.

“Ahh!” He put his hands over his eyes.

Taylor broke up laughing.

From downstairs I heard Cousin Carol. “Y’all better get dressed and get down here before I throw these pancakes out and make you paint the chicken house instead of goin’ fishin’.”

Painting—the curse of mankind. “C’mon, y’all, let’s get goin’.”

Cousin Carol made pancakes like she made pies. They were great. Or maybe it was easy to make pancakes. I don’t know. Anyway, my mother made good ones, too. I couldn’t remember if that was a family trait my grandmother had mentioned in her book or not. But we ate as many as she fixed, and almost all the Aunt Jemima in the large bottle was gone by the end of the meal. We probably could have eaten more, but we wanted to get on down to the branch.

Cousin Trek had already left. He and Big Trek went downtown most Saturday mornings and drank coffee at the café, waiting for the seed and feed store to open, or to talk with other planters before they made their rounds in the fields. Today he had gone alone since Big Trek was still in Clarksdale.

“Y’all got your poles and everything you need?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Taylor said.

“Finish your milk, Casey. Now wipe your mouth, and not on your sleeve. Use your napkin.” Too late. “Casey!”

Trying to recover, Casey wiped his sleeve with his napkin. Awkwardly, he murmured, “May I be excused?”

Cousin Carol didn’t answer. She stared at him with one corner of her mouth up, one corner down. There was a brief silence. “Get out of here. All of you.” A slight smile materialized.

“The pancakes were good, Cousin Carol. I sure enjoyed ‘em,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad you did, Jake.”

“Me, too. Thanks, Mama.” Taylor said.

“Me, too, Mama,” Casey uttered, licking his lips.

“Y’all get upstairs quick and brush your teeth. And be back here for dinner. I didn’t have time to make you any sandwiches.”

We walked through the back yard, past the garage and the chicken house, toward the field of ripening cotton. We walked our bikes down one of the rows that led to Cottonseed Road, then followed it to the bridge.

It was about a mile and a half to where the branch passed under the bridge. We left our bikes and walked along the branch. It was eight o’clock or thereabouts, since none of us had a watch. And we’d have to guess about what time noon came so we’d not be late for dinner.

We carried our cane poles over our shoulders. Casey carried the can of worms. Cousin Trek had also scooped up a few roaches out of the barn and put them in a jar for us, careful to poke some ice pick holes in the top so they wouldn’t die before we killed them. I carried the roaches while Taylor had a cigar box under his arm full of extra hooks, sinkers and some extra line.

Roaches, crickets and worms were the best bait for bream, although they would even bite on white bread if it stayed on the hook long enough. All of these were also terrific for catfish, because catfish were scavengers and would eat most anything.