The Return of Buddy Bush (7 page)

“All but me. I don't go down South for nothing. And I told Buddy to stay away from down there, but he would not listen. A colored man ain't got no business south of Baltimore. None!”

He looks sad as Mr. Wright comes around the corner to pay him two quarters.

“I'll see you next week, Tom, before I go back to Paris.”

Paris! I almost fall on the ground. He lives in Paris, France. He just visiting New York. I'm going to ask Mr. Tom about that as soon as I find out where Uncle Buddy is.

“Yes sir, Mr. Wright. I will see you next time,” Mr. Tom thanks Mr. Wright and turns back to me. “Pattie Mae, go on home,”

“No, I can't go home. Not until you tell me where my uncle is.”

“Look! Go home. Come back tomorrow at the same time. Now, go!”

I better do as I am told. If Mr. Tom knows Grandma got a telephone, he might call down there and tell her that I am up here looking for Uncle Buddy. If that happens Ma is going to skin me alive.

I am halfway home when I remember that I did not ask Mr. Tom about Mr. Wright living in Paris. I will have to ask him tomorrow.

Tonight I don't say a word to BarJean about running into Mr. Tom. We are eating catfish just like we do every Friday down South and
then we are going to bed. I will read some more obituaries until I fall asleep. BarJean works a half day on Saturday so I will be back at the shoeshine stand at ten o'clock in the morning.

“
G
ood morning, Mr. Tom.”

“Good morning, child. How you feeling this morning?”

“I'm fine. Did you find my uncle?”

“Pattie Mae Sheals, what are you doing here, gal?”

I feel love come all over my body. A love that only Uncle Buddy and Grandpa can make me feel. Uncle Buddy steps from around the building long enough to pull me back there with him.

“Uncle Buddy!” I crying out as my nose and eyes have a contest for which one can run the most water.

“Hush, child. Ain't no need to cry. I'm all right.”

“But Uncle Buddy, where have you been?”

“Hiding, child. I'm hiding to stay alive.”

“Oh Lord, Uncle Buddy, Grandpa is dead.”

“I know, honey. I know. Harlem ain't nothing but home away from home for people from down South. I have known Papa was dead ever since the day he died.”

“Oh, Uncle Buddy, I'm so sorry you couldn't come to the funeral.”

“But I
was
there, my child.”

“You were? Where?”

“The gravediggers. When someone dies don't nobody ever pay attention to the gravediggers. There were three men that were suppose to dig the grave. The Masons got me a uniform and a digging tool and I helped dig the hole for Daddy Braxton's finally resting place. When the undertaker asked the family to leave the cemetery, they opened the casket one last time so that I could say good-bye to him. It was raining so hard, folks didn't even notice who was who. Them so-called smart white folks was so sure I was going to try to come in
with the pallbearers or the friends of the family that they never thought about the gravediggers. That is who I was that day As soon as the funeral was over, the Masons got me out of town and back up here.”

“But how did you get home from Harlem for the funeral?”

“The blue Cadillac, child. I rode with BarJean and Coy as far as Emporia, Virginia. From there a few of the Masons picked me up and I stayed down in the Low Meadows with Bro Smitty. Ain't no white folks coming down there. They ain't been down there since the flood of 1940 came and scared the mess out of them.”

Oh, Lord, we hug and hug.

We cry and cry.

“They caught them, Uncle Buddy,” I tell him. “The law caught the white men who tried to kill you.”

“I know that too, child.”

“Well, why are you still hiding? We can go home now.”

“Child, I can't go back. They ain't going to send those men to jail and they ain't going to give me a
fair trial because they think I tried to harm that white gal. Pattie Mae, I can't ever go back.”

I don't say anything else. I just stand there and listen to my uncle Buddy tell me how he has been hiding ever since he left down home. How the good colored folks in Harlem have looked out for him. Especially Mr. Tom, who let him stay in his basement all this time.

“It's time for you to leave, child. Do not tell BarJean you saw me. She don't need to know where I am. She know I'm here somewhere and she know I'm all right. Now you go on and don't come back.”

“No, Uncle Buddy, no. Please come with me.”

“Don't you talk back to me, child. Get out of here.”

His voice almost scares me. I hug him and walk away. But then I stop and go back to my uncle Buddy.

“Open your hand, Uncle.”

He give me a look like he think I am going to put a worm in it like I did the last time I told him to open up.

I take one of Grandpa's obituaries from my pocket and put it in his hand.

“Bye, Uncle Buddy Bye, Mr. Tom.”

We wave good-bye to each other as Uncle Buddy disappears as fast as he had walked around that corner.

Lord, I feel ten pounds lighter now I know my uncle really is in Harlem. He really is alive!

I did not breathe a word about seeing Uncle Buddy to BarJean that afternoon. She was sitting in the kitchen waiting for me when I got back. I lied and told her I had just gone for a short walk.

She don't believe me. She ain't saying a word. Just looking at me. This means she is going to tell Ma as soon as she can get her on the phone. BarJean ain't much on fussing. She is good on tattling. Watch and see. Finally she is talking.

“You ready to go shopping?” she asks.

I say yes faster than I ever said it in my life.

BarJean changes into her walking shoes and out the door we go.

Our first stop is the fabric store, just like BarJean promised.

Oh, Lord, BarJean, I ain't never seen so much fabric in my life.”

“Pick five different colors for skirts. Coy said he will buy you some blouses later. And stop saying ain't in Harlem.”

I want to scream,
ain't, ain't, ain't,
but Miss BarJean is really silly about this word mess now and I don't want to make her mad again. She might change her mind and we will not be here in the store shopping. I know what I will do. I will tell Uncle Buddy how she is acting.

I pick red, blue, white, brown, and light blue fabric for my skirts. BarJean walks over to the counter and gets the thread and she is talking to some black woman who works here.

“Come over here, Pattie Mae,” BarJean calls to me. “I want to introduce you to Miss Sara.”

Miss Sara. I'm walking slow. She don't just work here. This is her store. She own it. The sign out front says
SARA'S FABRIC
. Harlem sure is something. Wait till I tell Chick-A-Boo.

We talk to Miss Sara for a long time. Her and BarJean talk about everything under the sun except Uncle Buddy. People don't even mention his name. But when we leave, she hugs BarJean real tight and whispers something in her ear. You know these grown folks are going to force me to put a mason jar for ease dropping in my pocketbook and carry it everywhere I go.

“Hi, BarJean,” a voice says from behind us.

“Hi, Mary,” BarJean says as she turns around and hug this woman who know BarJean and don't know me.

BarJean introduce me to Miss Mary as my new sister-in-law. This is the girl Coy is going to marry. She sure is pretty and a Harlem girl. She is all dress up on a Saturday. She must really love Coy, because she just talking about him and that wedding. She got her arms filled with fabric that she say is for her wedding dress.

“It was nice to meet you, Miss Mary,” I say, to let BarJean know I am sick of listening to grown folks business. We say our good-byes to Miss Sara and Miss Mary, pay for our stuff, and leave.

“Where we going now, BarJean?” I ask when we get out on the street.

“To the jewelry store.”

“The jewelry store. What we going to do there?”

“I thought you wanted your ears pierced.”

“Well, I do, but what about Ma?”

“Look, if we get your ears pierced now, they will be all healed with your birthstone in them by the time you get back to Rehobeth Road. Ma can't do nothing about it then but fuss.”

BarJean don't know what she talking about. When Chick-A-Boo's oldest sister, Marniece, took a hot needle and a piece of thread and pierced her own ears, Miss Blanche made her take her earrings out and her holes closed right back up. Marniece got her ears pierced again when she went to Newport News to stay with her Aunt Lillian for the summer. When she got back they were already healed with her birthstone in them. Miss Blanche made her take her $2.00 earrings out and her holes closed right back up again. I'm not even going to tell BarJean about Marniece, because I want my holes in my ears. I
will just have to take a chance on Ma killing me when I get back to Rehobeth Road.

“Have a seat right here, little lady,” the girl in the jewelry store says after BarJean pays $1.00 for my ear piercing. “Now, hold still.”

She rubs some alcohol on both my ears and then she taking out her own needle and thread. I can't believe it. I thought she was going to use one of them machines that Uncle Buddy told me his women folks got their ears pierced with. But she ain't. I'm all the way in Harlem getting my ears pierced with a needle and thread. I could have done this right on Rehobeth Road!

It hurts a little, but not too much.

I am just looking at myself in the mirror. My ears look good. Wait till Chick-A-Boo see me.

“Your ears look nice, little sister,” BarJean says as I am still looking in the mirror.

“Thank you, sister. Are we going home now?”

“No, we still got to get your hair fixed. We suppose to be at Miss Van's Beauty Shop in twenty minutes.”

BarJean and me run down the streets with all
my bags, just laughing like old times. Times before they took my uncle and grandpa from us.

Miss Van is a piece of work. She got fake hair, fake eyelashes, and clothes like the dancers I saw on the sign with Mr. Ellington at the Apollo Theater. I'm not going to ask if she owns this place because the sign outside says
VAN'S BEAUTY PARLOR
.

I ain't never seen so many women getting their hair fixed in one day before in my life. Those women are something else. I do not need a mason jar in here. They just talking their heads off.

Miss Van is not heating a straighten comb, so I do not know what she is going to do to my hair. I sho' hope she ain't going to braid it up.

A jar of perm! As she is pulling that jar of perm from under her counter, I feel faint again. Piece by piece she put perm in my hair after she covers my newly pressed ears. Miss Van laughs and says I do not need as much perm as BarJean because my hair ain't as nappy as hers.

When she finish my hair, she don't even put rubber bands on it. Miss Van is pulling my hair
back with a piece of white ribbon to make a headband and my hair just fall on my shoulders like a real teenager. Like a real city girl.

Now we can go home.

Wait till Uncle Buddy see my pierced ears and my new hairdo.

I
t's Monday morning and BarJean gone back to work. I don't care what Uncle Buddy said. I have to talk him into coming home with me.

I am sleepy because we were up all night making my new clothes. BarJean is good with that sewing machine. She let me cut out all the patterns and she did the sewing. When she finished, I put the buttons on the clothes. I am going to be as clean as Willie Gatling when I get back to Rich Square. That's what folks at home say when you real dressed up. They do
not say you dressed up. They say, “You clean as Willie Gatling.” You see, can't nobody get cleaner than Uncle Buddy's friend Willie Gatling. He is always dressed fine from head to toe. He gets cleaner than Uncle Buddy. I ain't never seen him without a suit. He works at the sawmill too and Uncle Buddy says he don't wear a tie to work, but he is always in a jacket.

I can't wear my new stuff today. I got walking to do. Back to the shoeshine stand I go.

Mr. Tom mad because I am back down here. But I tell him I'm going to keep coming until he tells Uncle Buddy to come back.

On the third day he said, “Come back tomorrow, child.” I finally wore him down.

“I will be back early, okay?”

He don't even look up from shining some man's shoes.

“Mr. Tom, do Mr. Wright really live in Paris?”

“Yes, child, he do. He moved there last year. Times hard in the South, but they ain't easy here, either. They really ain't easy for a man like Mr. Wright.”

“But why, Mr. Tom? You like it here. Why he any different than you?”

“You ask him when you see him again.”

I will do just that, I'm thinking to myself as I walk away.

I'm at the shoeshine stand the next morning before Mr. Tom could get his rag box open.

There he is. There's Uncle Buddy.

“Hey Uncle Buddy!” I yell and jump into his arms.

We just hugging, hugging, and hugging.

“Why, Pattie Mae, you got your ears pierced, and look at your hair.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“You look real pretty,” he says.

I knew he would see my newly pierced ears and my new hairdo. That's how Uncle Buddy keeps his women folks happy. He notices everything about them.

He's laughing because he knows that sister of his is going to skin me alive when I get home.

Now it's time for the talking. Talking Uncle
Buddy into coming home. If I cry a little, surely he will come back with me.

“Come back to BarJean's apartment with me, Uncle Buddy I want her to know that you all right. I hear her crying about you late, late at night.”