The Well (3 page)

I was quiet a moment, then spoke low. “You know Ma Rachel kinda touched in the head…'specially when it comes to white folks.”

“Then I 'spect maybe I am too. They got no business here.” He walked down to the end of the porch and stood there staring out. I washed my hands and watched him. As I dried my hands on the porch towel, he turned and came back.

“They gone?” I asked.

He nodded. “Nice of them to thank us, wasn't it?” He met my eyes, opened the back door, and went inside.

I didn't follow him this time. Instead I hobbled on my crutch to the end of the porch. The Melbournes
were now drawing water from the well. Like Hammer said, the Simmses were gone, but I knew that as long as this dry spell lasted, they'd be back. Knowing that, I looked up at the sky and prayed for rain. Lots of it. I prayed it would rain so folks wouldn't have to be coming to our well. I prayed it would rain so the Simmses wouldn't have to come here again, because I figured if they did come, sooner or later, there was going to be trouble.

Breakfast that morning was kind of quiet. Hammer was in a mood; so was Ma Rachel. I ain't had much to say myself. Aunt Callie had gone on home, but Halton was at the table, and it was him and Mama who done most of the talking. Papa and Mitchell and Kevin, they usually done a great bit of the talking at the table, great part of the laughing too, but they were away now doing lumbering along the Natchez Trace. They'd been gone for more than a month. The last couple of years they'd been going away to do lumbering work to get money for taxes and for some of the things Papa and Mama wanted our family to have, including more land.

Since they'd been away, not only had Halton been staying with us to help out, but Aunt Callie had been spending a lot more of her time here too. Now Aunt Callie and her husband, my Uncle Lawrence, and their
children lived on our place, but they had their own house, their own fields, on the other side of the woods. Most days Aunt Callie was up to our house anyway a couple of times a day to see about Ma Rachel and visit with her and Mama, but with Papa, Kevin, and Mitchell gone, she was visiting even more. She and Halton and Uncle Lawrence called themselves keeping watch on us.

That was all well and good, having them keep watch, but far as I was concerned, Papa and my brothers had been gone long enough lumbering on that Natchez Trace. I was missing them, and I knew Hammer was too. I figured it was high time they came back. Mama kept saying any day now they'd be home, and they would stay awhile when they came home too. They would stay and watch out for us themselves and help us out with the farm work. Soon, she said, soon. But she'd been saying that for more than a week, and I don't even think she really knew when they'd finally come walking up the road.

After breakfast it was Hammer's and my job to take the cows to get water. Now back then our family was considered rather prosperous, for folks black or white. We had ourselves the two hundred acres, cotton fields, fruit orchards, and a garden. Mama had herself a buggy
and Papa had himself one of the finest stallions in the county. We also had ourselves plenty of livestock—hogs, chickens, guineas, ducks, horses, mules, goats, and cows. We had some thirty cows and calves. Fact, we had so many cows, we had to graze half of them in the pasture behind the barn and the other half down near the pond. Because everything was drying up, the pond was nearly dried out too, but there was still enough water for the cows to get themselves a drink. Each morning we'd take the cows down to the pond and then bring them back again 'round the time the sun set. Well, this particular morning when we gone to take the cows down, we found it so near to dry, we decided to take them on to the Creek Rosa Lee. Even though folks couldn't drink the muddy water anymore, leastways maybe the cows could.

On the way to the creek we met up with John Henry Berry. John Henry was the same age as Hammer, and the two were good friends. “'Ey there, John Henry,” Hammer and I both said.

“'Ey, y'all,” said John Henry, and gave his bony cow a swat to push her on. “Y'all headed to the Rosa Lee?”

“That's right,” said Hammer.

“Then I walk 'long with ya.”

“Fine,” said Hammer, and we kept on going.

When we got down to the Rosa Lee, we found Charlie and Ed-Rose along with Dewberry Wallace, a close friend of theirs, and Mr. Melbourne's boy, George, watering their cows. With them was Joe McCalister, a few years older than the other boys, and black. Altogether, they had some seven cows, and here we come with our fifteen, plus John Henry's one.

It didn't look good.

“'Ey, there, Hammer, David, John Henry!” cried Joe with his good nature.

“'Ey, Joe,” I returned, and Hammer and John Henry gave a nod. Charlie and Ed-Rose and Dewberry gave us a mean look. George Melbourne moved his family's cow away from the others. Hammer and me, we headed our cows towards the water. John Henry and his cow came along.

“Now just hold it right there!” ordered Dewberry. “Hold it right there! There ain't water 'nough here for all them cows!”

Charlie laughed. “Don't tell me y'all niggers gotta come to the creek now t' water your animals. Thought y'all had a pond t' water from.”

“Yeah, we got a pond,” answered Hammer. “Got some fifteen more cows too, to water from that pond. Figured to water these here from the Rosa Lee, yeah, like everybody else. Figured to save that pond water for our other cows.”

I stood there not saying a word, figuring, though, we was about to die. John Henry looked as if he was figuring the same.

The white boys looked at each other, then Charlie spoke again. “Y'all Logans some mighty uppity niggers, ya know that? Think y'all good's white folks 'cause you got a little land and some livestock.”

“And don't forget…we got water too,” said Hammer, rubbing salt into Charlie Simms' already festering soul. “Water y'all gotta come to us to get.”

“Well don't y'all go gettin' so prideful 'bout that water, nigger! Maybe one day you won't have it! Maybe one day y'all'll find somethin' dead floatin' in it!”

I thought my heart was going to burst, it was beating so fast and furious. I could see me or mine floating in that water. I was angry too that they were calling us by
that
word again. It was a galling word, an insulting word that made my blood boil, but a word I had to take because that was just the way white folks talked to us. Maybe some figured no insult by it, but to me it was always a stinging insult, and I stored that insult in my memory.

“So y'all niggers get!” ordered Dewberry, saying that word again. “Y'all ain't waterin' no nigger cows down here t'day!”

“Yeah,” said Ed-Rose, “go on and water 'em from that pond of y'alls!”

George Melbourne ain't said a thing. But Joe McCalister—bless his heart—he sure enough did. “Now jus' wait-a minute, Mr. Ed-Rose!” he exclaimed. “Them cows be needin' water and God ain't gonna smile on a body turn 'way His dumb creatures needin' water!”

Ed-Rose, Dewberry, George, and Charlie too, all looked at Joe. Now one thing about Joe McCalister was that he was what some folks would call not so bright. He had a good heart, though, and most folks cared about him, and even if they didn't, they put up with him. Joe was the kind of person who could speak his mind and folks wouldn't take offense, I suppose because folks figured whatever Joe had to say wasn't worth taking offense about.

“Now ya gots t' let 'em drink, Mr. Ed-Rose,” Joe went on, “'cause God, He done put this water here for everybody and—”

“Joe, shut up,” said Charlie. And Joe shut up. Then Charlie turned back to Hammer and me. “Y'all get,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Dewberry.

“And get now,” added Ed-Rose, “'fore we go and forget jus' how y'all s'pose t' be some of God's dumb creatures too.”

Hammer didn't say anything back to any of them.
He just looked at me, swatted one of the cows with his switch and headed the cows upstream. John Henry with his cow came too. I looked back at the Simmses, at Dewberry and George, and wondered if they would follow. They didn't. Once we were out of sight and hearing distance of them, John Henry stopped his cow and he said, “Ya know ya crazy, don't ya, Hammer? Ya crazy to go talkin' to these white folks like that! Don't ya know these white folks'll kill ya?”

Hammer looked at John Henry. “I 'spect I do,” he said, then he moved on and headed the cows straight into the muddy waters of the Rosa Lee.

John Henry Berry shook his head. “Crazy,” he muttered. “Plain, downright crazy. I stay friends with you, I hope you don't end up gettin' me hung.”

I looked at John Henry and knew how he was feeling; but Hammer was just Hammer, and I followed after him. So did John Henry.

I suspect the Simmses and Dewberry Wallace knew once we were out of their sight that we watered our cows in the Rosa Lee. I 'spect they knew that, but they didn't come after us. I was nervous about watering those cows in that creek and John Henry was too, but Hammer stayed his time, letting the cows drink their muddy fill. Then, after what seemed like an eternity
to this David Logan, he finally turned the cows towards home.

Later that same week Hammer and me were walking the road towards home when we seen a wagon hung over in a ditch with one of its wheels off. All the contents from that wagon were strewn over the ground, and Charlie Simms was in the ditch knelt beside the wagon looking all sick about that missing wheel. Then he seen us, and he hollered, “Y'all up there! Come give me a hand!”

Hammer looked around, first one way, then the other; then he said, “You talkin' to us?”

“Don't see no other niggers standing up there,” countered Charlie.

Hammer clenched his fists. I stepped forward. I wasn't intending to see us mixed into trouble about this. “I'll give you a hand,” I said.

Charlie Simms sneered at me. “What kinda help you gonna be? You here with a busted leg! I want that boy yonder to get under this wagon and push it up.”

I glanced back at Hammer and could see he was getting mighty vexed. “I can do it!” I said. “Busted leg got nothin' to do with my back.”

“David!” Hammer snapped at me. “Don't you do it!
Don't you do it!
I ain't gonna help ya none!”

“I ain't askin' ya to!” I snapped back. Now I had my pride just like Hammer did, but I knew that if we didn't help Charlie out, the trouble that ran between us was just going to get worse; so I limped to the back of the wagon, laid down my crutch, and hefted the low end of the wagon, while Charlie tried to get the wheel back on. “Hurry up!” I said, because that wagon was heavy.

Charlie, though, seemed to be taking his time. “Don't rush me, boy. I get it on when I get it on.”

“I can't hold it much longer!”

He laughed. “Thought you was the one had such a strong back.” He seemed to be toying with the wheel when all he had to do was slip it on the axle. I waited maybe a minute, maybe two, an eternity it seemed to me, and he still didn't have that wheel on.

“I gotta let it go!” I finally yelled out. “It's too heavy!”

“You do and I'll—”

The wagon slammed down and ole Charlie fell back with the wheel into the ditch. “I told you I couldn't hold it,” I said, and reached for my crutch. Charlie rolled the wheel aside, scrambled up from the ditch, and before I could step aside, he laid his back hand across my jaw and knocked me down.

That was the worst thing he could've done.

Hammer, who hadn't lifted a finger to help me with the wagon, dashed across the road and tore into Charlie Simms, knocking him back into the ditch. Hammer fell on top of him and pounded at his face. Charlie finally was able to push him off and tried to climb back onto the road. But Hammer wasn't finished with him yet. He reached for his arm and turned him around.

“Hammer!” I yelled. “Leave him be!” I attempted to pull myself up so I could try and stop Hammer, knowing all the while that when Hammer got this mad, there was no stopping him, for Hammer had a temper like a fire raging. But I kept yelling at him anyway to stop. He paid no attention to me. He hit Charlie one more time with an iron fist and laid him out flat. This time, though, Charlie didn't get up. He didn't move.

“Get up!” Hammer ordered.

Charlie still didn't move.

“I said get up, you no count excuse for a snake! Get up!”

But Charlie just lay there.

I caught onto the back of the wagon and finally managed to pull myself to my feet. I limped over to the ditch and studied Charlie, then turned to Hammer. “Lord, Hammer,” I said, “he done hit his head on that rock and…I think he's dead!”

Hammer stepped back and only now unclenched
his fists; his face was showing no remorse at what he'd done. If he was scared, he wasn't showing that either. But I was sure enough scared, and I was ready to get out of there. I stared down at Charlie. “What we gonna do, Hammer? What we gonna do?”

Hammer stared down at Charlie too and shrugged. “'Spect there's nothin' we can do now, is there?”

I just looked at him and wondered how long it would be before we both got hung. After all, young as we were, we knew enough to know that black boys of any age didn't go around hitting white boys of any age. Black boy hit a white boy, black man hit a white man, he could get hung in a flick of a horse's tail, and that's just the way things were. I ain't hardly lying when I say this David Logan was mighty scared.

It was just about then Halton came along. He hollered at us, not seeing Charlie lying there in the ditch. “What y'all little scounds doin'?” he said, face in that grin of his until he came around that wagon and saw for himself what we were doing. He took one look and the smile was gone. Without even asking what had happened, he said, “Let's go! We gotta get outa here!”