A Yellow Watermelon Page 11

  During the walk home I began to contemplate what I was going to do with all the information I had discovered. By the time I got there I had decided that I was going to need some help. The only question was, who?

  On Monday morning, dew was still on the ground and my feet had gotten wet walking across the cotton field. Last week it had been a fluffy white sea full of people, now it was gray and empty. My uncle’s truck was backed up to the door of the cotton house and the bed was already half full. I found him inside stuffing cotton into a big round basket almost as tall as me. Another big basket was hanging on the wall.

  “’Bout time you got here. Grab that other basket and start filling it up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After Uncle Curvin had emptied several more baskets into the back of the truck, he said, “I’ll take care of the rest of the loading. I want you to climb up on top of the cotton in the truck and start jumping up and down all over it.”

  I didn’t mind doing it; in fact anticipated it being a lot of fun, but I wondered why he wanted me to do that. While I was climbing up I asked, “How come you want me to do that?”

  “Need to pack it down real good.”

  I still wasn’t satisfied. “Why does it need to be packed down?”

  “Two reasons: so I can get more on the truck, and so it won’t blow off.”

  Uncle Curvin loaded and I packed until the truck was almost full. He dumped the last basket on my head and I was completely buried. When I dug my way out, I saw his toothless grin, then he said, “Pack the rest of that down good and we’ll hit the road. Pays to get to the gin early or we’ll be sitting in line.”

  When we pulled out of the field onto Center Point Road he stuck his head out of the window and yelled back at me, “We won’t be going too fast, but hold on tight.”

  After we crossed the Satilfa Creek bridge, I saw the old logging road. I wondered if someone was down the creek making whiskey, and if so, who could it be. I meant to find out one day this week.

  It was a grand ride, sitting atop all that cotton, and it lasted over an hour because Uncle Curvin only drove about twenty miles an hour.

  I had never seen a cotton gin before and kept conjuring up images of what it might look like. Nothing I had brought to mind was even close. When we slowed and began pulling off the road there was a long line of trucks in front of us, all filled with cotton. I heard Uncle Curvin say, “Oh, Lordy, looks like we gonna be here a while.”

  The gin was the biggest structure I had ever seen, built entirely of tin with no windows. It had just one door that I could see, which seemed tiny compared to the building. On the far side of the gin I saw big rectangular bundles of cotton wrapped in burlap and bound with metal straps. Uncle Curvin had pulled into the line and killed the motor. When he got out of the truck I pointed toward the bundles and asked, “What’re those things?”

  “That’s cotton that has been ginned and is ready to be shipped to the textile mills.”

  “That’s what they do to the cotton inside there?”

  “Yep. They got machines inside that remove the seeds and pack the cotton into those tight bundles. Each one’s a bale—five hundred pounds.”

  “Good Lord,” I said in wonder.

  “I’m gonna walk up the line, talk to a few folks. You stay put. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Up at the front of the line, I saw an empty truck pull off a platform, then the next one, fully loaded, pulled onto the platform. Above the platform was an overhang attached to the building. The next thing I saw truly amazed me. A colored man climbed up onto the back of the truck, stood on the top of the cotton, reached up and grabbed a big pipe out of the overhang and put the opening of it down close to the cotton where it started sucking it straight up. He moved all around with the big sucking pipe, and in no time at all, the truck was empty.

  Uncle Curvin came back and saw me looking. “You best get up here in the cab with me or you’ll get sucked up that pipe with the cotton and shipped off to one of them mills, then before you know it you’ll be a shirt.”

  When it was our turn I asked, “What’s this platform we’re driving onto?”

  “It’s a big pair of scales, They weigh the truck when we first get on it, weigh it again after the cotton’s gone, subtract the second weight from the first, and that’s how they’ll know how much my cotton weighed.”

  “Oh.”

  After we were unloaded Uncle Curvin pulled his truck over next to a small building and said, “I got to go in the office and get my money. Be right back.”

  While he was gone I saw a fat man in a brown uniform, wearing a badge on his chest and a pistol on his waist, milling around talking to people. When my uncle came out of the office, the fat man called out, “Hey, Murphy. Wait up. I need to talk to you a minute.”

  I slid across to the driver’s seat to make sure I could hear everything.

  “How’s your cotton crop?” the man asked.

  “’Bout average. What can I do for you?” Uncle Curvin replied.

  I could see the fat man up close now. One of his cheeks bulged with a big chew of tobacco and there were slime stains going down from the corners of his mouth. He turned his head, spat a dark stream, then said, “Looking for a nigger that busted out of a prison over in Georgia. Folks over there think he might be somewhere hereabouts. They tracked him to Greenville, then lost the trail.”

  “Why you asking me?”

  “I’m asking everybody. Figured the gin was a good place to be asking around ’cause folks coming in here from all over the county. His name is Jake Johnson. You seen or heard of this boy?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, that Jake was an escaped convict.

  “There was a darkie working down to the sawmill who just showed up two or three weeks ago.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Well—”

  “I know, they all look alike. I want to thank you for yer help. I’ll be riding down that way first thing tomorrow morning and check him out. Thanks again for yer time.”

  I got back on the other side of the cab before Uncle Curvin got to the truck. He revved up the engine and we took off. We rode in silence for a while, then I asked, “Who was that fat man with the pistol?”

  “That was the county sheriff, Elroy Crowe.”

  “He a good sheriff?”

  “Good for nothing.”

  “What you mean?”

  “He’s in cahoots with every bootlegger in the county. Takes payoffs from ’em and come election time he’ll use the money to buy votes. Did you hear what he had to say?”

  “Yeah. Why did you tell him about Jake?”

  “Had to. If I had lied and then he comes and finds him, well, I would be in trouble then.”

  Once again, we rode in silence for a while, then Uncle Curvin said, “That’s a mighty fine stick you got. Jake make it for you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You think a lot of him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He seems like a decent sort to me, too. If it hadn’t been for his help everything the Robinsons have would have been ashes. I know you visit him down at the sawmill. Maybe you need to visit him again later today.”

  We stopped at a cafe where Uncle Curvin bought me a hamburger, the first one I had ever eaten. He just had a bowl of pot likker with cornbread, ’cause he didn’t have any teeth.

  It was about midafternoon when we got back to his cotton house and started loading the truck again. When we were just about through and the cotton house was almost empty Uncle Curvin said, “I’m gonna leave a pile of cotton and a few empty sacks in here. If somebody needed a place to hide and sleep for a while, then this cotton house would be ideal. And if that somebody could get to the Tombigbee and cross it just before dark, then they could make it to Waynesboro, Mississippi, by daylight
. From there, a person can catch a Greyhound bus to most anywhere.”

  Just before he got into his truck he handed me two quarters and said, “Here’s your pay for the day. I’m gonna take this load by myself. You just stay here at the cotton house until the sawmill shuts down for the day. You know what to do then, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I said. Then I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him, because I loved him.

  14

  Hiding Out

  I couldn’t imagine Jake being in prison. Maybe it wasn’t him they were looking for. I was just about to find out. I came out of the woods as soon as there was no one left at the sawmill except him. I saw him sitting on his bench taking his shoes off and I called out, “Jake, Jake, I need to talk to you.”

  “Sho, we can talk long as you wants to. Just let me get des old brogans off, ’cause my old dawgs needs to breathe a little.”

  “We might not have as much time as you think.”

  “Huh? What in de world has got you so flustered?”

  I saw the fear flicker across his eyes when I asked, “Is your last name Johnson?”

  “It is, but how you knows dat? I ain’t told nobody round here my whole name.”

  “You got to get out of here, Jake! You got to get out of here tonight!”

  By the time I finished telling him of the day’s events he had his shoes back on and a forlorn look on his face. “I done run so long and so far, but now I gots to start running again. Thought I had got ’em off my trail and I could rest a while, but naw, dey don’t never quit. Guess I’ll just get my stuff and start walking, maybe walk all night. I just be so scared dat somebody gon’ see me crossing some field or some road and—”

  “No, Jake, I didn’t mean get out of the county. What I meant was that you need to get away from this sawmill, ’cause this is the first place that sheriff will come looking. Then when he don’t find you here, he’ll go looking in other places.”

  “What you gots in mind?”

  “My Uncle Curvin’s cotton house. You can hide out there until we figure things out.”

  Jake got a deep thoughtful look on his face and asked, “So you is saying dat instead of running I should just go across de road and hide in a cotton house?”

  “Yeah. Go after it gets dark tonight.”

  “What about yo’ Uncle Curvin?”

  “He’s the one who put the idea in my head. He even said he’s going to leave some cotton and a few empty sacks in it.”

  “Cotton house ain’t a bad place to sleep. I done it before. Dey won’t ’spect me to be right here, ’cause dey gon’ think I be running. Dey be driving all over the county looking fo’ me.”

  “That’s right, and you won’t have to worry about food, ’cause I’ll bring you some. Then when things quiet down, I think I know a way to get you out of the county without you ever having to cross a road or a field.”

  “You gon’ be dangerous when you gets grown, smart as you is now. I be putting my trust in you, and I be moving across de road tonight.”

  “Good, take whatever food you have with you and I’ll come by sometime tomorrow or the next day and bring you some more. The cotton house is in the back of the field so I can come to it through the woods without being seen. There’s a branch behind it, just a little ways into the woods, so you’ll have water. I got to go now, but I’ll see you at the cotton house.”

  I had only taken a few steps when I heard Jake say, “Mister Ted, wait.”

  I turned and asked, “What?”

  “I just hopes you don’t think too bad of me now dat you knows where I come from. I didn’t do nothing real bad, I swears I didn’t.”

  “I know you didn’t. I just know it. You still my friend, Jake. Will you tell me all about it?”

  “Sho will. I see you across de road.”

  Tuesday night at supper I listened while my father was telling everyone what I already knew. “That nigger, Jake, been working at the sawmill turns out to be an escaped convict from over in Georgia.”

  My mother was walking around the table spooning second helpings of chicken-and-dumplings onto everybody’s plates when she asked, “How’d you find that out?”

  “That sorry Sheriff Crowe came by looking for him this morning. Said he had busted out of prison in Jackson, Georgia, ’bout three months ago.”

  “Did he catch him?” she asked.

  “He couldn’t catch a rabbit with a pack of hounds. Jake wasn’t nowhere to be seen this morning.”

  “You think he’ll get away?” Momma asked while she refilled my plate.

  “I hope so, ’cause we all liked Jake, but the sheriff said they’d be watching all the roads. This shore is mighty good chicken-and-dumplings.”

  Momma completed her trip around the table and sat back in her seat and helped her own plate. “Thank you. That old hen had quit laying, so there wasn’t nothing else to do with her.”

  The chicken-and-dumplings was real good. I set about planning on getting some of it out of the house. After we finished supper everyone went in different directions. My mother went to nurture her garden, my father to work on his boat, while Fred went with Ned to check his bird traps. As soon as everybody was out of the house I took an empty quart fruit jar, filled it up, and left for Jake’s hiding place.

  A half-hour later, I called softly from the edge of the woods behind the cotton house, “Jake, you in there?”

  I saw one of the big wide boards being pushed outward from the bottom, then Jake slid out through the opening and joined me in the woods. “I thought my nose was playing tricks on me, Mister Ted, but I see it didn’t. Praise de Lawd, dat is chicken-and-dumplings you got.”

  He smacked his lips and sighed with satisfaction when he finished. “I’ll go down to the branch and wash dis jar out, ’cause I know it belongs to yo’ momma.”

  “No, you just keep it. She’s got so many she can’t keep up with ’em.”

  “Good, ’cause it will come in handy. I can use it to fetch some drinking water from the branch.”

  “How much food you got?”

  “I gots enough canned stuff, potted meat, Vienna sausage, sardines, beans, and crackers to last me a week if need be. I gots a little money, too.”

  “That’s good, ’cause it may be two weeks before we can get you outta here with everything you need. I’ll bring you food when I can, and we’ll buy some more if we have to.”

  “What you talking about? I don’t want to stay cooped up in dis cotton house fo’ two weeks.”

  “Well, maybe sooner, but I’ve got a plan and I got to have some help to make it work.”

  “Tell me what you gots in mind.”

  “I know who the bootlegger is, where he has his whiskey made, where he keeps it, where he hides his money, and I need you to help me figure out a way to see that he gets caught.”

  Jake’s eyes grew wide. “Say what!”

  I repeated myself. When it had sunk in asked, “Who is de bootlegger?”

  “It’s Old Man Cliff Creel!”

  Jake’s eyes widened again. “Dat don’t surprise me none, but I don’t know how I can help you see he gets caught. It ain’t like I can go talk to the sheriff about it.”

  “Wouldn’t do no good to talk to that sheriff anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  I told him what Uncle Curvin had said about his relationship with the bootleggers. “We got to find someone else to get him.”

  All of a sudden Jake’s eyes lit up. “Probably take a few days, but I just might knows a way. You wait right here.” I watched him while he sneaked back into the cotton house, then in a few moments he was back in the woods with a pencil, a piece of paper, and an envelope. He settled down on the ground, grasped the pencil in his hand and started writing on the envelope.

  “What you doing?”

  “I be putti
ng de address on dis envelope.”

  “Who you sending it to?”

  “To de Alabama Beverage Control department up in Montgomery, de capital city.”

  “Who’re they?”

  “Dey is de folks what works fo’ de state whose job it is to catch bootleggers, and dey be serious about it. Chances are, dey won’t be no folks working fo’ dem who be crooked like dat sheriff looking fo’ me.”

  He finished the envelope, spread the sheet of paper out in his lap, and began speaking the words as he wrote them. “Gentlemen, dis be to inform you ’bout a bootlegger down here in Clarke County by de name of— How you spell dat old man’s name?”

  “I don’t know. Just like it sounds, I guess.”

  Before he began laboring over the piece of paper again he asked, “Where you want me to tell dem dat still is?”

  “No, I don’t want them to know that.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause that’s where he leaves the money. He picks up the whiskey from the still, then hauls it over to his house and locks it up in the smokehouse.”

  “How you knows all dis?”

  “’Cause when we first went to the still, we watched him carry the whiskey away, then—”

  “Wait a minute. Did you say, we?”

  “Yeah, me and Poudlum.”

  “Lawd, have mercy. Go on.”

  “Then this past Sunday, about the time I figured he’d be getting home, I climbed a tree so I could see all around his house. Sure enough, about midafternoon he brought all the whiskey home and put it in his smokehouse.”

  Jake began chuckling and said, “Dis be almost too good to be true.” Then he began writing and speaking again. “Mister Creel, who lives on Center Point Road between Coffeeville and Miss Lena’s sto—”

  He stopped and asked, “What day is dis?”

  “Today is Tuesday.”

  Jake looked off into space and began speaking as if to himself. “If we mail dis letter tomorrow, which will be Wednesday, den it ought to be delivered by Friday. If so, de state revenuers might just get here by Sunday. Den dat might be a good time for me to ease on out of here.”