A Yellow Watermelon Page 16

  “Jake?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “When you were in that prison, was there some bad people in there with you, or was they all like you?”

  “Oh, no, dey was some awful bad folks in dere. Most of ’em deserved to be in dat place. Even mo’ reason why I wanted to escape, ’cause I couldn’t abide being around ’em.”

  “Well, you got away from all that and in a little while you’re gonna be away from here and on your way to California.”

  “Does you think de time has come when you can tell me how I gon’ be able to do dat?”

  I knew it was time, so I told him where the whiskey still was, about the stray boat I had stashed just up the creek from it, about the money tree and how we were going to rob it to finance his trip, pay the Robinsons’ delinquent property taxes, and solve my mother’s money problems. Jake’s reaction startled me because I didn’t know what he was talking about when he said, “Lawd have mercy, you is a modern-day Robin Hood.”

  “Robin who?”

  “Hood.”

  “Who is Robin Hood?”

  “He wuz an outlaw in old England who robbed de rich people and gave to de po folks. I read about him while I was in prison.”

  I was thrilled to hear that I was being compared to someone in a book, so I said, “That’s what I’ll do when I grow up—rob rich people and bootleggers, then give it to poor folks.”

  “Naw, yo’ don’t wants to do dat. Dat Robin Hood story is more like a fairy tale. His intentions wuz noble, but robbing is still against de law. We’ll do dis one today, but you gots to promise me you won’t ever steal nothin’ ever again in yo’ life. Remember, when I played Robin Hood it landed me in de jail house.”

  I knew in my heart that Jake’s advice was as good as gold, but I had another idea. “Okay, I promise you that Jake, but now I know what I’ll really do when I grow up.”

  “What’s dat?”

  “I’m gonna figure out a way so that all the poor folks can become rich.”

  “Now, dat’s a noble cause.”

  Poudlum was back and he had some biscuits with him. He handed us each one and said, “Dese wuz left from breakfast. Thought y’all might be hongry.” There was a slice of fried streak-of-lean inside the biscuit. It was mighty tasty. We munched on them until we got to the Mill Creek, then we lay down on our bellies on the bank of the creek and drank from it. When we got up Jake said to me, “I gots to go back up de creek to dat big sweetgum tree where I was gon’ meet you. I left my stuff under it.”

  “All right. Me and Poudlum will sit here on the bank and wait for you.”

  While we sat dangling our feet in the water Poudlum said, “Won’t be long fo’ school be starting.”

  “Yeah, wish there was some way to get out of going.”

  “Dey ain’t. We gots to go.”

  “Jake said school was good, that I should go a long time.”

  “Dat’s de same thing my momma say. How come we can’t go together?”

  I didn’t know the answer to his question, so I told him so. “I don’t know why.”

  “It’s ’cause you is white and I is black, dat’s why.”

  I pondered what he said for a while, then I told him, “That may be the reason, but it don’t make no sense.”

  I heard Jake splashing back down the creek. When he came into view he had his drawstring bag slung over his shoulder. I knew it contained his extra clothes and a few cans of beans and sardines. His old guitar was on his other shoulder and he had two long, slim bamboo poles in his left hand.

  I asked, “What you gonna do with them two cane poles? You ain’t got no time to fish.”

  “You is right on dat point, but I figures ifen I sees anybody while I be floating down de creek and across de river, den I gonna pretend dat I’s fishing. Any fool know a convict on de run wouldn’t be taking time to fish.”

  Poudlum grinned at me and said, “He be mighty smart.”

  We all studied the position of the sun, agreed that it was between one and two o’clock, and that it was time to get on down the creek. When we silently crawled into our hiding spot all was quiet across the Saltifa at the still. Six boxes of whiskey were still beneath the table. Old Man Creel hadn’t been there yet.

  After we had been there for what seemed like about fifteen minutes, Jake whispered, “Why don’t we go check out de boat and stash my stuff while we waits?”

  We went down the creek bank listening carefully all the while for the sound of the old man’s car. When we got there I walked out on the log bridge, straddled it, leaned down, and grabbed the rope and tossed the end of it to Jake.

  By the time I got back to the bank they had pulled the boat partially up on the sandy edge of the creek and were surveying the inch of water that stood in it. “Looks like it leaks,” Jake said.

  I could see the doubt in his eyes, but I knew the boat was sound because it was dry when I found it, and even if it had developed a leak, then it was too small to matter. I told him all this, but he still wasn’t convinced.

  “Den where de water come from?”

  “Water came from the rain.”

  He said, “Oh, I guess dat makes sense,” But I could tell he still wasn’t convinced. “Let’s all three grab holt of the side, tip it over and pour the water out, then we’ll put it back in the water and see what happens.”

  We accomplished the task, Jake loaded his stuff aboard, stood and said, “Guess dis be my chariot to freedom. Hope it don’t sink on me ’cause I can’t swim.”

  “How come you can’t swim?”

  “Just never learnt how.”

  “Me neither,” Poudlum said.

  I knew Jake needed some reassurance. I could see it in his eyes, so I told him, “Jake this is a sound boat. If it wasn’t, then it would have already sunk. When you’re going down the creek just stay close to the bank if that will make you feel better.”

  “But when de creek ends I gots to cross de Tombigbee. I hear tell it’s a mighty big river.”

  “It is, but it’s just a big muddy lake. Ain’t no currents in it. I been swimming in it before. You won’t have no trouble paddling right across it.”

  “But what if, just what if de boat sinks or flips over and I ends up in de water?”

  “See that big paddle in the boat?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It floats. Your guitar will float. All you would have to do is hang on to one or both of them, paddle to the bank and—”

  Right then I heard the unmistakable sound of Old Man Cliff Creel’s big Fleetmaster station wagon coming down the logging road. “He’s coming to get the whiskey! Quick, let’s get back!

  We heard the engine cut off and then the slamming of the door just as we had secured ourselves back into the hiding place.

  In a few moments he emerged from the mouth of the trail. This time he was pushing a wheelbarrow. As usual, he was wearing his hat, but he had shed his Sunday suit coat and loosened his necktie. We watched while he loaded three of the boxes from underneath the table, then he disappeared back down the trail with them. Momentarily he reappeared and repeated the process; except much to my relief, he paused to stuff the fat envelope into the hollow tree before he left with his final load. As soon as the sound of his station wagon’s engine faded away I said, “Y’all wait here while I go cross the log bridge and get that envelope.”

  As soon as I stood up I heard another sound which I instantly recognized. It was the drone of a motor boat coming up the creek, and from having heard it before, I knew how long it would take to get there.

  My heart sank as I realized it was the whiskey-maker, with his double-barreled shotgun, coming to get his money out of the tree and I knew I didn’t have time to get there before he did.

  20

  Down the Creek

  I knew instantly what I had to do. I did
n’t like it, but knew that I absolutely could not allow this opportunity to slip away. I had to swim.

  “Meet me at the big sweet-gum tree up the Mill Creek,” I quickly told Poudlum and Jake.

  They didn’t move. “It’s the whiskey maker—get out of here, now!”

  I saw them quickly retreating just before I began a running start toward the deep water of the Satilfa. I dived into the creek as hard as I could and started swimming. It wasn’t a dog-paddle either, my past experience of fear of snakes coupled with my present fear of the whiskey-maker caused me to use a strong overhand stroke.

  Suddenly I felt my clawing hands and my kicking feet scrub against the sandy bottom. I was across, but I could tell by the sound that the motorboat was just around the bend, only seconds away. My ankles drug through the shallow water, then my feet dug into the bank as I raced toward the money tree. When I reached it I dropped to my knees and frantically dug the debris out of the hole. My fingers closed on the fat envelope, feeling the thickness of it, knowing it meant Jake’s freedom, the Robinsons’ land and a miracle for my mother. I drug it out of the hollow of the tree, took the extra second to replace the debris, stood up and prepared to run, but it was too late. I heard the bow of the whiskey-maker’s boat grinding onto the bank of the creek. The only cover was behind the money tree. I slid behind the trunk of it, sunk to my belly, clutched the envelope tightly and started crawfishing on the floor of the forest. I did this until he cut the engine off and got out of the boat, then the forest became deathly quiet. I had only made it about twelve feet into the forest, settling into a little hollow in the ground, hoping that it wasn’t the home of a snake.

  I watched while the whiskey-maker grabbed his shotgun, got out of the boat, walked onto the creek bank, and leaned his weapon against a tree. Then he went back to the boat and began unloading his sacks of corn and sugar. I dared not move while he made several trips.

  When he had finished stacking his supplies for a new batch of whiskey, he walked over to the money tree and started digging into the hollow. I could see his face. At first he looked puzzled. Then he dug deeper into the hollow. Finally, when he realized there was no money for him, he began to curse Old Man Cliff Creel. He thrashed about the still area uttering curses and obscenities the like of which I had never heard before.

  When his vile tirade ended he snatched up his shotgun and started walking down toward his boat. I supposed he was leaving and started to breath a little easier; that is until he got down to the bank and suddenly stopped, bent over and started studying the ground.

  When I realized he was looking at my tracks, the terror within me was rekindled. I had left deep prints with my bare feet in the sand when I had come running out of the creek. So deep and plain until I could see them through the leaves myself.

  He started walking slowly back up the bank, bent low following my tracks until they disappeared on the dead leaves just before he got to the money tree. Then he stood up straight and looked toward the exact spot where I was hiding.

  I began to consider my options: Get up and run, but, no, that lean, mean man would run me down in no time. Make me a dash for the creek and swim for it. That seemed like the best choice. Maybe he couldn’t swim. I knew he couldn’t swim fast with his overalls and brogans on, but then there was that shot gun in his hands.

  He took a tentative step toward where I was hidden, leaned over and looked intently in my direction. I longed for the sweet sound of Jake’s slingshot, but I knew that was too much to hope for. I also knew he couldn’t see me yet, but a few more steps and he would be able to.

  I decided on the creek. I figured I could beat him to the bank, dive in and go underwater immediately, then swim as far as I could underneath the surface. Maybe I could stay under all the way across.

  I tensed my whole body and prepared to spring up from my prone position, then suddenly, from the woods across the creek came these crashing sounds as if a bear was thrashing around over there.

  The whiskey-maker jerked around to face in that direction, lifting the shotgun to his shoulder. Then, just as quickly there was once again dead silence. He continued looking across the creek, then just about jumped out of his overalls when the same sounds started coming from the woods up the creek toward the fallen tree bridge.

  He and his shotgun turned in that direction while he started walking sideways toward his boat. I could tell he was scared. He was looking all about, holding the shotgun ready at his hip while he retreated down the bank.

  The crashing sounds from up the creek ceased, but then, moments later a loud splashing sound occurred when something hit the water up there.

  That did the trick. The whiskey-maker ran to his boat, pushed it off the bank, leapt aboard, started his motor, turned the craft down stream and left a large wake in the water as he raced away.

  I crawled out of my hole, got to my feet and walked out into the open area of the still, wondering what had really happened.

  I was standing there, damp and itching, when Poudlum appeared on the bank of the creek across from me and shouted across, “Is you all right?”

  Before I could answer Jake called out from up the creek, “Come on up to where de boat is.”

  I waved at Poudlum and pointed up in that direction, then I walked numbly up that way. They were both waiting for me on my side of the creek when I got there. I could tell they were concerned when Jake said, “Ain’t no way we wuz gonna leave you by yo’ self.”

  “What was all that racket?” I asked weakly.

  Jake said, “Me and Poudlum saw what wuz happening so we decided what we wuz gonna do, den we split up, picked up a dead limb and started beating de bushes wid it. Den I threw a big dead log into de creek. Dat’s when dat man wid de shotgun run off. I had my slingshot ready if he hadn’t.”

  “Y’all did real good. Thank you both. Let’s cross the log bridge and see what’s in this envelope.”

  I felt drained and just wanted to end the escapade. We got across the log bridge, all sat down on the ground and I ripped the thick envelope open. More money than any of us could imagine spilled out on the ground between us. We sat there for a few moments just staring at it. “You can count it, Jake,” I said. I was too exhausted.

  I watched while he stacked the singles, fives, tens, and twenties into separate stacks.

  “Lawd have mercy,” Jake said. “Dis is mo money dan I ever seed in my life.”

  “How much is it?” I asked. “It’s got to be a lot because there was six boxes with forty-eight bottles in each one.”

  “Dey is $576 here. Mr. Creel wuz paying two dollars a bottle, I figures.”

  “How much is that each if we split it three ways?”

  He took a while to decipher and put the money into three different stacks. When he finished he said, “It come to $192 each—a heap of money.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s enough to get you to California, enough for the Robinsons to pay their property taxes, and more. Then, there’s more than enough for my mother to pay for what she needs.”

  Money always breeds problems.

  “Where I gonna say I got dis money from?” Poudlum asked.

  Jake had all the answers. He said, “Poudlum, you just put dat money in yo’ momma’s flour barrel. She gon’ know what to do wid it when she finds it. And you, Mister Ted, you does de same. Den, tomorrow morning, when y’alls mommas get up to make biscuits dey gon’ find de money and do what needs to be done wid it. And ain’t none of us gon’ ever mention dis day again.”

  We all promised and the next thing Jake said was mighty sad sounding to my ears. “It be time fo’ me to be gitting on down de creek, little fellows.”

  Poudlum and I watched while he tucked his share of the money away and untied his boat. Before he got into it we both grabbed him around the waist and hugged him. He patted us each on the head and said, “Y’all both gon’ grow up to be fine righteo
us young mens, now turn me loose and let me get gone.”

  We stepped back and watched him get into the boat, then we reluctantly pushed it off the bank and into the water.

  I wasn’t crying out loud, but I could feel and taste the hot salty tears running down my face as I watched him right the boat with the paddle and move to the center of the creek.

  Just before he disappeared underneath the tree bridge he called out, “I gon’ write y’all a letter from California.”

  I called back, “Don’t put no return address on the envelope.”

  The last thing I ever heard Jake say was, “You sho is a smart white boy.” Then he was gone.

  Poudlum and I stood there a few moments. We were glad and we were sad. Glad that Jake was going free, but sad that he was leaving us. When the sound of Jake’s paddle bumping against the side of the boat finally faded away, Poudlum and I turned and walked through the woods toward the Mill Creek. When we got there we looped our arms over each other’s shoulders and started walking up the small stream. We didn’t talk, we just walked.

  When we reached the place where we would have exited the creek to go toward the Robinsons’ burned-out cotton house, we stopped and began to talk. I said, “Poudlum, we done got the money and we done seen that Jake got away. There’s just one more thing I want to see.”

  “What’s dat?”

  I want to see Old Man Cliff Creel get caught with his load of whiskey. You want to come?”

  “What time does you think it is?”

  “’Bout two or two thirty.”

  “I ’spect my momma and ’em probably looking fo’ me by now.”

  “Yeah, mine too.”

  “Probably gon’ get a whupping when I does get home.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “We don’t have to get close enough so dat we has to deal wid dat dog, does we?”