A Yellow Watermelon Read online

  At that I figured I might as well cut a switch on the way home, because come late Monday when my father came home from work and told my mother, she would be using it on me. I guess my new acquaintance saw the look on my face and felt sorry for me because he said, “We might be able to work something out, Ted. By de way, my name is Jake.”

  I reached out and shook his big rough hand and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if you make me a promise, I might forget about yo’ visit today.”

  I asked cautiously, “What do I have to promise?”

  “Dat you won’t play around dis sawmill by yoself no mo. It’s a dangerous place. Why, a log could roll on you, and what if you had slipped up on dat slab ramp and fell in dat fire pit? You would’ve been fried crisper dan a piece of fatback. Now, if you’ll make me dat promise, I won’t ever tell a soul about you being here today. How ’bout it?”

  I had to think about this. I could take a switching, but I couldn’t give up the sawmill forever. I decided to see if he would compromise. “Could I still just slide down the sawdust pile?”

  “Only if someone else is wid you, including me.”

  I figured that was the best I could get so I said, “It’s a deal. I promise.”

  “Dat’s a good boy. Come on over here by my fire and let’s talk for a few minutes.”

  I followed him over to beside the tar paper shack where he had a big bed of hot coals he had shoveled from the fire pit. A coffee pot was bubbling away. I watched as he picked up a blue tin cup off the ground and pulled a big red handkerchief from his pocket which he used as a hot pad to pour his coffee. Then he sat on a block of wood and said, “Ted, besides promising to stay away from de dangers of dis sawmill, I think you learned another lesson today.”

  Only then did I remember my money and my bag. I knew he must have taken them, but I wasn’t quite sure yet if I should ask him, so I just said, “What other lesson?”

  “De lesson dat you should never leave valuables unattended. You agree wid dat?”

  “Uh huh,” I answered while nodding my head. He reached behind his seat and retrieved my money and bag, handed them both to me, and asked, “Did you make all dat money selling dem little papers?”

  “Not all of it. Mrs. Blossom gave me thirteen of the nickels.”

  “Why did Mrs. Blossom give you so much money?”

  I told him the story about the pay envelopes and he asked, “Did she ever do dat before?”

  “No. Never did.”

  “I reckon she just feeling sorry for you.”

  “What for?”

  “Can you keep a secret? Remember, I’m keeping yours.”

  I had counted my nickels and was redepositing them into my watch pocket when I answered, “Yeah, I sure can.”

  “She was feeling sorry for you because yo’ daddy is gon’ lose his job soon.”

  This was bad news because I could remember my father being out of work before and I knew how we had suffered. I thought about it for a few moments and then asked, “Why would my daddy lose his job? He works real hard.”

  “He does dat, but dat’s not the problem. The problem is dat Mr. Blossom is gonna shut dis sawmill down and move to Mobile and go into de wholesale lumber business.”

  “How you know?”

  “’Cause I work for Mr. Blossom and he told me.”

  “You work here at the sawmill too?”

  “Yep, started dis week.”

  Now I knew why there were thirteen pay envelopes this morning, but my curiosity prompted more questions. “Where do you live?”

  “Right here, in dis old tar paper shack.”

  “I thought that’s where they keep the drums of fuel to run the sawmill?”

  “It is, but I rearranged dem and made room for a cot Mrs. Blossom gave me. I does my cooking right here. I never run out of hot coals.”

  “How did you come to work for Mr. Blossom?”

  “I was working east of here, over in Greensboro at de planing mill and I ran into him. He told me about dis job and since I’m working my way west, I just rode over here wid him.”

  “How far west you going, Mississippi?”

  “Shoot, boy, it’s just a few miles to de Mississippi state line. I’m going a lot farther dan dat. I’m going all de way to California!”

  That sounded faraway to me since I had never been farther than twenty miles away from home. My brothers told me we had traveled all the way down to Mobile once, but I had been too little to remember. They also told me our father had worked there building ships during the world war, but I only remembered him sharecropping some land and working off and on at the sawmill.

  Jake broke my train of thought when he asked, “How old is you?”

  “I’m almost twelve.”

  “’Spect you’ll be going back to school dis fall?”

  “I guess so, unless I can figure a way out of it.”

  “Hey, you listens and listens to me good. You go to school as long as you possibly can, den go some more.”

  “How come Mr. Blossom’s going to close the sawmill?”

  “He says he ain’t making no money ’cause de cost of fuel has gone up. I think it’s really because Mrs. Blossom don’t like living out here in de middle of nowhere, but it ain’t really none of my concern.”

  “When’s he gonna close it?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  This was more bad news. That would be just about the time my mother would need money to order us shoes and clothes for school and the winter. And where would we get the money to buy lunch at school? On school days she gave each of us fifteen cents every morning for our lunch. I started trying to figure out how much that would be a week for all three of us.

  Jake interrupted my ciphering when he said, “Don’t you be worrying yo’ young head about dis old sawmill shutting down. Yo’ daddy will find something to do. Say, you want to sell one of dem Grit papers, or do you already have dem sold?”

  My spirits leaped. I was going to make another nickel. “No, I got six of them left,” I said as I eagerly reached into my bag.

  I watched as he pulled a leather purse with metal clasps from the bib pocket of his overalls and open it, then I was stunned when he said, “I’ll take all six of ’em.”

  I stared at him for a moment before I asked, “What for? They all say the same thing.”

  “Oh, I’ll read one of dem, and den I’ll have another use for it, along with the others.”

  I didn’t ask any questions. I just handed him the papers, accepted the quarter and the nickel he gave me, and placed them into my watch pocket along with the rest of my fortune, totaling eighty-five cents.

  I glanced at the sun and knew I should be heading toward home because it was already close to supper time, but I had decided I liked Jake and I wanted to talk to him some more. So I asked, “What do you do here by yourself?”

  “I read books, tell stories, play cards, and pick my guitar.”

  “Who do you tell stories to?”

  “Myself.”

  “Who do you play cards with?”

  “Myself.”

  “Will you teach me how to play cards?”

  “No way. Yo’ momma would skin me alive. But I will tell you some stories. Not today though. It’s getting late and you ought to be heading home.”

  “I guess you’ll be heading west when the sawmill closes?”

  “Not right away. Mr. Blossom’s gon’ pay me to stay until all de parts are sold and moved away. By den I’ll have me a pretty good stake, den I’ll head west.”

  “Well, I guess I better get going. Can I bring you a Grit paper next Saturday?”

  “You sho can. And you can stop by here anytime you’re around after everything has shut down for de day. I’ll tell you some good stories.”

  I got up fr
om the ground where I had been sitting, brushed off the seat of my pants and said, “I’m glad I met you, Jake, and thank you for buying my papers.”

  “I’m glad we met, too, Ted. Remember to keep our secret ’cause it won’t do no good for nobody to know about dis old sawmill closing. Now you just walk straight up to de road instead of sneaking through dem woods. If anybody sees you, we’ll just say you came and sold me a Grit paper, which is de truth.”

  I didn’t know what else to say so I just walked away, straight up to Miss Lena’s store where I spent a nickel and bought ten peanut butter logs. They were small sticks of candy with a thin coat of peppermint on the outside and peanut butter in the inside, sealed in clear cellophane paper. I ate two and stored the others in my canvas bag.

  Just before I turned onto Friendship Road toward home I stopped for one last look down toward the sawmill and saw Jake with a big shovel transferring more hot coals to his fire. I supposed he was getting ready to cook his supper and I felt bad knowing he had to eat alone, but there was nothing I could do, so I turned the corner walking toward home.

  It wasn’t far to the first house where Earl and Merle Hicks lived, who weren’t any kin to me, but they were friends of my mother and father. I didn’t see anybody stirring about so I kept walking. Just past their house was the road to my grandfather Murphy’s house, which was farther off the road than the Hicks’. I looked down the little road and I could see him sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch. I wished I had saved a paper for him. I made a resolution not to be so selfish next Saturday and save one for him. I knew his poor vision prevented him from seeing me, and it wasn’t long before sundown, so I walked on.

  There were no more houses between there and home, just that old dirt road with thick woods hanging over it from each side, but it was only about a mile farther.

  While I was walking that mile I started thinking about Jake. He had told me where he was going, but not where he came from. I decided I would have to ask him about that sometime soon. Those faraway places he talked about made me feel very small and isolated. I knew we lived in the lower part of Alabama close to the Mississippi state line. I also knew we lived in Clarke County and that Grove Hill was the county seat, twenty miles east, and I had been there a few times.

  I had been to Coffeeville many times, which was only nine miles from Miss Lena’s store, straight on out Center Point Road which turned from dirt road into blacktop just before you got into town—that is if you wanted to call it a town. There was a store which was a lot bigger than Miss Lena’s, a gas station, a feed and seed store, and a cafe with no name.

  That was about it, except, oh yes, there was the big red brick school house where I was soon to be incarcerated. And I almost forgot, there was also the river at Coffeeville, the Tombigbee. It was a big old river, deep, wide, and muddy. On a foggy morning you couldn’t see across it. Sometimes we ate fried catfish my father caught out of it.

  When I reached the top of the big hill I noticed the sky had gotten darker, but I knew there was an hour or so of daylight left. Looking toward the west I saw a dark gathering of clouds and knew there were thunderstorms on the way. I quickened my step, descended down the big hill, and didn’t stop until I reached the top of the little hill. I had a decision to make there. I could turn off the road and take the trail through the woods, which was a shortcut to my house, or I could stay on the open road and take the long way home. I decided on the latter since the shadows were beginning to lengthen. Besides, sometimes my brother Fred hid on the trail and tried to scare me.

  When I turned off Friendship Road onto the sandy road leading toward home, I could smell supper and it reminded me how hungry I was. The first thing I saw was my oldest brother Ned carrying a big armload of stove wood toward the back door. I knew something was wrong. Ned’s job was to saw and split the slabs from the sawmill into small sticks which would fit into the wood-burning kitchen stove, and it was Fred’s job to carry it in.

  Then I saw my mother standing on the front porch brandishing a long switch from one of her peach trees, and my heart sank. Someone must have seen me at the sawmill after all.

  3

  Dinner on the Grounds

  It turned out that the switch was meant for my brother Fred, who didn’t show up to do his assigned chores. I figured this out when I approached the front porch expecting to feel the sting of the switch and heard my mother ask, “Do you know where your brother Fred is?”

  “No ma’am,” I answered while washing my hands. Afterwards I headed for the kitchen where I knew supper awaited me. Our three meals were breakfast, dinner at midday, and supper at night. There on the big black wood stove was my supper. On one of the eyes, still warm, was a big pot of fresh black-eyed peas with tiny pods of boiled okra floating on top. On the apron of the stove was a bowl of creamed corn, a bowl of chopped fried okra, and a plate of sliced ruby-red tomatoes—all fresh that day from my mother’s garden. The crispy brown cornbread was sliced and still in the black skillet. I piled my plate high, ate my fill, and washed it down with a big glass of buttermilk.

  Afterwards, I walked from the kitchen through the main room, by my mother and father’s bed, the fireplace, and the two big rocking chairs. My parents were on the front porch, where in the fading light, she was shelling butter beans and he was cleaning his old shotgun.

  At the end of the porch was the door which led into the room—built like an afterthought onto the side of the old shack—where my brothers and I slept.

  The storm came later than I expected. When the hard rain hit the old tin roof it jarred me from a deep sleep. You would have had to shout to make someone hear you over the explosive noise, but I wasn’t afraid because I had heard it many times before. After a while the rain subsided into a soft, hypnotic patter on the tin. Just before it soothed me back to sleep, I ran my hand over the rough sheet which my mother made by sewing empty flour sacks together, to find that Fred wasn’t in his accustomed place. A little later on, I felt the dampness of him as he slid into bed.

  I woke up to the smell of fried chicken. I sat up in bed thinking this must be a special day if we’re having fried chicken for breakfast. Seeing the room was empty, I leapt out of bed, hoping my older brothers hadn’t eaten both the drumsticks.

  On the front porch, because I knew I would be asked when I arrived in the kitchen, I stopped and washed my hands. The drinking bucket and wash basin sat on a bench at the end of the porch. I took the dipper from a nail on the wall, splashed water into the basin, and scrubbed my hands good with the big brown bar of soap. Afterwards, I threw the soapy water out into the yard and dried my hands on the thin towel hanging on another nail next to the dipper. There was no running water, and there was no indoor plumbing. We had to carry our drinking water in buckets from a well we shared with the Bedwell family. Water for bathing and washing clothes was collected in a big rain barrel at the rear of the house underneath a low spot on the roof. I knew it would be full after last night’s storm.

  When I arrived in the kitchen, I was surprised to find no one there except my mother. “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Your daddy and Ned have already gone to the woods to hunt. Fred is behind the house getting a bath. I told him to save his tub of water for you. Now, sit down and eat your breakfast,” she said, placing a plate in front of me with a fried egg and a hot biscuit. Then she slid a mason jar of her homemade blackberry jam toward me.

  I glanced at my food, then stared at the big platter of fried chicken at the other end of the table. She followed my gaze and said, “You can have all the chicken you want after church. We’re having dinner-on-the-grounds right after the service.”

  My heart leapt. This meant all kinds of delicious food would be stacked high on the wooden tables lined up in the shade of the big oak trees beside the church. We would probably even get out early.

  While sopping up the last of the egg yoke and jam with the remains o
f my biscuit, I found myself wondering what Jake was having for breakfast, if anything. Jake was the first black person I had seen up close and talked to, though I had observed them from a distance. Most recently was in the early summer at my Uncle Curvin’s cotton field where a group of black workers—hoes in hand—were climbing down from the back of his pickup. It had been the time of year when the cotton had to be chopped with a hoe to thin out the overcrowded plants and eliminate the weeds.

  I had come along as the water boy, and later in the day, when the heat became intense, I would walk down the long, straight rows with a bucket of water and a dipper so the white people could have a cool drink. I remembered looking across the field, where on the other side, a black boy who looked about my size and age was doing the same for the black people. In 1948, even the cotton fields in lower Alabama were segregated.

  My thoughts were interrupted when my mother said, “Fred ought to be finished by now. Go on out and get your bath and I’ll have your Sunday clothes ready when you get back.”

  When I walked around the corner of the house I saw my brother standing naked on a board beside the galvanized wash tub which he had filled from the rain barrel. He had just finished drying off and was stepping into his jeans. I noticed there were no red marks on his legs or back and asked, “You didn’t get a switching for being late?”

  “Naw. I was over at Uncle Clyde’s house. The storm came early over there and I had to wait until it was over before I could come home.”

  I stripped, stepped into the tub, and sat down in the cool soapy water. Just before Fred disappeared around the corner he said, “By the way, I peed in the tub.”

  “Mother!” I yelled.

  He was back in a flash saying, “Shut up! I was just kidding with you. Okay?”

  My brother, I thought, was itching to get a whipping. I figured he timed that storm just right so he could be late and get away with it. I also knew he had been fighting his Bantam rooster for money, and that he shot marbles for keeps. My mother considered both of those as gambling, but I kept his secrets. I had a lot of secrets.