F or a whole week I get up every day and do the same thing. Walk and look, look and walk. BarJean does the same thing every day too. She gets up and has her coffee, get dressed, and she is out the door to work at the factory. She said when Saturday comes she is going to take me to buy some fabric to make my new school clothes. And she said she is going to get my hair pressed and maybe even let me get my ears pierced. Ma ain’t going to like that. Ma ain’t never had her ears pierced. She said if God wanted us to have a second hole in our ears for earrings he would have put two there, not one! I will worry about Ma when I get back home. While I’m here I’m going to do everything I can to look like a city girl. Ain’t no need to come all the way up here and go home looking like you still a field hand.
And while I’m getting citified I will keep looking for my uncle.
But he ain’t nowhere to be found. Nowhere!
“Good morning, little lady,” a man in a white shirt says as I walk past his shoeshine stand.
“Good morning, sir.”
He smiles and keeps on shining the black shoes of a man who is dressed like he on his way to church. He is writing away on a piece of yellow paper.
“What are you writing, sir?” I ask without thinking first.
“A novel.”
“You mean like Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer?”
“No, like Richard Wright.”
“Richard Wright. Well, I never heard of him.”
“Little girl, you should know who Richard Wright is if you know who Mark Twain is,” the shoeshine man says.
“But everyone read Mark Twain’s book,”
“That’s real good and they should. But every little black girl in Harlem reads Richard Wright’s books,”
“Who is Richard Wright?”
Now I know I said something stupid. The shoeshine man stop shining and the man in his chair stop smiling and look at me. He said:
“I am Richard Wright,”
“You mean, you are a real writer? Why sir, I didn’t know there were colored writers!”
“Well, there are black writers and you should know all about them.”
“Them. You mean there’s more than one?”
“Why, sure. There’s Langston Hughes, who lives right across the street. There’s Zora Hurston, who lives a few blocks away, and Dorothy West, too.”
“Women! Colored women writers?” I can’t believe what I am hearing.
“Yes, child. And you should know who the black writers are.”
He is saying black, not colored. I’m not going to ever say colored again.
“Well, I don’t know who the black writers are. Do you know who Buddy Bush is?”
The shoeshine man stand up fast. “Girl, who are you and where did you come from?” he says.
“Sir, I’m from down South and I’m looking for Buddy Bush.”
Mr. Wright don’t seem to know or care who we are talking about, but this shoeshine man definitely knows my uncle. He grabs my arm and pulls me around the side of the building.
“Child, don’t you know better than to come around here asking about Buddy?”
“But I have to find him.”
“Find him for what? Don’t you know the law is looking for him?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the reason I have to find him. I have to tell him that they caught the men who tried to hang him. I have to tell him that it’s okay to come home.”
“Home! Child, what are you talking about? Harlem is Buddy’s home now. He can’t ever go down South again!”
“But he has to. Grandma wants him to come home.”
“Grandma? You mean Miss Babe Jones?” Then he looks at me real hard. “Good God from Zion, you must be Pattie Mae Sheals!”
The shoeshine man done forgot all about Mr. Wright. How on earth does this man know my name? He is hugging me so tight I can’t breathe.
“Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Tom. I’m Mr. Charlie and Miss Doleebuck boy.”
I just look at him. “But I know all of Mr. Charlie’s children,” I say. Then I remember the missing boy that ain’t been south of Baltimore since he left all them years ago.
“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.