The telephone is ringing before we can even get out of the bed at Grandma’s this morning. I can tell from the way Ma is talking and saying big words that it is Lawyer Jenkins, Uncle Buddy’s lawyer. I grab my mason jar so I can hear better.
She is off the telephone now and going into the kitchen to tell Grandma and Uncle Buddy what the lawyer said. There must be some good white folks in the world after all. According to Ma, Governor Cherry of North Carolina is asking for a new trial. Not just a new trial, but he taking this mess over to Warren County to the big courthouse. They have what Ma says is the Superior Court there, where people go when they do not get the right verdict over in Jackson. Ma says that the governor said for Uncle Buddy to come back to Jones Property if he has left. Of course the governor’s white too, so he don’t know that Uncle Buddy sitting right here at the kitchen table. He don’t need to know that.
White folks mad as all get-up with the governor. I been reading in the paper that he receives ugly letters from white folks every day. According to Miss Mannie, who cleans up for Sheriff Franklin, the sheriff’s wife wrote the governor and told him a piece of her mind. So did most of the white women in Rich Square. White folks do not want any part of this mess. They just want it to go away like water that disappears on a hot summer day
Even Mr. J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the FBI, was involved for two minutes. That’s how this mess became big, big news. Governor Cherry contacted the FBI and asked them to investigate when Uncle Buddy first left. Mr. Hoover didn’t care about us. He sent the FBI down here only to close his investigation in a day and he told the newspapers, “No federal law has been broken.” But the law is the law and he should be shame of himself. Lord knows he ought to be shame of himself. And our so-called mayor should be ashamed too. He told the white newspapermen, “We like our coloreds as long as they stay in their place.”
I don’t know where our place is. All I know is this is the biggest mess since Ole Man Taylor caught his wife in bed with Mr. Stanley, who use to be the overseer for the land on Rehobeth Road. I was a baby then, but I heard that Ole Man Taylor said he was going to kill Mr. Stanley, but he didn’t. He didn’t have to. See, another mess happen right after that. Mr. Stanley was fussing with his main field hand Johnnie Lucas about some receipts that Johnnie brought to Mr. Stanley for some cotton he had picked. Mr. Stanley gave Johnnie $8.00 and Johnnie said the first receipt was for $10.00. Ma was in the field when it happen. She said that before they could do anything about it, Johnnie had grabbed an ice pick from the back of Mr. Stanley’s black Chevy and stabbed Mr. Stanley to death. Ma said Johnnie ran and somehow made it North. There was a reward put out for Johnnie and some white folks turned him in. They brought Johnnie back here and took him up to the state prison in Raleigh and he got the electric chair. Now they want us to believe that they had Uncle Buddy there for safekeeping.
All kind of stuff happened around this place long before I was born. My grandpa said that when he was a little boy they hung a man, Jeter Mitchell, right in front of the courthouse where we were yesterday. Black folks believe Mr. Jeter did nothing wrong, just like Uncle Buddy didn’t do nothing. But white folks claim Mr. Jeter raped a white woman over in Occoneechee Neck. He was arrested, just like Uncle Buddy, and they took him out of jail in the middle of the night, just like Uncle Buddy. Sure enough, they hung him right on the tree that is still standing here. Grandpa said didn’t nobody try to help that poor soul. Even if Mr. Jeter did what the white folks said he did, they did not have to hang the man. They should have gave him a trial like they give white men who rape women. Now that I think about it, I think I ain’t never sitting under that tree again. Never!
After Ma finish telling Uncle Buddy and Grandma what the attorney said, Uncle Buddy say he will not stay here until the second trial. He say it ain’t going to do a bit of good. He is ready to go back to Harlem. Back to a place where a man can be a man.
The next morning me and Uncle Buddy get up early. We have not said a word to nobody on Jones Property, but our plan is to go to Grandpa’s grave today.
“Morning, Ma Babe,” Uncle Buddy says to Grandma while she snapping green peas on the back porch.
“Mornin’, son. What you doing up so early and why you so dressed up?”
“I thought I would take Pattie Mae and go pay my respects to Pa this morning. You and Mer want to ride with us?”
“Boy, you all go on. I am going to help Mer pack up her things today. They moving back down the road to their house today. You know she ain’t stayed home a good two nights since you was arrested.”
Ma comes out on the porch. “Yes, bro, it’s time for me and Pattie Mae to go home.”
I wish that woman would speak for herself. I do not want to go back to that slave house. Grandpa is dead and we should stay right here with Grandma and Uncle Buddy. But you can’t tell that woman nothing.
“I’m ready Uncle Buddy” I say rushing past Ma and Grandma with Hobo running behind me. He jumps on the back of the truck as we ride off. Hudson don’t want to come. He just looking at us. That’s a smart cat. I swear he know where we going.
All the way to the graveyard we laugh and talk just like old times. But when we turning down that long path to where Grandpa’s grave is, Uncle Buddy ain’t talking no more.
“You all right, Uncle Buddy?”
“I’m fine, child. What about you?”
“I’m fine too.”
It rained last night and it’s muddy so we parking back a ways and I guess we are going to walk the rest of the way. Uncle Buddy helps me out of the truck the way he says a gentleman is suppose to help a lady. I’m telling you, Uncle Buddy is good with the women folks.
This is my first time walking past all these graves without being out here for a funeral.
“Look, Uncle Buddy, this is June Bug’s grave.” We stop and say a prayer. When I open my eyes, I look around me and realize that me and Uncle Buddy are standing in the middle of our whole family. All the Lewises, all the Joneses, and a few folks that ain’t got none of our blood.
Uncle Buddy starting to walk slower and slower when he gets closer to Grandpa’s grave. I’m going to stop here and let him walk on by himself. Hobo got good sense too, because he stops walking when I stop. Grandpa said that some doors a man has to walk through by his self. Poor Uncle Buddy. He just standing there. I ain’t never seen him cry before. He gets all down on his knees just crying and praying over Grandpa’s grave.
“Oh, Pa,” he says, “I want to thank you for being my daddy. I want to thank you for taking me in when my folks died and all. Pa, I know you died from a broken heart and I am sorry about that. I am sorry I ran off and left you here to deal with the white folks all by yourself. You know, Pa, everything about being a man that I know, you taught me. Pa, will you forgive me for not being here when you took your last breath? Please forgive me, Pa.”
No sooner than Uncle Buddy said them words, it thundered. It thundered loud. I’m usually scared to death of a storm, but not today. I know in my heart that’s Grandpa talking back to Uncle Buddy. So I just walk over to Uncle Buddy and put my hand on his shoulder. Hobo let out a howl louder than I have ever heard him make.
“Grandpa’s all right, Uncle Buddy. It’s time to go home.”
He stand up and we start to walk away. Then he stop.
“Wait, Pattie Mae. I got one more thing to do here.”
He turns around and takes something out of his coat pocket. It is a framed picture. Not just any picture. It is the obituary of Grandpa’s ma, Mary Lee Jones, with a flower framed in it. He puts it on Grandpa’s grave.
“Now, Pa, you got some company. You always been here for us and we don’t want to leave you here all by yourself. I found it in the old chest in the living room. I hope you like it.”
We go home.
All seems quiet on Rehobeth Road until Uncle Buddy announces that he is leaving. Leaving for Harlem. He says he love us, but he ain’t never coming back to Jones Property. Said he ain’t never coming back south of Baltimore.