John had risen early, in part to beat the stifling heat that was sure to be ushered in in a few hours, and in part for feeling guilty for not having sown some of his crops two weeks ago. It was early May, and all of Alabama was already experiencing a heat wave.
As he turned over the soil with his hoe, his mind was also turning over: He thought about the need to spend more time with his children. He thought he’d work less hours as a grocer than he did running The Messenger. Tilla helped him with the bookkeeping in between keeping close watch on her growing brood of children. But he was still coming home late from work and rising early to open up for business. He had a few helpers here and there, but they didn’t last long.
Before he knew it, the sun had shot up and reached its peak in the cloudless sky. He had tilled the soil for several hours without respite, but was content that he had settled things in his mind.
Bessie ambled to her father, who was deep in the field working. “Pa, Mama said to give you this glass of water.”
Bessie was a blur to John, his vision clouded by the sweat in his eyes. He removed his wide-brimmed straw hat and retrieved a sweat rag from the back of his overalls and wiped his brow of the sweat that was stinging his eyes. He blinked a few times and his vision was restored, so much so that he could now see the thick haze blanketing his field. Bessie had her father’s high cheekbones and her grandmother Fannie’s freckled skin. “How’s my baby girl?”
She was thirteen years old and had begun to sprout breasts. “Pa, Mama said for you to drink this water.”
He took the tall glass of chilled water and gulped it down like the parched man he was. “Thanks, baby girl. That hit the spot.”
Looking at Bessie, he knew he’d need to spend more time at home to be with his growing brood. Tilla had done a wonderful job with them, teaching them to read, write, and do math. But she couldn’t do the things John could do—pick them up, wrestle with them, and do more in their lives as a father. He knew how it felt to not have a father. An absent father, he thought, was not good. He’d soon sell his store and return to a life of farming. It was going to be hard work, especially as he got older, but at least he’d spend more time with the kids—at least that was the plan. He’d use the money from the sale of the store and spend some on the farm, the family, and invest some.
“Some man’s at the house asking Mama questions; Mama needs you,” Bessie said.
“Let’s go see who it is,” John said as they loped to the house.
Tilla stood in the parlor talking to the census enumerator. John and Bessie walked into the parlor, happy to be out of the searing heat. “Oh, honey, this is …”
“Paschal Leigh,” the man said finishing Tilla’s sentence. “He wants to ask us some questions,” she continued.
“How can I help you?” John said, looking at the thick ream of paper the enumerator was carrying.
“Well, I’m here on behalf of the government. I’m to take the census of residents here in Mount Hope. Just need to ask you folks a few questions.”
“All right, let’s go to the living room.” Mr. Leigh followed John to the living room, going through the kitchen first. “Have a seat. Can we get you anything?”
“No,” Mr. Leigh said while his eyes drifted up to the oversized drawing of John’s mother on the wall.
“Oh, that’s my mother. She was a good woman,” John said as to realize that she was probably dead. “Everything I have in this world is because of her,” he said, “and this woman here,” he added, looking at his wife, who emitted a smilet.
“Where were you born, John?” Mr. Leigh asked.
“Richmond.” Mr. Leigh wrote it down and paused. “That’s Virginia,” John added.
“I know where it is,” Mr. Leigh said smartly.
“How about this lady right here on the wall—where was she born?”
“Don’t know. Wish I did.”
“How about you?” the enumerator said, looking at Tilla.
“I was born right here in Mount Hope. Same for my ma and pa.”
“Tell me the names and ages of your children.”
“Tilla, you better tell him that. I’ll get it mixed up.”
“Let’s see. Theo is fifteen, Bessie is thirteen, Eunice is eleven, Maggie is eight, Pearl is six, Claude is four, and Willie is eight months.”
“Do you own or rent?” the enumerator asked next.
“Own,” John said proudly.
“What’s your occupation?” the enumerator asked.
“Well, I’m a grocer now, soon to be a former grocer. I’m going back to farming full-time. Need to spend more time with my wife and children.”
Tilla arched her thick eyebrows, and the surface of her eyes expanded beyond their usual large size. She had asked John for years to spend more time with the children, and she had finally gotten the answer she had long yearned for.
After having all of his questions answered, Mr. Leigh stood and shook John’s hand and thanked him for participating in the census. “We need more colored folk like you, Mr. Davis,” he said.
Recognizing the slight, John extended his hand to shake hands with Mr. Leigh again. John squeezed Mr. Leigh’s right hand tight and looked him in his small eyes and said, “And we need more white people like you to take the time to talk to colored folk.”
When John released his grip, Mr. Leigh shook his right hand as to bring life back to it. “That’s quite a grip you got there.”