THERE WAS more chill at dawn as October passed into November, but the Florida days were just as humid. Soon now there would be snow in West Virginia, with logs to chop and deer to hunt. The trees would be bare and somber, and the fields would lie fallow and brown. The earth would be crusty beneath the step as white layers of frost blanketed the yards and the houses and the woods. The days would be shorter and the nights longer; the glowing logs in the fireplaces would send thin spirals of black smoke upward into the gray sky. The beds at night would be piled with thick layers of quilts. Jared sensed that Cloma and Kristy and Bennie were thinking of these things, although they never spoke of them.
There was no visual change of season in the tomato fields or in the surrounding areas. The Australian pines and the cabbage palms and the royal palms all stayed the same as they had been. The fruit trees did not drop their leaves and become bare, and the tomato plants did not tum brown and wither. Instead, the buses continued to dump their human cargoes into the fields each day; the trucks continued to rumble along narrow farm roads, transporting thousands of crates of tomatoes and beans and squash and okra to packing houses in Homestead and Florida City; the rocky fields continued producing the fruits and vegetables which filled the shelves of supermarkets in distant towns and cities, and were eaten by snowbound people who had no thoughts about the where and the how of fresh fruits and vegetables during the winter. These things just magically appeared in supermarkets and were taken for granted by snowbound people.
The days also did not change for the residents of Angel City. There were cans of sardines and Vienna sausage to be eaten before dawn; there was a bus ride to the fields, where ten hours of picking awaited them; there were cans of sardines and slabs of cheese to be eaten at noon; there were late afternoon stops at the Cater General Store to purchase more cans of sardines and Vienna sausage and cheese to be eaten the next day; there was wine to drink and then a hot supper; and there were the stifling, airless rooms at night, and whiskey on Saturday. There were also the occasional sounds of pistol butts cracking skulls. It was all a part of providing the tomatoes for salads and sandwiches to be eaten in New York and Boston and Chicago and Detroit and New Orleans and Minneapolis and Denver and Toronto.
Each day was the same to Jared Teeter as he waited anxiously to learn if Creedy had sold his 1960 Dodge van. It was now the end of another week, and he had not seen Creedy since he had given him the keys the previous Saturday. He felt sure the van would clear the debt, so he had discontinued the frantic pace he had endured the previous two weeks. He worked at a steady pace and averaged ninety buckets per day.
As Jared waited in the pay line, he wondered if Creedy might possibly give him some cash for the van as well as clearing the debt. If he received even a small amount of money he could purchase an old clunker in Homestead that would do for transportation until he could afford something better.
When he reached the table, Creedy looked up at him and said, “You didn’t hardly even break even with the picking this week. How come you to slow down so much?”
At first Jared didn’t answer. He was more interested in the van than the picking, and he did not want to say anything that might make Creedy angry. He finally said apologetically, “I was tired, Mr. Creedy. But I didn’t think I did too bad.”
Creedy said, “Well, you better step up the pace again if you’re ever going to work off this debt. I got fifty dollars for your van at a junkyard, so you’re down to two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents now.”
For a moment Jared remained motionless. He felt the blood drain from his face and his hands tremble. He suddenly bellowed, “Shit fire, Creedy! What the hell you take me fer, a goddam idiot?”
The boom of his voice startled the people standing behind him, and they began to back away. Jabbo and Clug moved closer to Jared. Creedy pushed the chair from the table and started to get up.
Jared looked first to Creedy and then to Jabbo and Clug. He had an overpowering urge to smash something with his fists, to strike Creedy regardless of the price he would have to pay. For several moments he hesitated, his body frozen rigid with anger; and then he picked up the ten-dollar bill from the table and walked quickly toward the barracks.
During supper he did not speak to Cloma or Kristy or Bennie. Just before he boarded the bus for the store, he took three twenty-dollar bills from their savings. After making his purchases, he changed the twenties into ones and stuffed the thick roll of bills into his pocket.
When they returned to the camp, Jared asked Cy to step aside with him. The two men walked out to the north fence. Jared stepped close to Cy and said, “I want you to help me with somethin’.”
“What’s that, Mistuh Jay?” Cy asked apprehensively.
“I got a plan,” Jared said. “I know how we can make Creedy pay ev’rybody what they got comin’.”
“How’s that?” Cy asked, eyeing Jared closely.
“We just won’t work. If we refuse to work, then Creedy won’t make anything. And he can’t beat up ev’rybody in the camp.”
“I don’t get what you mean,” Cy said.
“When we go to the field Monday morning, we refuse to leave the bus ‘til Creedy pays ev’rybody fer this week’s work.”
Cy scratched his head. “These folks in here won’t do that. They be’s afraid.”
“He can’t beat up ev’rybody on the bus,” Jared insisted.
“I guess he can’t at that,” Cy admitted. “But I just don’t believe nobody will do it.”
“Maybe I got somethin’ here that might help persuade them,” Jared said. He pulled the roll of bills from his pocket. “How many folks ride our bus ev’ry momin’, ‘bout twenty-five or thirty?” he asked.
“Somethin’ like that,” Cy answered.
“We’ll give each of ‘em two dollars. We’ll try it first with just our bus. If it works, then the other crew can do it too.”
“I don’t know, Mistuh Jay,” Cy said doubtfully. “I just don’t know ‘bout this. Creedy’ll get maddern hell fa’ sho’. Ain’t no tellin’ what he’ll do.”
“He can’t beat up ev’rybody on the bus,” Jared said again. “And it’s worth a try. We don’t have nothin’ to lose but my money. Will you give out the bills and tell ev’rybody what to do?”
“How come you wants me to give out the money?” Cy asked, again becoming apprehensive.
“They’ll probably listen to you quicker than me.”
“Cause I’s a nigger?”
“Yes,” Jared answered simply. “You don’t have to argue with anyone. Just hand out the money and tell them what to do. That’s all. If they get off the bus Monday momin’, there’s nothin’ we can do ‘bout it. But maybe they won’t.”
Cy took the rolls of bills reluctantly. He said nervously, “O.k., Mistuh Jay. I’ll do it. But soon’s I’m done, I’m gain’ to drink that whole bottle o’ whuskey as fast as I can. Ole Creedy’ll get maddern hell.”
Jared watched as Cy entered the first room on the west end of the building.