The Well Read online

  “Thought you was s’pose to be so tough.”

  We saw a burlap sack hanging from a tree a ways off, and Charlie told Hammer to open the sack and see what was inside. Now this sack, it was stinking something fierce and whatever was inside was still alive because the bag was moving.

  “Don’t hafta look inside,” said Hammer. “I can tell what it is from here.”

  “You scairt t’ look inside?” asked Ed-Rose. “Thought you was s’pose to be so tough.”

  “Best you look on in there,” said Dewberry. “Could be you’ll find yourself hanging from a tree like that yo’self one day.”

  Hammer went over to the tree, unknotted the rope that held the sack, and let it fall. Then he opened the sack and looked in. He turned his face away. The white boys laughed.

  Hammer looked cold-eyed at Charlie, then reached inside. He pulled out a skunk.

  “Now, how’d ya like t’ find that floatin’ in that fine well of y’alls?” laughed Ed-Rose.

  Hammer walked slowly towards them, holding the skunk by its neck. “Don’t bring it over here!” cried Charlie. “Go find yo’self a place t’ get rid of it.”

  “I already know where to get rid of it,” said Hammer, and tossed the skunk right at Charlie’s face.

  Books by

  MILDRED · D · TAYLOR

  SONG OF THE TREES

  ROLL OF THUNDER, HEAR MY CRY

  LET THE CIRCLE BE UNBROKEN

  THE GOLD CADILLAC

  THE FRIENDSHIP

  THE ROAD TO MEMPHIS

  MISSISSIPPI BRIDGE

  THE WELL

  THE WELL

  DAVID’S STORY

  MILDRED · D · TAYLOR

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit www.penguin.com

  First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers, a division of Penguin Group USA Inc., 1995

  Published by Puffin Books, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, 1998

  Copyright © Mildred D. Taylor, 1995

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Taylor, Mildred D.

  The well : David’s story / by Mildred D. Taylor.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In Mississippi in the early 1900’s ten-year-old David Logan’s family generously shares their well water with both white and black neighbors in an atmosphere of potential racial violence.

  [1. Afro-Americans—Fiction. 2. Race relations—Fiction. 3. Southern States—Race relations—Fiction. 4. Prejudices—Fiction. 5. Droughts—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.T21723We 1995 [Fic]—dc20 94—25360 CIP AC

  Puffin Books ISBN: 978-1-101-65795-9

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is dedicated

  to the memory of my beloved father,

  the storyteller,

  and

  to my mother, my sister, all my family,

  past and present,

  who have always been there for me,

  and

  to my beautiful, exquisite daughter, P. Laurén,

  who has enlightened my life.

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I was a child, my family always told stories about the past—stories about parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, stories about aunts and uncles and cousins, neighbors and friends, stories about the young and the old, stories about themselves. They were stories that reached back into time, some even into slavery. Wherever the family gathered, in our northern home where I grew up or in the South where I was born, the stories were told. Some of the stories were humorous, some were tragic, but all taught me a history not then written in textbooks. They taught me a history about myself.

  Those stories my family shared with me I have drawn upon to share with people around the world. They are the stories upon which all the Logan books have been based. The Well is another such story. It is a story told by David Logan about his boyhood. Those readers familiar with my other books about the Logan family—Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry; Let the Circle Be Unbroken; The Road to Memphis; and others—will recognize David as the father of Cassie, Stacey, Christopher-John, and Little Man. Just as my father and other members of my family passed on family history through the stories, so does David. It is David’s story, but in telling it, it becomes Cassie’s and her brothers’ too. It becomes part of the Logan family saga.

  Charlie Simms was always mean, and that’s the truth of it. Thing is we never knew just how mean he was until that year back when all the wells in our part of Mississippi went dry. All the wells except ours, that is. We was blessed. We had good sweet water in a well that ran deep. Most folks said our land must’ve been sitting on an underground lake, if there is such a thing. Well, I don’t know about that. All I know is that well of ours never went dry. Now some folks wouldn’t’ve shared their water, but Mama, and Papa too, weren’t those kind of folks. They believed in sharing what they had, and they tried to teach us boys—my brothers Mitchell and Kevin, Hammer, and me—the same thing; but sometimes it was real hard to do, to share, especially when some of the folks you had to share with were folks the likes of Charlie Simms and his family, folks who hated your guts.

  Our two families, the Logans and the Simmses, had never much gotten along. What with the Simmses living less than a mile or so from us on that forty-acre spot of land they tenant-farmed, and we sitting on our own two hundred acres, there was always likely to be trouble, and there was. Now this was back before my papa went and bought that second two hundred acres; but still that two hundred acres we had then, that was a lot, and the Simmses didn’t like it—that we had when they didn’t. They didn’t like it one bit. That was part of the trouble between us. Other part of the trouble was that we were colored and they were white. Fact of the matter was we ain’t never had much use for the Simmses, and they ain’t never had much use for us either; but seeing that we couldn’t hardly afford trouble with them, Papa said best thing to do was try and stay out of their way much as we could. He said it was better to mind our business, let them mind theirs, and just walk away if they tried to start something.

  I heeded his words. My brother Hammer didn’t.

  During those dry days the Simmses, like a lot of other folks, took their water from the Creek Rosa Lee. But then things got so bad that even the Rosa Lee began to muddy and dry, and folks who had never been to our place for water before began to show up. Colored folks, and white folks too.

  Even the Simmses.

  It was just after dawn the morning Charlie and his brother Ed-Rose pulled up in their wagon with two big barrels setting on it. Hammer and me, we’d just come from the barn after milking some of the cows when we seen them. Hammer was walking ahead of me carrying a full milk bucket in each hand. Me, I was only carrying one bucket because I was on a crutch that summer. I had fallen from a tree and busted up my leg, so I
had on a cast, had a limp, and I moved slow. Now I wasn’t any happier than Hammer to see the Simmses, but I was ready to act civil and say good morning. Not Hammer. First thing out of his mouth: “What y’all doing up here?”

  Charlie Simms, no more than fourteen at the time, held the reins to their mules. Ed-Rose, maybe a year or so younger, sat beside him. Charlie stared down at Hammer and me and didn’t answer. Ed-Rose stared too, but at least he spoke. “Where’s your folks?” he asked.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout where they are,” said Hammer. “I’m the one standing here.” Hammer couldn’t have been more than thirteen, and I was three years younger than that. I was kind of a quiet boy, and Hammer in his way was too, except he always spoke like a man, a man sure of himself. A man sure of himself even in front of white folks.

  “You gettin’ smart with me, boy?” asked Ed-Rose.

  Now back then white folks ruled everything. A white man said jump, and most black folks did. White man said move out the way, and most black folks did. White folks could say and do what they wanted, just because they ruled things; because just one word out of them against a black person—man or woman, or even a child—and that black man or that black woman or that child could be hanging from a tree, even just for mouthing off. One word. Hammer knew it. I knew it too. Still, Hammer said what he figured to say. He didn’t jump. We hadn’t been brought up that way.

  Without a word Hammer turned and stepped back to the barn. He set the buckets on the ground, next to the door, and came back. Hands free now, he stuffed them into his pockets. “I’m not the one sitting on a wagon with two empty water barrels,” he smart-mouthed. “I’m not the one sitting on someone else’s land. And I’m sure not the one gotta be answering questions.”

  At that, Charlie Simms threw the reins aside and jumped up. “Look-a-here, you smart-talkin’ nigger—”

  “Hammer! David!” Mama opened the side door and came out. She took one look at the Simmses, at us, and knew what was going on. “Why ain’t y’all told me we had folks callin’?”

  Hammer didn’t say a word. Me either.

  Mama came over to the dirt driveway and looked again at the Simmses. “Y’all come to get water?”

  “Yeah,” they said, showing her no respect, neither one saying “yes, ma’am” to her. That made my blood boil; that was my mama they were speaking to. But I said nothing. I didn’t want trouble.

  Mama nodded towards the well. “There it is,” she said. “Y’alls welcomed to it. Get much as you need.”

  Charlie and Ed-Rose didn’t move. They didn’t mutter a word. They kept their eyes on Hammer and me.

  Mama watched them watching us. “You boys, David and Hammer, y’all come with me,” she said. “Breakfast ’bout ready. Hammer, get them buckets and come on in the house.”

  “In a minute, Mama,” Hammer said real quiet-like, and his eyes slanted down in that cold way they could. “Right now, I figure to stay here and give Ed-Rose and Charlie a hand with our water.”

  Mama glanced again at Ed-Rose and Charlie, then again at Hammer. “I figure they can manage,” she said.

  “I’m staying,” Hammer said.

  Now Mama was a tall woman, big-boned and strong; she was taller, bigger than my papa. Well, she put her hands on her hips and gave Hammer a don’t-mess-with-me kind of look. “I’ll get my strap to ya, boy, you back talk me again. Now get them buckets and come on!” With that, without waiting for another word from Hammer, she turned and headed back for the house.

  Hammer eyed the Simmses, took his hands from his pockets and went back to the barn for the buckets. He picked them up, cut another look at the Simmses and walked across the yard to the house. I looked back at the Simmses too, still on their wagon, then, leaning on my crutch and carrying my milk bucket, followed Hammer. Neither of the Simmses stepped down from the wagon until the door closed behind us. We stepped inside and found Mama standing by the door, whipping strap in hand. Hammer eyed the strap without a word and walked on to the pantry and put the milk buckets on the sideboard. Mama watched him, then hung the strap on a nail beside the door. None of us said a word.

  Now at that time the kitchen wasn’t part of the main house. A body had to walk down a covered outside walkway to a separate room. That’s the way folks used to build houses in them days, with a separate cooking place to keep the fire danger down. Well, my Grandma Rachel and my Aunt Callie—that was Mama’s sister—had been down at the kitchen cooking, and they come in just about then bringing in the breakfast food: pot of steaming butter grits, long pan of hot biscuits, sausages and bacon, eggs, and pear preserves. Nobody ever accused us Logans of not eating good at our table! Anyways, Ma Rachel took one look at the three of us, set the food on the table, stared us down, and demanded to know what was the matter. “Y’all tell me what it is,” she said.

  I watched Ma Rachel with a bit of caution and hoped Mama wouldn’t tell her. Everybody knew Ma Rachel wasn’t very partial to white folks, especially not the Simmses. Not only that, but Ma Rachel was a bit touched in the head. Everybody knew that too.

  “Nothin’, Mama,” Mama answered. “Jus’ folks comin’ for water.”

  “What folks this time?” questioned Ma Rachel.

  “Oh…nobody particular,” said Hammer. “Just them Simmses.”

  If looks could cut, Mama’s would’ve done it. She cut a look at Hammer, then said to Ma, “Now don’t go upsettin’ yo’self. They jus’ come for water. They be gone in a minute.”

  “Yeah, they come for water all right,” snapped Hammer. “And Mama jus’ up and let ’em have it, much as they want.”

  I cut Hammer a look myself, wishing he’d watch his mouth because I knew Mama wasn’t going to let him keep getting away with smarting off. Like always, being Hammer, he paid no attention.

  Mama turned to him, and I was kind of surprised when all she did was talk to him. “Now God done blessed us with that water, son, and long’s I’m here, what we been blessed with, we’re gonna share long’s other folks in need.”

  Ma Rachel walked over to the window and looked out to the well. I moved right behind her, keeping my eyes on her. She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Other folks don’t mean the Simmses. You too generous, girl. First they comes and takes our water; next thing ya know, they be coming t’ take the land. You too free with what God done give ya, Caroline. Way too free.”

  “That may be, but long’s I got breath in my body and that water’s in that ground, I’m gonna give it.”

  Ma Rachel turned. “Not long’s I live!” she said, and all of a sudden lunged for the shotgun over the door.

  I let go of my crutch and laid hold of the shotgun too and tried to wrestle it from her. “Naw, Ma Rachel!” I shouted. “Naw!”

  “Ah, Lordy!” cried Aunt Callie as she and Mama rushed over. “Ah, Lordy!” Aunt Callie said again just as Mama snatched the shotgun from both Ma Rachel and me.

  “Ain’t gonna be no shootin’,” Mama said, not a rise of anger in her voice. “Ain’t gonna be no shootin’.”

  “I ain’t wantin’ them white folks on this land!” Ma Rachel cried. “They come on this land, I’m gonna find me ’nother place t’ go! Ya hear me, Caroline? I’m gonna find me ’nother place t’ go!”

  Mama sighed and placed the shotgun back over the door, then she put her arm around her mama. Ma Rachel was a small woman, and standing there with Mama’s arms around her, it looked almost as if she was the child. After a bit my grandma pulled away from Mama and sat down in a rocker by the window. “They done took my name!” she moaned. “They done took my name. They done took it, and I wants them ’way from here!”

  I was watching her and I was thinking, here we were nearly some ten years into what folks called the twentieth century, but Ma Rachel’s mind was still in the last century dwelling on those days when she was a slave.

  Mama tried to give her some comfort and Aunt Callie said, “Jus’ rest yo’self, Mama. They’ll be gone soon. Don’t fret yo’self now. Th
ey’ll be gone soon.”

  “Not soon enough for me,” said Hammer.

  Mama turned as if she’d just about had it with him. The only thing saved him was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Clinton Melbourne and his son, George. “Come to get some water, that be all right with y’all,” said Mr. Melbourne.

  “Help yo’self,” said Mama. “Y’alls welcome to it.”

  Mr. Melbourne nodded, his way of giving thanks. Looking a bit embarrassed, he nodded a second time, then he and his son went back to their wagon, unloaded their empty barrels and took them over to the well. There they stood waiting for Charlie and Ed-Rose to finish drawing water. The Melbournes, they were nice folks. They always treated us fair; still, we didn’t forget that they were white and we were colored. We figured they didn’t either.

  Ma Rachel stared out the window at the Melbournes and the Simmses and shook her head. “More white folks on our land,” she muttered. Then she repeated herself. “Ya too generous with these folks, Caroline, after what they done! Ya too generous!”

  “I can agree with that,” said Hammer.

  “You hush, boy!” said Mama. “You and David, y’all go on and get washed up for breakfast. Go on, now!”

  Hammer scowled, but he obeyed. He went to the back porch and I followed. We found our cousin Halton already there, washing off the morning sweat after working in the fields. Halton was Aunt Callie’s boy, and he was staying with us now. Halton was near grown, about the same age as my oldest brother, Mitchell, and he had himself a sturdy build, like a boxer. He grinned at us. Halton always seemed to be grinning. He was just one of those folks naturally had a sunshiny way about them; nothing much ever seemed to bother him. “What y’all little scounds up to?” he asked.

  “Jus’ come to wash up,” said Hammer.

  Halton nodded. “What was all that commotion goin’ on in there?”

  I told him.

  He grunted. “Them Simmses ain’t never been nothin’ but trouble. Y’all little scounds stay clear of ’em.”