The Friendship Read online

  White folks took this name business mighty seriously.

  Dewberry leaned across the store counter. “You don’t need no sardines, Tom. Ya stinkin’ of fish as it is.”

  I nudged Stacey. “Now how he know what Mr. Tom Bee need?”

  Stacey told me to hush.

  “Don’t need no candy canes neither, Tom,” decided Dewberry. “Got no teeth to chew ’em with.”

  Mr. Tom Bee stood his ground. “Y’all can’t get them sardines and that candy for me, y’all go get y’alls daddy and let him get it! Where John anyway?” he demanded. “He give me what I ask for, you sorry boys won’t!”

  Suddenly the store went quiet. I could feel something was wrong. This name business was a touchy thing. White folks took it seriously. Mighty seriously. They expected to be addressed proper with that “mister” and “missus” sounding loud ahead of their names.

  Dewberry pointed a warning finger at Mr. Tom Bee. “Old nigger,” he said, “don’t you never in this life speak to me that way again. And don’t you never stand up there with yo’ black face and speak of my daddy or any other white man without the proper respect. You might be of a forgetful mind at yo’ age, but you forgettin’ the wrong thing when you forgettin’ who you are.”

  BOOKS BY MILDRED D. TAYLOR

  The Friendship

  The Gold Cadillac

  Let the Circle Be Unbroken

  Mississippi Bridge

  The Road to Memphis

  Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry

  Song of the Trees

  The Well

  The

  FRIENDSHIP

  MILDRED D. TAYLOR

  Pictures by Max Ginsburg

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group.

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers, 1987

  Published in Puffin Books, 1998

  Text copyright © Mildred D. Taylor, 1987

  Illustrations copyright © Max Ginsburg, 1987

  All rights reserved

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

  Taylor, Mildred D. The friendship.

  Summary: Four children witness a confrontation between an elderly black man and a white storekeeper in rural Mississippi in the 1930s.

  [1. Afro-Americans—Fiction. 2. Southern states—Race relations—Fiction. 3. Race relations—Fiction. 4. Prejudices—Fiction.] I. Ginsburg, Max, ill.

  II. Title.

  PZ7.T21723Fr 1987 [Fic] 86-29309

  Puffin Books ISBN: 978-1-101-65796-6

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  In memory of my father, the storyteller

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Author’s Note

  “Now don’t y’all go touchin’ nothin’,” Stacey warned as we stepped onto the porch of the Wallace store. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I readily agreed to that. After all, we weren’t even supposed to be up here. “And Cassie,” he added, “don’t you say nothin’.”

  “Now, boy, what I’m gonna say?” I cried, indignant that he should single me out.

  “Just mind my words, hear? Now come on.” Stacey started for the door, then stepped back as Jeremy Simms, a blond sad-eyed boy, came out. Looking out from under the big straw hat he was wearing, he glanced somewhat shyly at us, then gave a nod. We took a moment and nodded back. At first I thought Jeremy was going to say something. He looked as if he wanted to, but then he walked on past and went slowly down the steps. We all watched him. He got as far as the corner of the porch and looked back. The boys and I turned and went into the store.

  Once inside we stood in the entrance a moment, somewhat hesitant now about being here. At the back counter, two of the storekeepers, Thurston and Dewberry Wallace, were stocking shelves. They glanced over, then paid us no further attention. I didn’t much like them. Mama and Papa didn’t much like them either. They didn’t much like any of the Wallaces and that included Dewberry and Thurston’s brother, Kaleb, and their father, John. They said the Wallaces didn’t treat our folks right and it was best to stay clear of them. Because of that they didn’t come up to this store to shop and we weren’t supposed to be coming up here either.

  We all knew that. But today as we had walked the red road toward home, Aunt Callie Jackson, who wasn’t really our aunt but whom everybody called that because she was so old, had hollered to us from her front porch and said she had the headache bad. She said her nephew Joe was gone off somewhere and she had nobody to send to the store for head medicine. We couldn’t say no to her, not to Aunt Callie. So despite Mama’s and Papa’s warnings about this Wallace place, we had taken it upon ourselves to come anyway. Stacey had said they would understand and after a moment’s thought had added that if they didn’t he would take the blame and that had settled it. After all, he was twelve with three years on me, so I made no objection about the thing. Christopher-John and Little Man, younger still, nodded agreement and that was that.

  “Now mind what I said,” Stacey warned us again, then headed for the back counter and the Wallaces. Christopher-John, Little Man, and I remained by the front door looking the store over; it was our first time in the place. The store was small, not nearly as large as it had looked from the outside peeping in. Farm supplies and household and food goods were sparsely displayed on the shelves and counters and the floor space too, while on the walls were plastered posters of a man called Roosevelt. In the center of the store was a potbellied stove, and near it a table and some chairs. But nobody was sitting there. In fact, there were no other customers in the store.

  Our eyes roamed over it all with little interest; then we spotted the three large jars of candy on one of the counters. One was filled with lemon drops, another with licorice, and a third with candy canes. Christopher-John, who was seven, round, and had himself a mighty sweet tooth, glanced around at Little Man and me, grinning. Then he walked over to the candy jars for a closer look. There he stood staring at them with a hungry longing even though he knew good and well there would be no candy for him this day. There never was for any of us except at Christmastime. Little Man started to follow him, but then something else caught his eye. Something gleaming and shining. Belt buckles and lockets, cuff links, and tie clips in a glass case. As soon as Little Man saw them, he forgot about the jars of candy and strutted right over. Little Man loved shiny new things.

  Not interested in drooling over candy I knew I couldn’t have, or shiny new things either, I went on to the back and stood with Stacey. Since the Wallaces were taking their own good time about serving us, I busied myself studying a brand-new 1933 catalog that lay open on the counter. Finally, Dewberry asked what we wanted. Stacey was about to tell him, but before he could, Dewberry’s eyes suddenly widened and he slapped the rag he was holding against the counter and hollered, “Get them filthy hands off-a-there!”

  Stacey and I turned to see who he was ye
lling at. So did Christopher-John. Then we saw Little Man. Excited by the lure of all those shiny new things, Little Man had forgotten Stacey’s warning. Standing on tiptoe, he was bracing himself with both hands against the top of the glass counter for a better look inside. Now he glanced around. He found Dewberry’s eyes on him and snatched his hands away. He hid them behind his back.

  Dewberry, a full-grown man, stared down at Little Man. Little Man, only six, looked up. “Now I’m gonna hafta clean that glass again,” snapped Dewberry, “seeing you done put them dirty hands-a yours all over it!”

  “My hands ain’t dirty,” Little Man calmly informed him. He seemed happy that he could set Dewberry’s mind to rest if that was all that was bothering him. Little Man pulled his hands from behind his back and inspected them. He turned his hands inward. He turned them outward. Then he held them up for Dewberry to see. “They clean!” he said. “They ain’t dirty! They clean!”

  Dewberry came from around the corner. “Boy, you disputin’ my word? Just look at ya! Skin’s black as dirt. Could put seeds on ya and have ’em growin’ in no time!”

  Thurston Wallace laughed and tossed his brother an ax from one of the shelves. “Best chop them hands off, Dew, they that filthy!”

  Little Man’s eyes widened at the sight of the ax. He slapped his hands behind himself again and backed away. Stacey hurried over and put an arm around him. Keeping eyes on the Wallaces, he brought Little Man back to stand with us. Thurston and Dewberry laughed.

  We got Aunt Callie’s head medicine and hurried out. As we reached the steps we ran into Mr. Tom Bee carrying a fishing pole and two strings of fish. Mr. Tom Bee was an elderly, toothless man who had a bit of sharecropping land over on the Granger Plantation. But Mr. Tom Bee didn’t do much farming these days. Instead he spent most of his days fishing. Mr. Tom Bee loved to fish. “Well, now,” he said, coming up the steps, “where y’all younguns headed to?”

  Stacey nodded toward the crossroads. “Over to Aunt Callie’s, then on home.”

  “Y’all hold on up a minute, I walk with ya. Got a mess-a fish for Aunt Callie. Jus’ wants to drop off this here other string and get me some more-a my sardines. I loves fishin’ cat, but I keeps me a taste for sardines!” he laughed.

  Stacey watched him go into the store, then looked back to the road. There wasn’t much to see. There was a lone gas pump in front of the store. There were two red roads that crossed each other, and a dark forest that loomed on the other three corners of the crossroads. That was all, yet Stacey was staring out intensely as if there were more to see. A troubled look was on his face and anger was in his eyes.

  “You figure we best head on home?” I asked.

  “Reckon we can wait, Mr. Tom Bee don’t take too long,” he said, then leaned moodily back against the post. I knew his moods and I knew this one had nothing to do with Mr. Tom Bee. So I let him be and sat down on the steps in the shade of the porch trying to escape some of the heat. It was miserably hot. But then it most days was in a Mississippi summer. Christopher-John sat down too, but not Little Man. He remained by the open doors staring into the store. Christopher-John noticed him there and immediately hopped back up again. Always sympathizing with other folks’ feelings, he went over to Little Man and tried to comfort him. “Don’tcha worry now, Man,” he said, patting his shoulder. “Don’tcha worry! We knows you ain’t dirty!”

  “That ain’t what they said!” shrieked Little Man, his voice revealing the hurt he felt. Little Man took great pride in being clean.

  Stacey turned to them. “Man, forget about what they said. You can’t pay them no mind.”

  “But, St-Stacey! They said they could plant seeds on me!” he cried indignantly.

  I looked back at him. “Ah, shoot, boy! You know they can’t do no such-a thing!”

  Skeptically Little Man looked to Stacey for affirmation.

  Stacey nodded. “They can do plenty all right, but they can’t do nothin’ like that.”

  “But—but, Stacey, th-they s-said they was g-gonna c-cut off my hands. They done s-said they gonna do that c-cause they…they dirty!”

  Stacey said nothing for a moment, then pulled from the post and went over to him. “They was jus’ teasin’ you, Man,” he said softly, “that’s all. They was jus’ teasin’. Their way of funnin’.”

  “Wasn’t nothin’ ’bout it funny to me,” I remarked, feeling Little Man’s hurt.

  Stacey’s eyes met mine and I knew he was feeling the same. He brought Little Man back to the steps and the two of them sat down. Little Man, seemingly comforted with Stacey beside him, was silent now. But after a few moments he did a strange thing. He reached down and placed his hand flat to the dirt. He looked at his hand, looked at the dirt, then drew back again. Without a word, he folded his hands tightly together and held them very still in his lap.

  I looked at the ground, then at him. “Now what was all that about?”

  Little Man looked at me, his eyes deeply troubled. And once again, Stacey said, “Forget it, Man, forget it.”

  Little Man said nothing, but I could tell he wasn’t forgetting anything. I stared down at the dirt. I wasn’t forgetting either.

  “’Ey, y’all.”

  We turned. Jeremy Simms was standing at the corner of the porch.

  “Boy, I thought you was gone!” I said.

  Stacey nudged me to be quiet, but didn’t say anything to Jeremy himself. Jeremy bit at his lip, his face reddening. Rubbing one bare foot against the other, he pushed his hands deep into his overall pockets. “C-come up here to wait on my pa and R.W. and Melvin,” he explained. “Got a load to pick up. Been waiting a good while now.”

  Stacey nodded. There wasn’t anything to say to that. Jeremy seemed to understand there was nothing to say. A fly buzzed near his face. He brushed it away, looked out at the crossroads, then sat down at the end of the porch and leaned against a post facing us. He pulled one leg up toward his chest and left the other leg dangling over the side of the porch. He glanced at us, looked out at the crossroads, then back at us again. “Y’all…y’all been doin’ a lotta fishin’ here lately?”

  Stacey glanced over. “Fish when we can.”

  “Over on the Rosa Lee?”

  Stacey nodded his answer.

  “I fish over there sometimes….”

  “Most folks do….” said Stacey.

  Jeremy was silent a moment as if thinking on what he should say next. “Y’all…y’all spect to be goin’ fishin’ again anyways soon?”

  Stacey shook his head. “Cotton time’s here. Got too much work to do now for much fishin’.”

  “Yeah, me too I reckon….”

  Jeremy looked away once more and was quiet once more. I watched him, trying to figure him out. The boy was a mighty puzzlement to me, the way he was always talking friendly to us. I didn’t understand it. He was white.

  Stacey saw me staring and shook his head, letting me know I shouldn’t be doing it. So I stopped. After that we all just sat there in the muggy midday heat listening to the sounds of bees and flies and cawing blackbirds and kept our silence. Then we heard voices rising inside the store and turned to look. Mr. Tom Bee, the string of fish and the fishing pole still in his hand, was standing before the counter listening to Dewberry.

  “Now look here, old uncle,” said Dewberry, “I told you three times my daddy’s busy! You tell me what you want or get on outa here. I ain’t got all day to fool with you.”

  Mr. Tom Bee was a slightly built man, and that along with his age made him look somewhat frail, and especially so as he faced the much younger Dewberry. But that look of frailty didn’t keep him from speaking his mind. There was a sharp-edged stubbornness to Mr. Tom Bee. His eyes ran over both Dewberry and Thurston and he snapped: “Give me some-a them sardines! Needs me four cans!”

  Dewberry leaned across the counter. “You already got plenty-a charges, Tom. You don’t need no sardines. Ya stinkin’ of fish as it is.”

  I nudged Stacey. “Now how he know
what Mr. Tom Bee need?”

  Stacey told me to hush.

  “Well, shoot! Mr. Tom Bee been grown more years than ’bout anybody ’round here! He oughta know what he need!”

  “Cassie, I said hush!” Stacey glanced back toward the store as if afraid somebody inside might have heard. Then he glanced over at Jeremy, who bit his lower lip and looked away again as if he had heard nothing at all.

  Saying nothing else, Stacey looked back at the crossroads. I cut my eyes at him, then sighed. I was tired of always having to watch my mouth whenever white folks were around. Wishing Mr. Tom Bee would get his stuff and come on, I got up and crossed the porch to the doorway. It was then I saw that Christopher-John had eased back inside and was again staring up at the candy jars. I started to tell Stacey that Christopher-John was in the store, then realized Mr. Tom Bee had noticed him too. Seeing Christopher-John standing there, Mr. Tom Bee pointed to the candy and said to Dewberry, “An’ you can jus’ give me some-a them candy canes there too.”

  “Don’t need no candy canes neither, Tom,” decided Dewberry. “Got no teeth to chew ’em with.”

  Mr. Tom Bee stood his ground. “Y’all can’t get them sardines and that candy for me, y’all go get y’alls daddy and let him get it! Where John anyway?” he demanded. “He give me what I ask for, you sorry boys won’t!”

  Suddenly the store went quiet. I could feel something was wrong. Stacey got up. I looked at him. We both knew this name business was a touchy thing. I didn’t really understand why, but it was. White folks took it seriously. Mighty seriously. They took it seriously to call every grown black person straight out by their first name without placing a “mister” or a “missus” or a “miss” anywhere. White folks, young and old, called Mama and Papa straight out by their first names. They called Big Ma by her first name or they sometimes called her aunty because she was in her sixties now and that was their way of showing her age some respect, though Big Ma said she didn’t need that kind of respect. She wasn’t their aunty. They took seriously too the way we addressed them. All the white grown folks I knew expected to be addressed proper with that “mister” and “missus” sounding loud ahead of their names. No, I didn’t understand it. But I understood enough to know Mr. Tom Bee could be in trouble standing up in this store calling Dewberry and Thurston’s father John straight out.