The Land Page 4
Willie Thomas’s whip stopped in midair and my daddy’s gaze turned from Willie to me. Mitchell, though, stood stock-still. He didn’t look at his daddy, he didn’t look at my daddy, and he didn’t look at me. He was gazing off somewhere else.
“You?” questioned my daddy. “Paul, you did this?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, looking straight at him. “I did.”
My daddy took a breath deep, then walked around Ghost Wind, inspecting him long and hard this time, before he came back and stood right in front of me. “Paul,” he said to me, “you’re a good horseman, one of the best I’ve ever seen, and you know how to handle Ghost Wind. Now you going to stand here and tell me you rode this horse and let this happen to him?”
I looked straight up at my daddy and lied again. “Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“Sir?”
“How’d it happened?”
I glanced at Willie Thomas, still holding the strap, and at Mitchell, still looking off to God knew where. Then my eyes turned again to my daddy. “He . . . well, he just got away from me, Mister Edward,” I said. “Ghost Wind . . . he . . . he was just too much horse for me, I reckon.”
After I said that, there was only silence. My daddy’s look pierced me; then he moved back to the stallion and stooped to take another look at his leg. He motioned Willie Thomas over. “Looks like to me,” he said, “the leg’s not that torn up. It should heal in time.”
Willie, too, again studied the leg. “Yes, suh, I believes so,” he agreed. “But not time ’nough for them races you was plannin’ on.”
My daddy straightened and nodded. “You just do what you need to do to make him right.”
“Yes, suh.”
“And, Willie . . .”
“Yes, suh?”
“Put that whip away. Paul says he rode the stallion. That’s all I need to know.”
Willie Thomas bit his lip, looked at Mitchell, then back at my daddy and said quietly, “Yes, suh.” My daddy nodded as if an understanding had just been struck, and watched as Willie Thomas hung the whip back on the wall.
Then my daddy turned to me. “Paul, you come with me,” he said, and left the barn.
I glanced again at Willie Thomas, but he didn’t look at me. He turned his attention instead back to the stallion. I looked then at Mitchell, and for the first time he was looking at me, but I couldn’t read his eyes.
“Paul!”
I hurried after my daddy. When I caught up with him, I walked alongside him in silence until we were almost at the house before I said, “I s’pose you real mad at me.”
“Not real happy with you.”
“Well . . . I’m sorry about riding Ghost Wind that way. I . . . I won’t do it again.”
“Yes, I know you won’t.”
“You going to whip me?”
My daddy stopped and looked at me. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to whip you, Paul. No, your punishment is that you’ll never get to ride Ghost Wind again. I figure you’ll remember that a whole lot longer than a whipping. You won’t ride any of the other horses either, including the Appaloosa, until I say so.”
“But, Mister Edward—”
“You were responsible for that stallion, and you let this happen.”
“But—”
“It’s finished, boy. Don’t you think I know it was Mitchell rode that horse? Now you’ve got to pay the price for it.”
It wasn’t until the next day I saw Mitchell again. “You get a whippin’ for ridin’ that stallion?” he asked as I made my way through the woods toward the creek.
I shook my head. “No. Just can’t ride Ghost Wind anymore.”
Mitchell glanced sideways at me, almost as if he felt bad about my predicament. “That bad as a whippin’?”
“Worse.”
He shrugged. “Maybe so. Whippin’, I s’pose, you get it over and done wit’.”
“That’s how I see it,” I said, and started away.
“’Ey, Paul!” Mitchell called after me. “Anyways, you still get t’ ride your own horse, that Appaloosa. So not ridin’ Ghost Wind, that ain’t so bad.”
I turned and looked back at him. “No . . . don’t get to ride him either, or any other horse . . . not ’til my daddy says I can. He was plenty mad.”
“Had a right t’ be,” Mitchell conceded, “way that stallion was all scratched up and bruised. You know, my daddy was ’fraid he was gonna lose his job ’cause-a what I done.”
“I know.”
“Wouldn’t’ve had t’ be,” he said, eyeing me in his old belligerent way, “he ain’t been so scairt of your white daddy.”
I looked him straight. “I know.”
Mitchell seemed to relent.
I nodded and turned again to go.
“Paul,” Mitchell called after me one final time. “You know my daddy would’ve near t’ killed me, he’d’ve known for sure I’d been ridin’ that stallion. I’d’ve taken the whippin’, mind ya, but he would’ve near t’ killed me.”
“Then good thing you weren’t riding Ghost Wind, isn’t it?” I said.
Mitchell nodded, and that was as close as Mitchell Thomas came to thanking me and as close as I came to accepting his thanks. But after that, things began to change between Mitchell and me. Now, we still weren’t the best of friends, but there was a new respect building. I believe that both of us were realizing that our judgments of each other were not truly founded. Each of us had something to him the other hadn’t seen before, and out of this realization came a real respect, not just a truce.
Family
I loved my daddy’s land. In the beginning I always thought of it as my land too. I knew every bit of the place. I knew every bit of lowland, every rise and knoll, every cave and watering place, every kind of plant and tree. My favorite spots were the pond nestled in the woods and a hillside that overlooked the pasture and my daddy’s house. The pond was surrounded by big old pines that allowed splinters of light to peek through, and its waters were filled with fish. The hillside boasted only a few trees, so it was sunny and open, and the pasture below was dotted with cows and horses grazing. On many days I would sit for hours alone at either place just gazing out over the land. Whenever my family was needing me and I couldn’t be found near my daddy’s or my mama’s house, they knew where to look for me.
Now, one of my favorite things to do was read, and I was always reading anything I could get my hands on. I especially liked reading by that pond, and when I wasn’t fishing there with Robert, I usually took a book with me. People began to expect that of me. Once, though, my reading got me into more trouble with some of the colored boys on the place, and it was Mitchell who got me out of it. Those boys came along and started picking on me. There were four of them, and since my brothers weren’t around and, at the moment, neither was Mitchell, I suppose they figured they could get away with it.
“Jus’ look at that little nigger white boy sittin’ there on the bank got nothin’ t’ do,” said a boy I recognized as R. T. Roberts. “Got nothin’ t’ do but sit there lookin’ at some fool book.”
“Well, if I had me a white daddy who own the place, ’spect I wouldn’t have nothin’ t’ do neither,” said another.
I glanced up at them, but I said nothing.
“Let’s see jus’ what ya got there, nigger white boy,” said R.T. Then he grabbed the book right out of my hands. That’s when I jumped up, but I still said nothing. “Now, let’s see what this here is.” R.T. flipped through the pages.
“Got no pictures,” observed one of the boys.
“What’s them words?” asked another, peering over.
“Don’t know,” said R.T. “Jus’ know they white folks’ words.” Then he looked at me. “What ya doin’ usin’ white folks’ words, boy?” he barked at me, imitating the way I’d heard white men speak to black folks. He and the other boys broke into laughter.
“It’s called English,” I said, breaking my silence. “Anybody wants to read it can learn to read
it.”
The boys scoffed at my words. “So, maybe you want t’ teach us, same as you teachin’ Mitchell, huh?”
I shrugged. “You want to learn, I will.”
“Yeah . . .” sneered another. “We got our own schools now, and we wanted t’ learn any of that stuff, we’d be goin’ there. We’d hardly be takin’ any teachin’ from the likes of you. You with yo’ white daddy.”
By now I was tired of folks putting me down because of my daddy. My daddy was a white man and there was nothing I could do about it, so I figured I might as well make use of the fact. “That’s right,” I said. “I’ve got a white daddy, all right, and you’re standing on his land. Maybe you’d like to get off it.”
The boy who had made the remark about my daddy stepped toward me, but R.T. put up his hand and stopped him. “Now wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. “Maybe this here boy Paul gots a point ’bout readin’. Maybe he can teach us somethin’. Let’s see now . . . maybe he can teach us how t’ read this here—” He tore a page from the book and thrust it at me.
“Don’t do that!” I cried.
“Or maybe this one here.” Another boy ripped out a second page.
“Stop it!”
“Ya know somethin’?” said R.T. “I don’t much like this book no ways, seein’ it ain’t got no pictures, and what I don’t like, I don’t tolerate!” Then he grabbed a handful of pages and tore them from the binding.
With that I threw myself at R.T., punching him with all my might. I had learned how to fight well enough to defend myself, but I certainly wasn’t capable of fighting four boys at once, and they let me know that too. They laughed and all of them had a shot at me—that is, until Mitchell Thomas came along. There was a sudden silence before I even knew Mitchell was there. All I knew was that R.T., who was beating at my face, was suddenly jerked away, and laid out flat to the ground with a thunderous pop. Then I saw Mitchell through the slit of my swollen eye. He stood over R.T. and pointed to me. “Now, anybody want at this boy’ll hafta fight me,” he said calmly.
All the boys were silent at first, then one of them laughed nervously. “Ah, we was jus’ joshin’ wit’ him, Mitchell.”
“Yeah,” said another. “But then he gone and lit into R.T. there for no reason. He the one started it! Got what was comin’ t’ him!”
“Yeah! Jus’ ’cause he got a white daddy, he think he can do whatever he wanna!” put in R.T. “Well, we don’t be ’lowin’ no white niggers t’ be beatin’ up on us. He ain’t no better’n us!”
“He done said he was?” asked Mitchell.
“Well . . . might ain’t said it, but might well as’ve. Sittin’ there readin’ that book.”
Mitchell looked at the ground and saw the torn pages and the book lying now facedown in the mud. “Yeah . . . yeah, I see what ya mean, how Paul done started it and all. See how he done torn pages outa his own book and riled y’all. Well, y’all wanna fight this boy, then fight him fair, one at a time, but don’t y’all be jumpin’ him like ya done or y’all gonna have me t’ fight right ’long with him.”
“Ah, Mitchell, what ya doin’ takin’ up for him?” retorted R.T., getting to his feet and wiping at the blood Mitchell had drawn. “You used t’ couldn’t stand him yo’ own self! I recalls correctly, you used t’ always be beatin’ up on him!”
“Yeah, that’s right, and I ain’t never had no help t’ do it neither. Like I said, y’all wanna fight him, that’s fine with me, but y’all go jumpin’ him like ya done, all of y’all knockin’ him round at once, I’m gonna back Paul up. Now, y’all got a problem with that?”
R.T. glanced at the other boys, then back at Mitchell, and shook his head. “Naw, ain’t got no problem.”
Mitchell nodded at the understanding and dismissed any grievance he had with R.T. “Look, I got me a wagon stuck in the mud down a ways. Y’all wanna come help get me out?”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” the boys said, seemingly happy to do whatever Mitchell asked.
“’Fore ya do, though,” added Mitchell, “y’all best pick up all them pages outa Paul’s book there. And next time don’t let him rile ya so.”
R.T. and the others did what Mitchell said; then all of them went with Mitchell to help him with his wagon. I suppose I could have gone to help too, seeing how Mitchell had helped me out, but Mitchell hadn’t asked me to come and I figured the others wouldn’t have wanted me along anyway. I had no need to go where I wasn’t wanted.
After they were gone, I sat on the bank alone and tried to put my book together. Although some of the pages were crumpled and muddy, they were still readable. I wiped them off as best I could, then put them in order and laid them in the binding. Afterward I just sat there thinking on those boys jumping me, then a while later, I went back to my reading, even though my right eye was swollen. I wasn’t about to let R.T. and those other boys and their ignorance chase me from what I wanted to do.
I was still sitting there reading with my one good eye when Mitchell came back. “Some reason thought you’d still be here,” he said. “Don’t you ever get tired of readin’?”
I looked up at him. “Not really.”
Mitchell shook his head as if finding it hard to understand that and sat down. “Got the wagon unstuck.”
“Good.”
“You know R.T. and them others, they had plenty t’ say ’bout ya.”
“S’pose they did.”
“They said you gone and threatened them.”
“Threatened them?”
“Yeah. Said they was on your daddy’s land and maybe they mess wit’ you, they’d be off it.”
I took a moment. “I suppose it did come out that way.”
“Paul, you wanna get along with these boys, how come you bringin’ up your white daddy all the time?”
“I didn’t bring him up. They did.”
“Don’t matter,” said Mitchell. “Your daddy’s the boss man—the white boss man—and you got no right t’ throw that in their face.”
“And they’ve got no right to judge me ’cause of who my daddy is. I’m not ashamed of who I am, and I’m not ashamed of my daddy!”
Mitchell was silent.
I closed my book and stared at him. “You figuring maybe I need to be?”
Mitchell looked at me. “Not figurin’ anythin’. Jus’ can’t understand how it feels t’ have a white daddy, that’s all. Can’t figure out how you could love a white daddy who owned your mama and you. Can’t figure how you can be so crazy ’bout them white brothers of yours neither, when once y’all all grown, they’ll be the boss and you’ll be jus’ another nigger.”
I got up from the bank. “They never use that word to me, and that’s not how it’s going to be.”
“What make you think so?”
“Because they’re my family.”
Mitchell nodded and faced the pond. “Still can’t figure it.”
“I’ve got to go. I’m going hunting.”
“Who wit’?”
“With my daddy.”
Mitchell looked around at me. “Good huntin’, then” was all he said.
“Mitchell been beating up on you again?” asked my daddy as we set up camp that evening.
“No, sir. Some other boys.”
“How do they look?”
I grinned up at my daddy. “’Bout the same. Mitchell helped me out.”
My daddy nodded, and the two of us went about building a fire. We were planning to hunt coon later in the night, and in the morning hunt some wild turkeys. My daddy often took me hunting. Sometimes we all went, my daddy and my brothers and me, though Hammond and George often went hunting on their own. There were times too when my daddy took just Robert and me. But the times that were most special were when it was only my daddy and me on a hunt. At those times I had my daddy all to myself, and I cherished that. I learned many things from my daddy, and when I was a small boy, there seemed no one like him to me. I’m not ashamed to admit it. In those early days I adored my daddy.
“Mister Edward,” I said when he told me that, thinking of my own Indian blood, “you ever meet my mama’s daddy?” Now, I always called my daddy “Mister Edward,” just as Cassie and my mama did, though I had come on my mama and daddy in their quiet times and had heard her say his name out straight Edward and that was all. It seemed peculiar to me at first that I called my daddy by a formal name while Robert and Hammond and George called him “Daddy.” But my mama had broken both Cassie and me when we were still little from ever calling Edward Logan “Daddy.” She had broken that misspeaking with bottom-warming spankings whenever we did. When I asked my mama why Cassie and I couldn’t call our daddy the same as Robert and George and Hammond, she said simply, “They’re white and you’re not, and their mama was his legal wife.” I didn’t ask her again about it after that, and I settled into addressing my daddy as if he were not, and after a while calling him “Mister Edward” was the same as calling him Daddy, or at least that was what was in my mind.
As for what my daddy called me, sometimes when we were alone, he called me Paul-Edward. That’s because my mama had wanted to name me Edward after him, but my daddy had said it wouldn’t be fitting, seeing that none of his boys with his white wife had his name. Out of respect for her, he said, he couldn’t give it to me official-like, but he would think of me that way. So there were times when my daddy called me Paul-Edward, and my mama and sometimes Cassie did the same, but it was only between them and me.
“No, can’t say that I did,” my daddy said in answer to my question. “I heard of him, though. My own daddy told me about him. His name was Kanati; means the lucky hunter. My daddy said he left with some of his people headed west into Alabama or Mississippi before the soldiers made them go. From what my daddy told me, Kanati knew they’d be made to go because folks like my daddy and others wanted the Nation’s land, and there was nothing to be done about that. The Army was set to drive Kanati’s people out, and your granddaddy didn’t want any part of any soldiers.”