Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry Page 5

  “Hey, Stacey,” I said, “won’t that big a puddle make that ole driver cautious?”

  Stacey frowned, then said uncertainly, “I don’t know. Hope not. There’s big puddles down the road that ain’t deep, just water heavy.”

  “If I was to be walking out there when the bus comes, that ole bus driver would be sure to speed up so’s he could splash me,” I suggested.

  “Or maybe me,” Little Man volunteered, ready to do anything for his revenge.

  Stacey thought a moment, but decided against it. “Naw. It’s better none of us be on the road when it happens. It might give ’em ideas.”

  “Stacey, what if they find out we done it?” asked Christopher-John nervously.

  “Don’t worry, they won’t,” assured Stacey.

  “Hey, I think it’s coming,” whispered Little Man.

  We flattened ourselves completely and peered through the low bushes.

  The bus rattled up the road, though not as quickly as we had hoped. It rolled cautiously through a wide puddle some twenty feet ahead; then, seeming to grow bolder as it approached our man-made lake, it speeded up, spraying the water in high sheets of backward waterfalls into the forest. We could hear the students squealing with delight. But instead of the graceful glide through the puddle that its occupants were expecting, the bus emitted a tremendous crack and careened drunkenly into our trap. For a moment it swayed and we held our breath, afraid that it would topple over. Then it sputtered a last murmuring protest and died, its left front wheel in our ditch, its right wheel in the gully, like a lopsided billy goat on its knees.

  We covered our mouths and shook with silent laughter.

  As the dismayed driver opened the rear emergency exit, the rain poured down upon him in sharp-needled darts. He stood in the doorway looking down with disbelief at his sunken charge; then, holding on to the bus, he poked one foot into the water until it was on solid ground before gingerly stepping down. He looked under the bus. He looked at the steaming hood. He looked at the water. Then he scratched his head and cursed.

  “How bad is it, Mr. Grimes?” a large, freckle-faced boy asked, pushing up one of the cracked windows and sticking out his head. “Can we push it out and fix it?”

  “Push it out? Fix it?” the bus driver echoed angrily. “I got me a broken axle here an’ a water-logged engine no doubt and no tellin’ what-all else and you talkin’ ’bout fixin’ it! Y’all come on, get outa there! Y’all gonna have to walk home.”

  “Mister Grimes,” a girl ventured, stepping hesitantly from the rear of the bus, “you gonna be able to pick us up in the mornin’?”

  The bus driver stared at her in total disbelief. “Girl, all y’all gonna be walkin’ for at least two weeks by the time we get this thing hauled outa here and up to Strawberry to get fixed. Now y’all get on home.” He kicked a back tire, and added, “And get y’all’s daddies to come on up here and give me a hand with this thing.”

  The students turned dismally from the bus. They didn’t know how wide the hole actually was. Some of them took a wild guess and tried to jump it; but most of them miscalculated and fell in, to our everlasting delight. Others attempted to hop over the gullies to the forest to bypass the hole; however, we knew from much experience that they would not make it.

  By the time most of the students managed to get to the other side of the ditch, their clothes were dripping with the weight of the muddy water. No longer laughing, they moved spiritlessly toward their homes while a disgruntled Mr. Grimes leaned moodily against the raised rear end of the bus.

  Oh, how sweet was well-maneuvered revenge!

  With that thought in mind, we quietly eased away and picked our way through the dense forest toward home.

  * * *

  At supper Mama told Big Ma of the Jefferson Davis bus being stuck in the ditch. “It’s funny, you know, such a wide ditch in one day. I didn’t even notice the beginning of it this morning—did you, children?”

  “No’m,” we chorused.

  “You didn’t fall in, did you?”

  “We jumped onto the bank when we thought the bus would be coming,” said Stacey truthfully.

  “Well, good for you,” approved Mama. “If that bus hadn’t been there when I came along, I’d probably have fallen in myself.”

  The boys and I looked at each other. We hadn’t thought about that.

  “How’d you get across, Mama?” Stacey asked.

  “Somebody decided to put a board across the washout.”

  “They gonna haul that bus outa there tonight?” Big Ma inquired.

  “No, ma’am,” said Mama. “I heard Mr. Granger telling Ted Grimes—the bus driver—that they won’t be able to get it out until after the rain stops and it dries up a bit. It’s just too muddy now.”

  We put our hands to our mouths to hide happy grins. I even made a secret wish that it would rain until Christmas.

  Mama smiled. “You know I’m glad no one was hurt—could’ve been too with such a deep ditch—but I’m also rather glad it happened.”

  “Mary!” Big Ma exclaimed.

  “Well, I am,” Mama said defiantly, smiling smugly to herself and looking very much like a young girl. “I really am.”

  Big Ma began to grin. “You know somethin’? I am too.”

  Then all of us began to laugh and were deliciously happy.

  * * *

  Later that evening the boys and I sat at the study table in Mama and Papa’s room attempting to concentrate on our lessons; but none of us could succeed for more than a few minutes without letting out a triumphant giggle. More than once Mama scolded us, telling us to get down to business. Each time she did, we set our faces into looks of great seriousness, resolved that we would be adult about the matter and not gloat in our hour of victory. Yet just one glance at each other and we were lost, slumping on the table in helpless, contagious laughter.

  “All right,” Mama said finally. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I suppose I’d better do something about it or you’ll never get any work done.”

  It occurred to us that Mama might be preparing to whip us and we shot each other warning glances. But even that thought couldn’t dampen our laughter, now uncontrollable, welling up from the pits of our stomachs and forcing streams of laughter tears down our faces. Stacey, holding his sides, turned to the wall in an attempt to bring himself under control. Little Man put his head under the table. But Christopher-John and I just doubled up and fell upon the floor.

  Mama took my arm and pulled me up. “Over here, Cassie,” she said, directing me to a chair next to the fireplace and behind Big Ma, who was ironing our clothes for the next day.

  I peeped around Big Ma’s long skirts and saw Mama guiding Stacey to her own desk. Then back she went for Little Man and, picking him up bodily, set him in the chair beside her rocker. Christopher-John she left alone at the study table. Then she gathered all our study materials and brought them to us along with a look that said she would tolerate no more of this foolishness.

  With Big Ma before me, I could see nothing else and I grew serious enough to complete my arithmetic assignment. When that was finished, I lingered before opening my reader, watching Big Ma as she hung up my ironed dress, then placed her heavy iron on a small pile of embers burning in a corner of the fireplace and picked up a second iron already warming there. She tested the iron with a tap of her finger and put it back again.

  While Big Ma waited for the iron to get hot, I could see Mama bending over outspread newspapers scraping the dried mud off the old field shoes of Papa’s which she wore daily, stuffed with wads of newspaper, over her own shoes to protect them from the mud and rain. Little Man beside her was deep into his first-grade reader, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Ever since Mama had brought the reader home with the offensive inside cover no longer visible, Little Man had accepted the book as a necessary tool for passing the first grade. But he took no pride in it. Looking up, he noticed that Big Ma was now preparing to iron his clothes, and h
e smiled happily. Then his eyes met mine and silent laughter creased his face. I muffled a giggle and Mama looked up.

  “Cassie, you start up again and I’m sending you to the kitchen to study,” she warned.

  “Yes’m,” I said, settling back in my chair and beginning to read. I certainly did not want to go to the kitchen. Now that the fire no longer burned in the stove, it was cold in there.

  The room grew quiet again, except for the earthy humming of Big Ma’s rich alto voice, the crackle of the hickory fire, and the patter of rain on the roof. Engrossed in a mystery, I was startled when the comfortable sounds were shattered by three rapid knocks on the side door.

  Rising quickly, Mama went to the door and called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, ma’am,” came a man’s gravelly voice. “Joe Avery.”

  Mama opened the door and Mr. Avery stepped dripping into the room.

  “Why, Brother Avery,” Mama said, “what are you doing out on a night like this? Come on in. Take off your coat and sit by the fire. Stacey, get Mr. Avery a chair.”

  “No’m,” said Mr. Avery, looking rather nervously over his shoulder into the night. “I ain’t got but a minute.” He stepped far enough into the room so that he could close the door, then nodded to the rest of us. “Evenin’, Miz Caroline, how you t’night?”

  “Oh, I’ll do, I reckon,” said Big Ma, still ironing. “How’s Miz Fannie?”

  “She’s fine,” he said without dwelling on his wife. “Miz Logan…uh, I come to tell you somethin’…somethin’ important—Mr. Morrison here?”

  Mama stiffened. “David. You heard something about David?”

  “Oh, no’m,” replied Mr. Avery hastily. “Ain’t heard nothin’ ’bout yo’ husband, ma’am.”

  Mama regarded him quizzically.

  “It’s…it’s them again. They’s ridin’ t’night.”

  Mama, her face pale and frightened, glanced back at Big Ma; Big Ma held her iron in midair.

  “Uh…children,” Mama said, “I think it’s your bedtime.”

  “But, Mama—” we chorused in protest, wanting to stay and hear who was riding.

  “Hush,” Mama said sternly. “I said it was time to go to bed. Now go!”

  Groaning loudly enough to voice our displeasure, but not loudly enough to arouse Mama’s anger, we stacked our books upon the study table and started toward the boys’ room.

  “Cassie, I said go to bed. That’s not your room.”

  “But, Mama, it’s cold in there,” I pouted. Usually, we were allowed to build small fires in the other rooms an hour before bedtime to warm them up.

  “You’ll be warm once you’re under the covers. Stacey, take the flashlight with you and light the lantern in your room. Cassie, take the lamp from the desk with you.”

  I went back and got the kerosene lamp, then entered my bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “Close that door, Cassie!”

  Immediately, the door was closed.

  I put the lamp on the dresser, then silently slid the latch off the outside door and slipped onto the wet front porch. I crossed to the boys’ room. Tapping lightly, I whispered, “Hey, let me in.”

  The door creaked open and I darted in. The room was bathed in darkness.

  “What they say?” I asked.

  “Shhhhh!” came the answer.

  I crept to the door leading into Mama’s room and huddled beside the boys.

  The rain softened upon the roof and we could hear Mama asking, “But why? Why are they riding? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” said Mr. Avery. “But y’all knows how they is. Anytime they thinks we steppin’ outa our place, they feels like they gotta stop us. You know what some of ’em done to the Berrys.” He paused, then went on bitterly, “It don’t take but a little of nothin’ to set them devilish night men off.”

  “But somethin’ musta happened,” Big Ma said. “How you know ’bout it?”

  “All’s I can tell ya, Miz Caroline, is what Fannie heard when she was leavin’ the Grangers’ this evenin’. She’d just finished cleanin’ up the supper dishes when Mr. Granger come home with Mr. Grimes—ya know, that white school’s bus driver—and two other mens….”

  A clap of deafening thunder drowned Mr. Avery’s words, then the rain quickened and the conversation was lost.

  I grabbed Stacey’s arm. “Stacey, they’re coming after us!”

  “What!” squeaked Christopher-John.

  “Hush,” Stacey said harshly. “And Cassie, let go. That hurts.”

  “Stacey, somebody musta seen and told on us,” I persisted.

  “No…” Stacey replied unconvincingly. “It couldn’t be.”

  “Couldn’t be?” cried Christopher-John in a panic. “Whaddaya mean it couldn’t be?”

  “Stacey,” said Little Man excitedly, “whaddaya think they gonna do to us? Burn us up?”

  “Nothin’!” Stacey exclaimed, standing up suddenly. “Now why don’t y’all go to bed like y’all s’pose to?”

  We were stunned by his attitude. He sounded like Mama and I told him so.

  He collapsed in silence by the door, breathing hard, and although I could not see him, I knew that his face was drawn and that his eyes had taken on a haggard look. I touched his arm lightly. “Ain’t no call to go blaming yourself,” I said. “We all done it.”

  “But I got us into it,” he said listlessly.

  “But we all wanted to do it,” I comforted.

  “Not me!” denied Christopher-John. “All I wanted to do was eat my lunch!”

  “Shhhhh,” hissed Little Man. “I can hear ’em again.”

  “I’d better go tell Mr. Morrison,” Mr. Avery was saying. “He out back?”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Mama.

  We could hear the side door open and we scrambled up.

  “Cassie, get back to your room quick,” Stacey whispered. “They’ll probably come check on us now.”

  “But what’ll we do?”

  “Nothin’ now, Cassie. Them men probably won’t even come near here.”

  “Ya really believe that?” asked Christopher-John hopefully.

  “But shouldn’t we tell Mama?” I asked.

  “No! We can’t ever tell nobody!” declared Stacey adamantly. “Now go on, hurry!”

  Footsteps neared the door. I dashed onto the porch and hastened back to my own room, where I jumped under the bedcovers with my clothes still on. Shivering, I pulled the heavy patchwork quilts up to my chin.

  A few moments later Big Ma came in, leaving the door to Mama’s room open. Knowing that she would be suspicious of such an early surrender to sleep, I sighed softly and, making sleepy little sounds, turned onto my stomach, careful not to expose my shirt sleeves. Obviously satisfied by my performance, Big Ma tucked the covers more closely around me and smoothed my hair gently. Then she stooped and started fishing for something under our bed.

  I opened my eyes. Now what the devil was she looking for down there? While she was searching, I heard Mama approaching and I closed my eyes again.

  “Mama?”

  “Stacey, what’re you doing up?”

  “Let me help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “With…with whatever’s the matter.”

  Mama was silent a moment, then said softly, “Thank you, Stacey, but Big Ma and I can handle it.”

  “But Papa told me to help you!”

  “And you do, more than you know. But right now you could help me most by going back to bed. It’s a school day tomorrow, remember?”

  “But, Mama—”

  “If I need you, I’ll call you. I promise.”

  I heard Stacey walk slowly away, then Mama whispering in the doorway, “Cassie asleep?”

  “Yeah, honey,” Big Ma said. “Go on and sit back down. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Then Big Ma stood up and turned down the wick of the kerosene lamp. As she left the room, my eyes popped open again and I saw her outlin
ed in the doorway, a rifle in her hands. Then she closed the door and I was left to the darkness.

  For long minutes I waited, wide awake, wondering what my next move should be. Finally deciding that I should again consult with the boys, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, but immediately had to swing them back again as Big Ma reentered the room. She passed the bed and pulled a straight-backed chair up to the window. Parting the curtains so that the blackness of the night mixed with the blackness of the room, she sat down without a sound.

  I heard the door to the boys’ room open and close and I knew that Mama had gone in. I waited for the sound of the door opening again, but it did not come. Soon the chill of the cotton sheets beneath me began to fade and as Big Ma’s presence lulled me into a security I did not really feel, I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, it was still nightly dark. “Big Ma?” I called. “Big Ma, you there?” But there was no reply from the chair by the window. Thinking that Big Ma had fallen asleep, I climbed from the bed and felt my way to her chair.

  She wasn’t there.

  Outside, an owl hooted into the night, quiet now except for the drip-drap of water falling from the roof. I stood transfixed by the chair, afraid to move.

  Then I heard a noise on the porch. I could not control my trembling. Again the noise, this time close to the door, and it occurred to me that it was probably the boys coming to confer with me. No doubt Mama had left them alone too.

  Laughing silently at myself, I hurried onto the porch. “Stacey,” I whispered. “Christopher-John?” There was a sudden movement near the end of the porch and I headed toward it, feeling along the wall of the house. “Little Man? Hey, y’all, stop fooling ’round and answer me.”

  I crept precariously near the edge of the high porch, my eyes attempting to penetrate the blackness of the night. From below, a scratchy bristlyness sprang upon me, and I lost my balance and tumbled with a thud into the muddy flower bed. I lay paralyzed with fear. Then a long wet tongue licked my face.

  “Jason? Jason, that you?”

  Our hound dog whined his reply.

  I hugged him, then instantly let him go. “Was that you all the time? Look what you gone and done,” I fussed, thinking of the mess I was in with mud all over me.