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A Yellow Watermelon. Ted Dunagan
Читать онлайн.Название A Yellow Watermelon
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781603060769
Автор произведения Ted Dunagan
Издательство Ingram
Then I saw my mother standing on the front porch brandishing a long switch from one of her peach trees, and my heart sank. Someone must have seen me at the sawmill after all.
3
It turned out that the switch was meant for my brother Fred, who didn’t show up to do his assigned chores. I figured this out when I approached the front porch expecting to feel the sting of the switch and heard my mother ask, “Do you know where your brother Fred is?”
“No ma’am,” I answered while washing my hands. Afterwards I headed for the kitchen where I knew supper awaited me. Our three meals were breakfast, dinner at midday, and supper at night. There on the big black wood stove was my supper. On one of the eyes, still warm, was a big pot of fresh black-eyed peas with tiny pods of boiled okra floating on top. On the apron of the stove was a bowl of creamed corn, a bowl of chopped fried okra, and a plate of sliced ruby-red tomatoes—all fresh that day from my mother’s garden. The crispy brown cornbread was sliced and still in the black skillet. I piled my plate high, ate my fill, and washed it down with a big glass of buttermilk.
Afterwards, I walked from the kitchen through the main room, by my mother and father’s bed, the fireplace, and the two big rocking chairs. My parents were on the front porch, where in the fading light, she was shelling butter beans and he was cleaning his old shotgun.
At the end of the porch was the door which led into the room—built like an afterthought onto the side of the old shack—where my brothers and I slept.
The storm came later than I expected. When the hard rain hit the old tin roof it jarred me from a deep sleep. You would have had to shout to make someone hear you over the explosive noise, but I wasn’t afraid because I had heard it many times before. After a while the rain subsided into a soft, hypnotic patter on the tin. Just before it soothed me back to sleep, I ran my hand over the rough sheet which my mother made by sewing empty flour sacks together, to find that Fred wasn’t in his accustomed place. A little later on, I felt the dampness of him as he slid into bed.
I woke up to the smell of fried chicken. I sat up in bed thinking this must be a special day if we’re having fried chicken for breakfast. Seeing the room was empty, I leapt out of bed, hoping my older brothers hadn’t eaten both the drumsticks.
On the front porch, because I knew I would be asked when I arrived in the kitchen, I stopped and washed my hands. The drinking bucket and wash basin sat on a bench at the end of the porch. I took the dipper from a nail on the wall, splashed water into the basin, and scrubbed my hands good with the big brown bar of soap. Afterwards, I threw the soapy water out into the yard and dried my hands on the thin towel hanging on another nail next to the dipper. There was no running water, and there was no indoor plumbing. We had to carry our drinking water in buckets from a well we shared with the Bedwell family. Water for bathing and washing clothes was collected in a big rain barrel at the rear of the house underneath a low spot on the roof. I knew it would be full after last night’s storm.
When I arrived in the kitchen, I was surprised to find no one there except my mother. “Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Your daddy and Ned have already gone to the woods to hunt. Fred is behind the house getting a bath. I told him to save his tub of water for you. Now, sit down and eat your breakfast,” she said, placing a plate in front of me with a fried egg and a hot biscuit. Then she slid a mason jar of her homemade blackberry jam toward me.
I glanced at my food, then stared at the big platter of fried chicken at the other end of the table. She followed my gaze and said, “You can have all the chicken you want after church. We’re having dinner-on-the-grounds right after the service.”
My heart leapt. This meant all kinds of delicious food would be stacked high on the wooden tables lined up in the shade of the big oak trees beside the church. We would probably even get out early.
While sopping up the last of the egg yoke and jam with the remains of my biscuit, I found myself wondering what Jake was having for breakfast, if anything. Jake was the first black person I had seen up close and talked to, though I had observed them from a distance. Most recently was in the early summer at my Uncle Curvin’s cotton field where a group of black workers—hoes in hand—were climbing down from the back of his pickup. It had been the time of year when the cotton had to be chopped with a hoe to thin out the overcrowded plants and eliminate the weeds.
I had come along as the water boy, and later in the day, when the heat became intense, I would walk down the long, straight rows with a bucket of water and a dipper so the white people could have a cool drink. I remembered looking across the field, where on the other side, a black boy who looked about my size and age was doing the same for the black people. In 1948, even the cotton fields in lower Alabama were segregated.
My thoughts were interrupted when my mother said, “Fred ought to be finished by now. Go on out and get your bath and I’ll have your Sunday clothes ready when you get back.”
When I walked around the corner of the house I saw my brother standing naked on a board beside the galvanized wash tub which he had filled from the rain barrel. He had just finished drying off and was stepping into his jeans. I noticed there were no red marks on his legs or back and asked, “You didn’t get a switching for being late?”
“Naw. I was over at Uncle Clyde’s house. The storm came early over there and I had to wait until it was over before I could come home.”
I stripped, stepped into the tub, and sat down in the cool soapy water. Just before Fred disappeared around the corner he said, “By the way, I peed in the tub.”
“Mother!” I yelled.
He was back in a flash saying, “Shut up! I was just kidding with you. Okay?”
My brother, I thought, was itching to get a whipping. I figured he timed that storm just right so he could be late and get away with it. I also knew he had been fighting his Bantam rooster for money, and that he shot marbles for keeps. My mother considered both of those as gambling, but I kept his secrets. I had a lot of secrets.
On the way to church, Fred and I sat on the tailgate of Uncle Curtis’s pickup, letting our feet drag along the dirt road. I had on last year’s shoes which were too small and hurt my feet, but I knew I had to suffer until church was over. Last night’s rain had settled the dust so I didn’t have to worry about it soiling my one white shirt, which my mother had starched and pressed to perfection with her heavy black iron, heated on her kitchen stove.
When we turned the corner onto Center Point Road, I looked toward the sawmill, thought about Jake and asked Fred, “You ever talk to a black person?”
“We ain’t supposed to talk to niggers, unless we telling them what to do. Why?”
“I just wondered.” I had suspected this was how everyone felt. Now that it was confirmed, I decided I couldn’t share my encounter with Jake, even with my brother.
Everyone parked their vehicles in the shade of the oak trees next to the church and left the food inside them. When we arrived I was amazed to see my mother get out of the cab of the pickup, Fred jump inside in her place, and roar away with my cousin Robert at the wheel.
“Where’re they going?” I asked my mother.
“They have to go get the blocks of ice and chip it up for the iced tea.”
I was left to suffer alone. The worst part started immediately. It was the hugging, kissing, and pinching by all my aunts and great-aunts. I could close my eyes and know which one it was just by their smells. My father’s sister, Aunt Cleo, always smelled sweet like wild flowers; in fact, today she had a bouquet of daisies pined to the bodice of her Sunday dress, held there by a big orange-colored cameo pin. My mother’s two sisters,