There was a small room behind the kitchen, only long enough and wide enough for a cot that had been cut in half for Lessie. There never had been much in the room, except the bed, and now there was nothing else there. Even the two or three dresses his wife had made for Lessie by cutting down some of her old clothes were gone. Garley looked under the cot, and found nothing there. Lessie had run away, and there was nothing to show that she might have intended coming back. She had taken all she possessed.
When Garley saw his wife half an hour later, she stopped him in the hall, hands on hips.
“Well?” she said. “Do you expect to find her hiding under a chair somewhere in the house?”
“Where can I look?” he asked. “How do I know which way she went?”
“How do I know?” Mrs. Garley said. “If I knew, I’d go there and find her myself. You find Lessie and bring her back here by breakfast time tomorrow morning, if you know what’s good for you. If you don’t . . . if you don’t . . .”
Garley found his hat and went out the front door. He turned down the street in the direction of the Negro quarter of town. That was the only likely place for Lessie to be hiding, unless she had gone to the country.
III
As soon as he passed the first Negro house in the quarter, Garley had a feeling that everybody in the neighborhood was watching him from behind doors, windows, and corners of buildings. He turned, jerking his head around quickly, and tried to catch somebody looking at him. There was nobody to be seen anywhere. The place looked completely deserted.
“Lessie wouldn’t know any of these darkies,” he said to himself. “She never left home, and nobody ever came there to see her. I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody knew she was alive, except my wife and me. Lessie wouldn’t come down here among strangers when she ran away.”
He walked on, trying to think where he could look for her. He decided she would not have gone to the country, because she would have been too afraid to do that. The only other place for her to be hiding, after all, was in the quarter. If he did find her, he believed he would come across her hiding behind some Negro woman who had taken her in.
Garley had half made up his mind to go back home and tell his wife he had looked through every house in the quarter without finding Lessie. But when he stopped and started back, he began to think what his wife would say and do. She might even take it into her head to turn him out of house and home if he went back without Lessie, or word of her.
Turning down an alley, he picked out a house at random. The door and the windows were open, but there was no sign of anyone’s being there. There was not even smoke in the chimney.
Garley hesitated, and then went to the house next door.
He knocked and listened. There was no sound anywhere, even though there was a fire under a washpot in the yard. He stepped into the doorway and looked inside. In the corner of the room sat a large Negro woman, rocking unconcernedly to and fro in a chair. On her lap, all but hidden in the folds of her breasts, sat Lessie. The girl was clinging to the woman and burying her head deeper and deeper under the woman’s arms.
“Hello, Aunt Gracie,” Garley said, staring at them.
“What do you want down here, Mr. Garley?” Aunt Gracie asked stiffly.
“Just looking around,” Garley said.
“Just looking around for what?” the woman asked.
“Well, Lessie, I guess.”
“It won’t do you a bit of good,” Aunt Grade said. “You’ll just be wasting your time talking about it.”
“I didn’t know where she was, to tell the truth,” he said.
“And it won’t do you no good to know where she is, either,” Aunt Gracie said, “because you can go tell that wife of yours that she’s going to stay where she is at.”
Garley sat down in a chair by the door. The Negro woman hugged Lessie all the tighter and rocked her back and forth. Lessie had not looked at him.
“To tell the truth,” Garley said, “my wife has been pretty hard on Lessie for the past three or four years. She’s been a little harder than she ought to have been, I guess.”
“She won’t be again,” Aunt Gracie said. “Because the child’s going to stay right here with me from now on. You white people ought to be ashamed of yourselves for treating darkies like you do. You know good and well it couldn’t be right to make Lessie work for you all the time and not give her something more than a few old rags made over from your wife’s clothes when she is done with them, and what scraps get left over from the kitchen.”
Garley hoped Aunt Gracie would not begin next about the way his wife had slapped and beat Lessie with the broom. He hoped nobody knew about that.
“When you get home,” Aunt Gracie said, “tell your wife I’ve got Lessie, and that I’m going to keep her. Tell her to come down here herself after her, if she dares to, but I don’t reckon she will, because she knows what I’ll say to her will make her ears burn red.”
Garley got up, taking one more look at Lessie. He had never known she was so small before. Even though she was nine years old, she looked no larger than a six- or seven-year-old girl. He backed to the door, not saying a word.
Outside in the alley again, he turned towards home. It would soon be time for supper, and meals were served on time. He looked at his watch as he hurried up the street through the quarter. On the way he cut across a vacant lot, to make certain that he got there in plenty of time.
His wife was standing on the front porch.
“Well, did you find Lessie?” she demanded.
“She’ll be back by breakfast time,” Garley said. “You told me that was when she had to be back, didn’t you?”
“That’s what I said, and if she’s not here then, you can get ready to do some stirring around for yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” he said, hurrying through the hall behind her to the dining room, where the boarders had already sat down at the table.
Garley slipped into the room and got into his seat unnoticed. He was just in time to get a helping from the first dish that was passed down his side of the table.
(First published in Southways)
The People v. Abe Lathan, Colored
UNCLE ABE WAS shucking corn in the crib when Luther Bolick came down from the big white house on the hill and told him to pack up his household goods and move off the farm. Uncle Abe had grown a little deaf and he did not hear what Luther said the first time.
“These old ears of mine is bothering me again, Mr. Luther,” Uncle Abe said. “I just can’t seem to hear as good as I used to.”
Luther looked at the Negro and scowled. Uncle Abe had got up and was standing in the crib door where he could hear better.
“I said, I want you and your family to pack up your furniture and anything else that really belongs to you, and move off.”
Uncle Abe reached out and clutched at the crib door for support.
“Move off?” Uncle Abe said.
He looked into his landlord’s face unbelievingly.
“Mr. Luther, you don’t mean that, does you?” Uncle Abe asked, his voice shaking. “You must be joking, ain’t you, Mr. Luther?”
“You heard me right, even if you do pretend to be half deaf,” Luther said angrily, turning around and walking several steps. “I want you off the place by the end of the week. I’ll give you that much time if you don’t try to make any trouble. And when you pack up your things, take care you don’t pick up anything that belongs to me. Or I’ll have the law on you.”
Uncle Abe grew weak so quickly that he barely managed to keep from falling. He turned a little and slid down the side of the door and sat on the crib floor. Luther looked around to see what he was doing.
“I’m past sixty,” Uncle Abe said slowly, “but me and my family works hard for you, Mr. Luther. We work as hard as anybody on your whole place. You know that’s true, Mr. Luther. I’ve lived here, working for you, and your daddy before you, for all of forty years. I never mentioned to you about the share
s, no matter how big the crop was that I raised for you. I’ve never asked much, just enough to eat and a few clothes, that’s all. I raised up a houseful of children to help work, and none of them ever made any trouble for you, did they, Mr. Luther?”
Luther waved his arm impatiently, indicating that he wanted the Negro to stop arguing. He shook his head, showing that he did not want to listen to anything Uncle Abe had to say.
“That’s all true enough,” Luther said, “but I’ve got to get rid of half the tenants on my place. I can’t afford to keep eight or ten old people like you here any longer. All of you will have to move off and go somewhere else.”
“Ain’t you going to farm this year, and raise cotton, Mr. Luther?” Uncle Abe asked. “I can still work as good and hard as anybody else. It may take me a little longer sometimes, but I get the work done. Ain’t I shucking this corn to feed the mules as good as anybody else could do?”
“I haven’t got time to stand here and argue with you,” Luther said nervously. “My mind is made up, and that’s all there is to it. Now, you go on home as soon as you finish feeding the mules and start packing the things that belong to you like I told you.”
Luther turned away and started walking down the path toward the barn. When he got as far as the barnyard gate, he turned around and looked back. Uncle Abe had followed him.
“Where can me and my family move to, Mr. Luther?” Uncle Abe said. “The boys is big enough to take care of themselves. But me and my wife has grown old. You know how hard it is for an old colored man like me to go out and find a house and land to work on shares. It don’t cost you much to keep us, and me and my boys raise as much cotton as anybody else. The last time I mentioned the shares has been a long way in the past, thirty years or more. I’m just content to work like I do and get some rations and a few clothes. You know that’s true, Mr. Luther. I’ve lived in my little shanty over there for all of forty years, and it’s the only home I’ve got. Mr. Luther, me and my wife is both old now, and I can’t hire out to work by the day, because I don’t have the strength any more. But I can still grow cotton as good as any other colored man in the country.”
Luther opened the barnyard gate and walked through it. He shook his lead as though he was not even going to listen any longer. He turned his back on Uncle Abe and walked away.
Uncle Abe did not know what to say or do after that. When he saw Luther walk away, he became shaky all over. He clutched at the gate for something to hold on it.
“I just can’t move away, Mr. Luther,” he said desperately. “I just can’t do that. This is the only place I’ve got to live in the world. I just can’t move off, Mr. Luther.”
Luther walked out of sight around the corner of the barn. He did not hear Uncle Abe after that.
The next day, at a little after two o’clock in the afternoon, a truck drove up to the door of the three-room house where Uncle Abe, his wife, and their three grown sons lived. Uncle Abe and his wife were sitting by the fire trying to keep warm in the winter cold. They were the only ones at home then.
Uncle Abe heard the truck drive up and stop, but he sat where he was, thinking it was his oldest boy, Henry, who drove a truck sometimes for Luther Bolich.
After several minutes had passed, somebody knocked on the door, and his wife got up right away and went to see who it was.
There were two strange white men on the porch when she opened the door. They did not say anything at first, but looked inside the room to see who was there. Still not saying anything, they came inside and walked to the fireplace where Uncle Abe sat hunched over the hearth.
“Are you Abe Lathan?” one of the men, the oldest, asked.
“Yes, sir, I’m Abe Lathan,” he answered, wondering who they were, because he had never seen them before. “Why do you want to know that?”
The man took a bright metal disk out of his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand before Uncle Abe’s eyes.
“I’m serving a paper and a warrant on you,” he said. “One is an eviction, and the other is for threatening to do bodily harm.”
He unfolded the eviction notice and handed it to Uncle Abe. The Negro shook his head bewilderedly, looking first at the paper and finally up at the two strange white men.
“I’m a deputy,” the older man said, “and I’ve come for two things — to evict you from this house and to put you under arrest.”
“What does that mean — evict?” Uncle Abe asked.
The two men looked around the room for a moment. Uncle Abe’s wife had come up behind his chair and put trembling hands on his shoulder.
“We are going to move your furniture out of this house and carry it off the property of Luther Bolick. Then, besides that, we’re going to take you down to the county jail. Now, come on and hurry up, both of you.”
Uncle Abe got up, and he and his wife stood on the hearth not knowing what to do.
The two men began gathering up the furniture and carrying it out of the house. They took the beds, tables, chairs, and everything else in the three rooms except the cookstove, which belonged to Luther Bolick. When they got all the things outside, they began piling them into the truck.
Uncle Abe went outside in front of the house as quickly as he could.
“White-folks, please don’t do that,” he begged. “Just wait a minute while I go find Mr. Luther. He’ll set things straight. Mr. Luther is my landlord, and he won’t let you take all my furniture away like this. Please, sir, just wait while I go find him.”
The two men looked at each other.
“Luther Bolick is the one who signed these papers,” the deputy said, shaking his head. “He was the one who got these court orders to carry off the furniture and put you in jail. It wouldn’t do you a bit of good to try to find him now.”
“Put me in jail?” Uncle Abe said. “What did he say to do that for?”
“For threatening bodily harm,” the deputy said. “That’s for threatening to kill him. Hitting him with a stick or shooting him with a pistol.”
The men threw the rest of the household goods into the truck and told Uncle Abe and his wife to climb in the back. When they made no effort to get in, the deputy pushed them to the rear and prodded them until they climbed into the truck.
While the younger man drove the truck, the deputy stood beside them in the body so they could not escape. They drove out the lane, past the other tenant houses, and then down the long road that went over the hill through Luther Bolick’s land to the public highway. They passed the big white house where he lived, but he was not within sight.
“I never threatened to harm Mr. Luther,” Uncle Abe protested. “I never did a thing like that in my whole life. I never said a mean thing about him either. Mr. Luther is my boss, and I’ve worked for him ever since I was twenty years old. Yesterday he said he wanted me to move off his farm, and all I did was say that I thought he ought to let me stay. I won’t have much longer to live, noway. I told him I didn’t want to move off. That’s all I said to Mr. Luther. I ain’t never said I was going to try to kill him. Mr. Luther knows that as well as I do. You ask Mr. Luther if that ain’t so.”
They had left Luther Bolick’s farm, and had turned down the highway toward the county seat, eleven miles away.
“For forty years I has lived here and worked for Mr. Luther,” Uncle Abe said, “and I ain’t never said a mean thing to his face or behind his back in all that time. He furnishes me with rations for me and my family, and a few clothes, and me and my family raise cotton for him, and I been doing that ever since I was twenty years old. I moved here and started working on shares for his daddy first, and then when he died, I kept right on like I have up to now. Mr. Luther knows I has worked hard and never answered him back, and only asked for rations and a few clothes all this time. You ask Mr. Luther.”
The deputy listened to all that Uncle Abe said, but he did not say anything himself. He felt sorry for the old Negro and his wife, but there was nothing he could do about it. Luther Bolick had driven to t
he courthouse early that morning and secured the papers for eviction and arrest. It was his job to serve the papers and execute the court orders. But even if it was his job, he could not keep from feeling sorry for the Negroes. He didn’t think that Luther Bolick ought to throw them off his farm just because they had grown old.
When they got within sight of town, the deputy told the driver to stop. He drew the truck up beside the highway when they reached the first row of houses. There were fifteen or eighteen Negro houses on both sides of the road.
After they had stopped, the two white men began unloading the furniture and stacking it beside the road. When it was all out of the truck, the deputy told Uncle Abe’s wife to get out. Uncle Abe started to get out, too, but the deputy told him to stay where he was. They drove off again, leaving Uncle Abe’s wife standing in a dazed state of mind beside the furniture.
“What are you going to do with me now?” Uncle Abe asked, looking back at his wife and furniture in the distance.
“Take you to the county jail and lock you up,” the deputy said.
“What’s my wife going to do?” he asked.
“The people in one of those houses will probably take her in.”
“How long is you going to keep me in jail locked up?”
“Until your case comes up for trial.”
They drove through the dusty streets of the town, around the courthouse square, and stopped in front of a brick building with iron bars across the windows.
“Here’s where we get out,” the deputy said.
Uncle Abe was almost too weak to walk by that time, but he managed to move along the path to the door. Another white man opened the door and told him to walk straight down the hall until he was told to stop.
Just before noon Saturday, Uncle Abe’s oldest son, Henry, stood in Ramsey Clark’s office, hat in hand. The lawyer looked at the Negro and frowned. He chewed his pencil for a while, then swung around in his chair and looked out the window into the courthouse square. Presently he turned around and looked at Uncle Abe’s son.