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, Aunt Allie May and Aunt Lallie Grey, smelled like her, like some wonderful smell from the kitchen. Today, it was the aroma of fresh-baked cake. There was no mistaking the two sisters of my mother’s mother, Aunt Minnie and Aunt Sadie, who both smelled like peach-flavored snuff.
I felt suffocated and my face ached from having my cheeks pinched. Finally, I escaped when everyone’s attention turned toward the new Chevrolet Fleetwood station wagon pulling into the churchyard. It was Old Man Cliff Creel.
That was how everyone referred to him—as Old Man Cliff Creel. He was the only rich man I knew and he seemed to own just about everything. Miss Lena’s store wasn’t really Miss Lena’s. It belonged to Mr. Creel. As did the sawmill, the land where Uncle Curvin grew his cotton, and most of the other farm land around. Anytime anyone pointed out a field, more often than not someone would say, “Old man Cliff Creel owns that.” He owned the trucks which hauled the logs and the forests where the logs were cut. He even owned the three-room shack where we lived; my father had to pay him twelve dollars a month for rent.
If anybody wanted to borrow money, then Mr. Creel was the only source, and there would be interest to pay. I had passed many times by his big white house, about a mile past Miss Lena’s store heading toward Coffeeville, but had never even entered his front yard. It was just too intimidating. I had heard folks say he kept a mean dog behind the picket fence with a manicured lawn on each side of the walkway, leading up to flower beds and shrubbery in front of the long front porch, which was lined with swings and rocking chairs.
There were also several outbuildings, including a large barn and a smokehouse which was almost as big as our house. I had never seen Mr. Creel without a hat, except inside the church, and today was no exception. As soon as he got out of his new car the preacher rushed over to shake his hand and welcome him. They were the only two men there wearing suits and neckties.
Old Man Cliff Creel looked fat and mean to me. His face was shaved clean, framing his fat nose which was crisscrossed with tiny red and blue veins. I remembered my mother saying that was a sign of a man who had drunk too much whiskey for too long. Below his nose were thin lips between which I could see his tobacco-stained teeth. When he and the preacher began walking toward the front door of the church everyone knew that it was time to start. As they walked through the crowd everyone would say, “Good morning, Mister Creel.”
He would nod to people while he kept walking. I saw the glint of the sun’s reflection off the gold bar on his necktie when he walked by me, and I shrank away.
The announcements had been made, the hymns sung, the collection plate passed, the prayer that lasted for what seemed like eternity had been prayed, and now Brother Benny Hurd was deep into his sermon. About then I felt an itch so deep it was almost painful. It was coming from just below my waistline and I knew at once that a redbug was embedded in my skin. I gritted my teeth, thought about the wonderful food I was about to have, jumping into the cool water of Satilfa Creek, or dousing that nasty chigger with some rubbing alcohol. When I could stand it no longer I plunged my hand into my pants and began scratching vigorously; that is, until my mother started whacking my head with the edge of her Jesus fan.
I became very still until everyone’s attention was back on the preacher, then I slowly turned my head toward the window. From my seat on the end of the pew I saw Fred and Robert kneeling over two wash tubs containing huge blocks of ice. They were attacking the blocks with ice picks and I could see chunks falling away from the blocks into the tubs. I saw Fred insert a sliver of ice into his mouth. He looked up, saw me, and must have felt guilty because he turned his back toward me.
A little river of sweat, starting from beside my ear, had trickled down my face onto my neck where another aggravating itch had begun, but I dared not scratch.
I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. My belly was itching, my neck was itching, I was hot, I was thirsty, and I was hungry. I decided to try to listen to the preacher and see if I could make any sense out of what he was yammering about. It was about something
