As they left, Stacey, Christopher-John, Man, and I went out the front door. We talked softly as we headed for the car, hoping that the men on the road kept their eyes on us as Moe and Levis slipped out the back door. We got into the Oldsmobile and drove off the church grounds. As Stacey turned onto the road, headlights from the truck flooded the car. Stacey kept on driving. The truck did not follow.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
At the funeral the casket for Morris was closed. That at least kept some of the emotions at bay. Still, with death having come the way it had, there was no restraint about what was felt. Women wailed and flailed their arms as they marched past the casket. Morris’s sisters flung their arms over the coffin, as if holding to them Morris himself, and Denise, with her newborn baby in her arms, just dropped to her knees in front of it and sobbed uncontrollably. There was no containing the sorrow or the rage that we all felt.
Outside the church, standing near the old school buildings, a group of white men gathered. Some of the church men went over and asked the group to leave. They didn’t. The county law was among them. Two of the men wore badges, and all of them were waiting for the services to be over and for Moe to make an appearance. One white man was inside the church. That was Mr. Wade Jamison. He sat with us throughout the services and grieved for Morris.
As we emerged from the church, following the coffin borne by the Turner brothers, we all saw clearly who the white men were, and no one was surprised that Statler and Leon Aames and Charlie Simms were among them. The funeral procession walked slowly toward the cemetery that bordered the back side of the church. All of us were acutely aware of the white men watching us. Mr. Turner, looking more frail than ever, was wheeled to the gravesite. Everybody else followed. The white men moved closer. Several of the men spread out and walked along the forest line, peering into the brush.
As the gravesite services began, I looked at Stacey and wondered where Moe was. I knew Stacey was wondering the same as he looked away from the gravesite, into the forest. My gaze followed his. Levis had told us Moe had seen their father and his sisters, and he and Moe had left the house before dawn. He also said he and his father had talked to Moe through the remaining night, trying to persuade him not to go after Statler and Leon. They argued there was no way to know if they were the ones who had caused Morris’s death, and even if they had, causing them harm would not bring Morris back. The last Levis had seen of Moe was in the forest, when they said good-bye. Moe had told him that he wanted to see Morris lowered into his grave, then he would leave. As Stacey and I gazed out to the forest, we both knew Moe was out there, watching from its depths, blending into it, hidden by the density of bushes and grasses and trees. We didn’t see him and we prayed that the white men watching didn’t see him either.
I whispered to Stacey. “You think he’ll be all right?”
Stacey looked from the forest to the coffin, now being lowered into the ground. “He came here to see his daddy and see Morris laid to rest. He’s done both. Now all he’s got to do is get out of Mississippi alive.”
Reverend Hubbard began to pray. I closed my eyes and bowed my head. “Amen” was said, and I opened my eyes and looked again to the forest. There was no sign of Moe. I hoped that my prayer was answered.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
After the funeral, I walked the forest alone. So much had happened in the last few days and I was shaken, but there had been little time to reflect on what it all meant. Morris had put his life on the line. Medgar Evers had put his life on the line. Much had been accomplished to ease us toward first-class citizenship, to assure us equal rights, but there was still much to be done. Despite all of Morris’s efforts, only a few people had been registered to vote. Most of us saw that as discouraging; Morris had seen it as an achievement. He had refused to be beaten by the system. If one Negro could be registered, hundreds more could be registered. Thousands more. Every Negro of qualifying age in the county, every Negro person of age in the state of Mississippi could one day vote, and when that happened it would mean equal rights for all of us. It would change the state. That was Morris’s dream. Little Brother Morris. I thought of Grandpa Paul-Edward and how he had gotten this land. I thought of all the sacrifices Big Ma, Papa, and Mama had made to keep it. I thought of all who had gone before.
I stayed long in the forest, thinking on all that. What Morris had begun remained unfinished. Registration drives were scheduled to resume in other counties. Without Morris, the Spokane County drive could falter. I couldn’t let that happen. I had no reason not to return to Mississippi and continue the fight. My roots were here. My beginning was here. My family would always be tied to this land. I left the forest having made up my mind. I was home now, and I would remain here. I was going to stay in Mississippi.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“You sure you want to be out here, Papa?” I asked as Papa and I sat alone on the front porch swing early Saturday morning. Papa was still in his pajamas and wore the robe I had given him for Christmas. He had spent much of the last two days in bed, getting dressed only to go to Morris’s funeral. He said he felt all right, just tired. Still, that was so unlike Papa; it scared me. Now, as I sat beside him, I was assured he was all right. Papa was a strong man. Nothing could happen to him.
Papa smiled. “I’m fine, Cassie. Got tired of that bed. Sun feels good.”
“Not too hot yet,” I observed. “Will be soon though.”
“That’s for sure.” I looked at Papa and smiled. Papa took my hand in his, looked across the lawn, glistening emerald under the morning’s dew, and to the forest. I kept my eyes on him. As handsome as ever, Papa looked so good, so well.
“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Papa said, his eyes on the forest, still dark before the full sunlight made its way through the trees standing tall, guarding our land.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “Nothing more beautiful.”
Papa laughed and glanced over at me. “Oh, there are a few things I could think of more beautiful and they’re all right here in this house.”
I smiled wide and squeezed his hand. For the moment, I was happy. Then I told Papa I would be staying. I was going to carry on the drive. Papa squinted as he looked at me. “You sure this is what you want to do?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, then, Cassie . . . I’m proud of you. Always have been. Just give me another reason to be.”
I had Papa all to myself. Big Ma was in the kitchen, already planning a special supper for the boys’ last night here, and Mama was at her desk, seeing to bills. Stacey, Christopher-John, and Man had taken care of chores before breakfast, then they packed up several dishes Big Ma had prepared and took them over to the Turner farm. They wanted to see Moe’s father before heading back north tomorrow. Uncle Hammer had gone with them. When they returned, the boys and I would go to Jackson to attend Medgar Evers’s funeral. The wake had been on Friday and after the wake there had been a protest march from the funeral home to downtown Jackson with protesters demanding Medgar Evers’s killer. Little Willie had called and told us. Dr. Martin Luther King and Dr. Ralph Bunche, Nobel Peace Prize recipient and the first Negro to be appointed United States ambassador to the United Nations, were among the marchers. Dr. King and Dr. Bunche and other notable black leaders were to be at the funeral, which would be held at the Masonic temple on Lynch Street, approximately a mile and a half from downtown and right in the heart of the Negro community. Medgar Evers’s NAACP office was located in the temple.