“You know what, Cassie girl, you know what I’d like to do?” Papa said, his eyes still on the forest.
“What’s that, Papa?”
“Later on, or maybe in the morning before the boys leave, like to take a walk down to the pond. You, the boys, and me.” He nodded, gazing across at those old trees. “Yeah, I’d like to do that.”
“We’ll do that, Papa,” I said, squeezing his hand again, and turned my gaze toward the forest too.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
We headed for Jackson. Passing the fallow fields, which for years had been planted in cotton, and the old oak still standing tall on the hillside separating our land from the Granger plantation, Stacey’s Oldsmobile sped along the dusty road. As we approached the Wallace store and the crossroads, Stacey slowed. Several vehicles were parked in front of the store, one of them a sheriff’s car. As usual for this time of year, white men sat on the porch. Several others, including the sheriff and his deputy, stood in front of the store. As we eased past, the men watched us. We turned onto the road leading to Strawberry without acknowledging them. Stacey kept at the slow speed and kept glancing in the rearview mirror. We passed the Negro school. No one was on the grounds. Stacey seemed to relax and sped up, then suddenly slowed again.
“What is it?” I asked. I was sitting next to him.
Stacey’s eyes were on the rearview mirror. “They’re behind us.”
I turned. Christopher-John and Man looked too. In the distance was the sheriff’s car. Behind the sheriff’s car, two trucks followed. “Could be they’re just headed to Strawberry.”
“Maybe.” Still, Stacey was cautious.
One of the trucks came from behind the sheriff’s car and sped up, coming fast up the road. Stacey swerved the Oldsmobile toward the side of the road to avoid being hit, then slammed on the brakes as the truck passed and stopped abruptly in front of us. Statler and Leon Aames stepped out. In the back of the truck were four of their boys, all grown. The sheriff’s car stopped behind us. Behind the sheriff’s car was Charlie Simms and his sons. The sheriff, his deputy, and Charlie Simms joined Statler and Leon at the driver’s side of the Oldsmobile. The sheriff tapped on the window. Stacey rolled it down.
“Where y’all headed for in such a hurry?” the sheriff asked.
“I didn’t realize we were speeding,” Stacey said.
“Not speeding exactly,” the sheriff said. “Just in a mighty hurry. Where y’all going all dressed up?”
Stacey was silent a moment, then answered. “Jackson.”
“Y’all mighty dressed up all right,” commented Charlie Simms. “Must be something important, big doings going on in Jackson.”
“Y’all wouldn’t happen to be going to that Medgar Evers’s funeral, wouldja?” asked the sheriff.
This time Stacey didn’t answer.
The sheriff took his silence as a yes. “Well, we won’t hold you long. Just got a few questions for y’all.”
“Questions?” said Stacey.
Statler gave no time for the sheriff to answer. “Yeah, more questions!” He stepped past the sheriff and closer to the car. “Seems like we just seen y’all at a funeral. Funeral for that Turner boy.”
“Yeah,” continued Leon, “seems like a lotta folks dying round here.”
“Like our brother Troy,” Statler said. “Course now, that was some while back, but seems to me, that friend of yours, nigger name of Moe Turner, was the cause of it. He done killed our brother! Now look what done happened since. Our brother’s dead, now his brother’s dead!”
“Yeah,” took up Charlie Simms, “funny thing. Seeing that the Turner boy dead, we expected that Moe Turner to turn up, show his respects.”
Statler agreed with his uncle. “There’s been talk that he’s been seen through here. But so far we ain’t seen him. Been watching for him, but ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.” He leaned down and peered into the car. “By any chance, any y’all seen him?”
None of us spoke.
Statler pulled back and straightened. “Maybe you’d better ask them, Hank. Seems like they don’t want to answer my questions.”
“Maybe they don’t like the way you’re asking them, Statler,” suggested Leon. “They step out the car we can put them questions somewhat more direct.”
“You boys calm down,” the sheriff said, then again addressed Stacey. “Now, we want to know if y’all helped that Moe Turner get back down here.”
Stacey solemnly answered. “No, sheriff, we didn’t help him get back down here.”
“Uh-huh.” The sheriff studied Stacey, then, as Statler had done, leaned down and peered into the car. He took a long look at each of us before stepping back. “Well, we believe that boy’s back here. Believe he had help getting here. Talked to his family, but they ain’t had much to say.”
Statler again moved close to the car. “Y’all know where that nigger is, and we figure we can persuade y’all to tell us. Get on out that car, boy!”
“Hold on now, Statler,” cautioned the sheriff. “You too, Leon. I think they’d best go on into town with Roger and me.” He looked back to us. “Got a few more questions for y’all. Won’t keep ya long.” Then he turned again to Statler and Leon. “Y’all go on ahead. This boy’ll follow in his fine new car here, and we’ll follow him.”
Statler started to object. “But, Hank—”
“Just do like I say. We’ll talk about it once we get to the jail.” He glanced over at Charlie Simms. “Charlie, you and your boys follow me.” The two Aames brothers and Charlie Simms went back to their trucks. The sheriff and his deputy went back to their car and, once in, honked the horn, and we all drove to Strawberry. When we reached the jail located across the street from the town square, several colored men were gathered on the square. We knew some of them. They all stared as we stepped from the car. Stacey gave a nod to one of the men. The man nodded back with understanding. My brothers and I looked at each other. At least other colored folks knew we were here. The sheriff took note but said nothing as he ushered us inside.
We were not jailed. Instead, we were seated in wooden chairs in the one-room office that faced onto the street. We sat there and waited. It was hot in the office. There was no air conditioning. There was a fan, but the sheriff did not turn it on. Sweat poured down our faces and dripped along our bodies. We were scared, and the sweat pouring down was as much from our fear as from the sweltering heat. The sheriff and the deputy took their own good time about questioning us. After telling us to be seated, they stepped outside and stood on the sidewalk for some time talking to Statler and Leon and Charlie Simms. We watched them through the large plate-glass window. They were in deep discussion, which we knew was about us. Twice we heard Statler’s voice rise and twice we saw the sheriff’s hand pat his arm, as if to calm him. When the sheriff and Roger, the deputy, came back inside, they kept questioning us for more than an hour. Finally, the sheriff said abruptly, “Y’all can go now. Mr. Simms’ll see y’all out.”