I Got to Keep Moving

  I Got to Keep Moving

  I Got to Keep Moving

  Stories by Bill Harris

  Wayne State University Press

  Detroit

  Made in Michigan Writers Series

  General Editors

  Michael Delp, Interlochen Center for the Arts

  M. L. Liebler, Wayne State University

  © 2018 by Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48201. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without formal permission. Manufactured in the United States of America.

  ISBN 978-0-8143-4593-1 (paperback); ISBN 978-0-8143-4594-8 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018951989

  Publication of this book was made possible by a generous gift from The Meijer Foundation. This work is supported in part by an award from the Michigan Council for Arts and Cultural Affairs.

  Wayne State University Press

  Leonard N. Simons Building

  4809 Woodward Avenue

  Detroit, Michigan 48201-1309

  Visit us online at wsupress.wayne.edu

  To Viola Brooks, Elizabeth Gay, and Carole Harris for their courage and encouragement.

  “Life’s sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story or tell a story about them.”

  Isak Dinesen

  Contents

  Part 1. Mardalwil County, Acorn, Alabama

  1. That First Year the Business Was Wood, c. 1830s

  2. Cretia’s Gal, April 1, 1854

  3. Macready, April 1, 1854

  4. Eph, April 2, 1854

  5. Mr. Wilcox, Spring 1928

  6. The Mae’s, Spring 1928

  7. Ezekiel 28:2

  8. Witness, Fall 1928

  9. Confidential, Fall 1928

  Part 2. Pearl and Son

  10. A Pint for a Dime, 1925

  11. Grits, 1928

  12. The Flowers That Attracted the Bees, 1933

  13. Mr. Fong’s Establishment, c. 1933

  14. The Hopper Hotel, c. 1934

  15. All Colored All the Time, 1937

  16. Going to Town, c. 1938

  17. The Redhead, 1934

  18. Two of Your Old Friends

  19. Mr. Amalfi, Spring through Fall 1939

  20. Tinhouse, 1939

  21. Frocks, 1939

  22. Branch, 1939

  23. Ada, 1941

  24. An Official Part of History

  25. Spain Street Zion A.M.E.

  Part 3. Kin—The Nettles

  26. Kin, c. 1960s

  Afterword

  1

  Mardalwil County, Acorn, Alabama

  1

  That First Year the Business Was Wood

  Caledonia/Acorn, Alabama, c. 1830s

  Granny Celia and Grandpa Joseph were among those original hundred of what the Kimbroughs called the workforce. They arrived by boats on the Muskogee River. The old ones, in their own time between chaws or pipe sucks, took turns telling it. That is, they told what they could or would tell of it. All of it could not be told. Some of it was by then too distant, some of it was too cold in its cruelty, too bottomless in its ugliness to be remembered, or if remembered, told.

  As to the exact year they arrived on Caledonia, they were not sure. They had no reason to know one year from another, because they were outside the significance of numbers such as those. Seasons and work—building, maintaining, plowing, seeding, weeding, plucking, and personal caring for—were measurements, by their reckonings, without value.

  An event was remembered not by a date, but for itself: the time when such and such happened. The time the overseer was thrown by his horse, the time the mill caught fire, the time the barn caught fire, the time a Kimbrough had a heart attack. Births and deaths and selling offs had meaning, or when someone went into the swamp; these were occurrences worth noting and so were memorable.

  The year Alabama had become a state, or Mardalwil had become a county, or Caledonia a plantation, or the town of Acorn was incorporated from Caledonia land—these meant less than two dead flies to them.

  Of some, but minimal, import was what part there was about the Indians, who had been there long before them, and who were all gone but for their bones and blood in the ground and their spirits in the air, and only the last one of them, Red Stick, a Creek, who came and went at his will, was still there. Red Stick knew the part about his family and ancestors, but most of what he knew was too distant or deep or ugly for him to recall for telling.

  The year the coffle of us of over 150 were bought and set out from a Charleston auction block and shipped south by sea down to near Savannah, then north and west up a meandering series of rivers, about ten fewer arrived than had begun the trek on some 2500 acres of woods and thick timberland and rich black Alabama dirt.

  In the lead in the first wagon with Charlton P. Kimbrough was Missus Sarah Katherine Whitmore Kimbrough, the Old Man’s wife. She was Missus Sarah. He never wanted to be called Master. Goodsire was what he said. Behind his back we had various names for him. Cloud Head. The Old Man, though he was no more than thirty at that time, still had a head full of wild cotton-white hair with a little tam ’o shanter, his blue bonnet, sitting on top.

  Next in the line of Kimbrough brothers was Clay Monroe. He was in his late twenties at best guess. And then skipping behind like colts in clover came Thurso and Wick. They were twins, in their late teens or early twenties or so; neither of them or their doings is worth the telling. They were less than half a man, the two of them put together. They knew no more about business than a chinch on a chicken’s ass. Neither one of them had sense enough to take his hand out of hot grease, nor did they have as much pride as crab grass.

  That first year, wood was the business. The land was surveyed and we commenced clearing. Pines and maples and oaks we topped and toppled for shelter and for shipping and selling.

  The trees whined like the axe blades had when we sharpened them on the trundled grindstones, and then again as we, teams of two axe men, whacked out wedges, and then we, teams of two sawyers, sawed through the timber’s core before the splintering shriek and toppling crash, and we measured and bucked and limbed and hitched and skidded the trunks by harnessed mules to Kimbrough’s Mill, that we had built first, about a half mile distant, at Kimbrough’s Landing that we had also built, and then we scaled, sawed, edged, dried, planed, stacked, and bundled raw wood that was then transported by boat and train to market up or down the river.

  We did that as we planted and farmed vegetables, and we built rough log shelters to house them and us as we tended the pigs and cows and sheep and chickens, and we built the grain mill, and we harvested more than enough to feed them and some for us, and we cured the wood and hauled it up to build the big houses for each of them, and we framed and we sided and we laid floors and we raised roofs: Highland House being Goodsire and his woman’s; Pictland being Clay’s; and Twin Oaks for Thurso and Wick, the twins, jointly.

  Some of us ran off to the swamp after setting a fire or other mischief those first years and some of us got sickly and bled and died from consumption and cholera and pneumonia and pellagra and diarrhea and influenza and fevers and measles and mumps and all the animal poxes: cow, goat, horse, squirrel, and fowl, and we died from overwork.

  Missus Sarah Katherine, Cloud Head’s woman, who each Christmas called us all out and read poetry-rime stories from Scot-land, about wars between Vikings and all, and at times she called herself nursing us until she caught something and died.

  Cotton was the second year’s work: we uprooted stumps, cleared what had been forestland, and by March tilled and toiled, and we got the first cottonseed in the ground.

  Next big thing was when the rail-road was finished up. Goodsire was big in that w
hole business, too. Like in every-thing.

  Over that same time Clay Kimbrough, the one with the second-most sense, shut down the mill. It was a deal between him and the Old Man before they even got to Mardalwil County. He closed up his house and sold his acres for a profit to the Old Man and moved on off to New Orleans. He became a Negro Broker down there. But before then the Old Man quit, giving the twins credit and soon buying them out, four cents an acre. The fools were happy to get it, and to get from round him, and from Caledonia. They took the Northeast Alabama Railroad Company train, of which they had been at one time minority stockholders. Off up east they went. One later on turned out to be Esme’s daddy. They say Wick, the other one, after troubled marriages died in a crazy house.

  But all of that and all we did for them meant a heap less than what we had brought with us, which was our pride at having worked the soil of Carolina to death before it wore us out and killed us all. Knowing that even the ground out of which their cotton, that gave them all their power over us, could be defeated and depleted—that fueled everything we did.

  It was inside of us. It was in our minds, our minds, out of sight of them even when we were in full view. The way we touched our children, our language of looks and nods, our rituals of no, the ways we supported each other with silence, a grin, or a lie.

  It was the tellings of our surviving, and of our outwitting of them and their business, by not being who they took us to be, that occupied our notion of what was important for our marking of time.

  It was in our ways of doing, in front of them—our walking, our wearing, our working, that sprouted from the seeds of our need to air our common yearnings and have them recognized and welcomingly accepted and understood as useful—whether any or all of those things were through strength; or by being sullen, daring, surly, dragging; or through shared wisdom or charms; it gave us confidence in ourselves and became storied examples in our ability to have an inside self, and therefore a belief in our spirit to continue.

  It was in our singings, self-made or in chorus, and the rhythms (claps and pats and stomps) in our dances, and in little ditty-tunes that we put from the first suck as sustenance and anointment for our babies. Our offspring were given melodies to hum, little rhythms to repeat and remember. They were pacifiers and prompts and signifiers. If by hellish chance our ways parted, the children took with them airs to hum or whistle or think. And if by chance our paths recrossed or the broken arcs of our circle reconnected miles or years hence, and our names or our appearances were changed by time or lack of sight or circumstance, we would have a tuneful keepsake to certify our connection.

  That larder or storehouse of instances, a collection of tellings stacked up like a vault of vittles, so we could continue to struggle up before light each day and face it, inspired by our being as much trouble as we could while having the gumption and grit to keep on until the world reversed its course or somersaulted, and snakes walked and mules flew and water turned to fire and wood to wind and then re-ordered itself again, and was back to some order we understood and understood us, so we could hold again without grasping, breathe again without panting, and get, grow, laugh unquestioned, wander, leave, have privacy, choose, be.

  2

  Cretia’s Gal

  Caledonia Plantation, Mardalwil County, Alabama, Saturday, April 1, 1854

  It was cloudy that morning. It would be raining by that afternoon.

  At the top of the hill inside Highland House, in the drape-shrouded parlor, Sophy’s boy baby, Cretia’s Gal’s charge, crawled in random patterns through the thick legs of the pianoforte.

  Cretia’s Gal, 12,

  active, intelligent, ladies’ maid, accustomed to cleaning,

  waiting on table, sewing

  sat, straight-backed, at M’s Esme’s shiny instrument. Her eyes closed, her dark fingers, choreographed by the echoing in her head, rollicked in the air above the keys in an exact replica of the capering patterns played last night by the French man.

  Untutored, she did not know the melodies’ names, their origins, nor their forms. Being under strict and direct orders from M’s Esme, she had never touched the piano keys, other than with a feather duster.

  Sophy’s boy baby, Cretia’s Gal’s charge and inattentive audience, crawled in random patterns through the piano’s legs and cooed.

  &

  M’s Esme, bemoaning boy Jube’s,

  Can not speak, good house boy,

  Excellent gardener 13 years old

  Well made, of yellowish complexion—

  stupidity, reprimanded his response to every order as they pruned and patted in the formal garden. She was unable to see for the life of her why she put up with the oddling little nigger. Whistling as if gabbing to himself; dumb as a fish; couldn’t speak a word; never had as far as she knew. What she should do is send him straight to the fields, see if McCready could teach him a thing or two.

  Maybe his muteness was why she put up with him. Meant he couldn’t complain or lie like the rest of them.

  Her constant wiping of her brow with her kerchief and the sleeve of her tunic had knocked her bonnet slightly askew. It tittered on her head like the cornfield scarecrows. The sight was enough to make Jube want to laugh.

  She did not listen, Boy Jube thought. She did not listen to nothing, to no-body. Not even to her uncle Goodsire half the time, not to the Candytufts who wanted to be in the sun, or the Bleeding Hearts who did not, or the Foxglove who wanted moist soil, or the Fragrant Solomon’s Seal who could stand dryness.

  She had listened last night though. To that French man’s drumming piano playing, pounding like the thunder of heavenly horse hoofs galloping out of the body of the pianoforte. His music stampeded out of the parlor and off in all directions: down the entrance lane, and off through the gardens and fields and orchards and forests and low quarters and swamp of the Caledonia’s three thousand or so acres. She heard and listened to that pianoforte being played last night, all right, and instead of cooling with the mirk of night he could see it had simmered and re-rose in her, renewed with the graying dawn. She was still angry from it, snapping like a bulldog on a short chain.

  Jube sat on his haunches. He patted dirt around the seedlings.

  Earlier, as every morning, he was back from his ramblings, as they called them, and finished with hauling the cookhouse fireplace ashes and replacing the firewood, in time to see Cretia’s Gal as she came down the stairs to empty M’s Esme’s chamber pot.

  She had signaled to him that there might be trouble from the mistress because of last night.

  The nerve of him, Esme thought, dark eyed man that he was, bringing that—she refused to call it music—to bring that—savagery into the parlor, extolling. It condoned the vile and the ugly instead of evoking tears and flutters of the heart. That was what music should be. Instead what had come out of the pianoforte pounded and thrust, heaved and throbbed, like something back of the barn in the middle of the night. Vile. It was an insult to music, an offense to civilization, contemptible to a White person’s home. The parlor must be aired of it, the same as if a skunk had spewed its spray from corner to corner.

  Uncle had no business bringing that dark-haired, dark-eyed man with the foreign name and fancy ways into the house in the first place. Bringing him from off, like so many of the other items, or gifts Uncle brought on his return from his travels away from Caledonia. They were never quite the right size, style, or shade, but all the same he brought them, proud as a cat depositing a fetched dead rat.

  &

  Cretia’s Gal, unmindful of the quiet in the house, or the muffled reprimands of M’s Esme toward Jube in the near distance, and without Cretia’s Gal realizing it, her hands, weighted by the echoing music in her head, lowered themselves and made contact with the keys that she was forbidden to touch other than to gently run a feather duster across them once a day.

  Her fingers ceased their air dance and were still for a moment, as still as the house, and then, to her surprise, her fingers beg
an to move to touch the forbidden black and white keys, moving in the exact patterns that Mister Gottschalk’s had moved last evening as she played exactly what he had played.

  &

  Esme felt a raindrop on the back of her hand. She had to will herself not to lick it off. Instead, she snapped at Boy Jube, contradicting her last order.

  He silently did as he was told. Until, for an instant in the graying morning, he sensed all sound cease: the cheeping, peeping conversations of birds; the impatient worry of the sodden wind whispering to the young leaves about the rain to come and resultant rustle as it brushed past, and scurry and hunkering down in the undergrowth; the moist plop of the scattered smirr; the wanting fragmented lilt of distant field hand shouts; the sounds of work from the house; the lo and bark and whinny. When it ceased, Jube raised himself from his hands and knees to a squat. He tensed like a hound at the anticipated hunter’s shot—and then sound again: the rhythmic pounding burst from the parlor through the window and doors.

  Music.

  At the first notes Esme looked up and around, her nose angled like a hound’s at the smell of prey.

  She might have pretended not to listen to the piano playing last night, Jube thought, but she heard it this morning, without pretense.

  Esme thinks it must be a conspiracy of some sort. Cretia in on it. Snuck Monsieur Gottschalk back and inside to provoke her. After he and Uncle have arisen before sunrise to start off on horseback for the distant train and finally to New Orleans. This yet another attack on her patience by her body slave, this time direct rather than the usual nerve-racking slow grinding day-by-day insolence.

  Esme spat a single word as she took off running, rushing, a raised storm toward the house as if lightening had struck the tail of her dress, and she rushed straight through the bluest anemones and India pinks, toward the parlor where the piano was.