Out of the Smoke Page 28

  She shook her head. “In my condition. I think not. Plus . . . I didn’t do this for you. Or for Reggie. I did it for me. Okay? So leave it be.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Benji drawled. “But you know what I think.”

  When Mose and Reggie returned, Reggie poured milk for all of them and passed around the cookies. Celeste took one, but before she began to eat she turned and looked at Mose. “Mr. Quincy, before we eat, I want to apologize for the things I said earlier today. They were unkind and uncalled for.”

  “I didn’t hear much of what you and Benji were saying over there, Miz Westland.” His smile broadened across his face. “And whatever it was, ain’t no better way of makin’ things right than warm oatmeal raisin cookies. That’s for sure.” And without waiting for her response, he took a big bite of a cookie. “Mmm–um,” he said, half closing his eyes. “Now that’s a little bit of heaven, right there.” He finished off the cookie in one more bite and washed it down with milk.

  “Where is your home?” Celeste asked him.

  Mose sat back. “Well, I live in Georgia now, but I was born an’ raised in North Carolina, on a small plantation near a place called Chalybeate Springs, south of Raleigh. My daddy was a sharecropper for the owner there. We had about twelve acres of cotton and also raised a few pigs. Had a small garden. My daddy was born a slave. My mama too. They were freed by President Lincoln.”

  “Really?” Reggie asked, his eyes wide.

  Celeste was stunned too.

  “I was the fourth of ten children. When I got to be about fourteen or fifteen, I went off to make my own way in the world. Make one less mouth for my Pappy to feed. Worked the river boats for a time, then ended up in Macon, down Georgia way. Found my wife there, singing in the choir at the local Baptist church. I prevailed upon the Lord to blind her eyes long enough to agree to marry me.”

  As Celeste and Benji laughed, Reggie’s eyes grew large. Celeste explained, “It’s a figure of speech, Reginald.” She turned to Mose again. “And that’s where your family is now?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We have six young-uns, five girls, one boy.” His eyes softened. “My oldest girl got herself a scholarship at Tuskegee University. And we thank the Lord for that every day. She’ll be the first one in all the family to go to college.”

  “Wow!” Benji said. “And where is Tuskeegee University?”

  Celeste answered his question. “It’s in Alabama. I know of it. I had some students from there at Columbia. It’s a university with a fine reputation. No wonder you are proud, Mr. Quincy.”

  Celeste handed him the plate of cookies and both he and Reggie took a second one. Benji followed suit, refilling their glasses. Celeste covered hers. “One cookie is enough for me.”

  “Ah,” Benji said solemnly, “but you’re eating for two now.”

  “So I am,” she said brightly. And she took a second cookie.

  Again Mose finished his in two bites, took a long swig of milk, and sat back and closed his eyes. “Miz Celeste. Those are about the finest cookies I ever tasted. Thank you.”

  Obviously pleased, Celeste smiled her acknowledgment.

  “So, Mose,” Benji said, munching as he spoke. “Tell us what a sharecropper does.”

  Mose didn’t stir, nor did his eyes open, but after a few moments he began to speak. “A sharecropper is a farmer who works a farm for somebody else.”

  “Like the hired hands Grandpa sometimes has help us here on the ranch?” Reggie asked.

  “Not really, I ’spect. We live on the land, have a house on the land, but it’s not our land. It belongs to the landowner. So come harvest, even though we’re doin’ all the work, we share the crop with him.”

  Reggie was nodding. “I get it. That’s why they call you a sharecropper, because you share the crop.”

  Mose nodded.

  “So,” Benji asked, “how much land did you work?”

  “’Bout ten acres.”

  “And how many acres did the owner have?” Celeste asked.

  “Not sure. Maybe two hundred, maybe two-fifty. He farmed about half of that himself. Mostly cotton. Me and another twelve men farmed the rest.”

  Benji spoke up again. “Okay, so give us an idea of how it actually worked, how he paid you.”

  The older man’s head moved back and forth slowly as he considered the question. “Don’t know exactly what the others had to pay. For me, the landlord, he took a share of each crop, like I’ve been ­sayin’. He took a fourth of the peas and sweet potatoes, about a third to a half of the big cash crops like corn and cotton.”

  “Half!” Benji exclaimed. “Really? And for that, did he furnish you with anything? Like mules or your tools?”

  “Not really. He furnished us with a house, and the land, of course. I furnished the work, the team, the seed, and the fertilizer.”

  “My goodness,” Celeste said. “So how much did that leave you in the end?”

  “And how did you pay for the seed and all the other stuff?” Benji added.

  “If we had a good year, I’d use about half of what was left after I gave the landlord his share for my family. Then I’d sell whatever I could in town at the markets. That’s where I got any cash money.”

  Benji hesitated, but his curiosity got the best of him. “And about how much cash money would you get?”

  “’Bout a hundred dollars a year, maybe. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

  “You mean a month, right?” Reggie asked. Then to Benji, he added, “Grandpa pays me ten dollars a month for helping round the ranch.”

  Mose turned slowly. “If that’s true, Reggie, y’all got a very generous grandfather.”

  Celeste was feeling a growing sense of horror as he spoke of these things in such a matter-of-fact tone. “And what if it wasn’t a good year?”

  Mose shrugged, as if it was a question of no consequence. “Well, it’s pretty simple, really. We eat when we have food, and we go without when we don’t.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down twice as he turned and looked out into the night. “Been workin’ that land for fifteen years now,” he finally continued. “Ain’t never made a profit but one time, and that was thirty-two dollars back in ’27, six years ago now. Then, about four months ago, the government agents, they came to Georgia. Started paying the landlords to not grow any more crops on their land.” He smiled sadly. “At first, I thought those agents were jokin’. Paying a man for not workin’? Ain’t never heard nothin’ like that before. But that’s what they be doin’.”

  “And none of that money went to you,” Benji said, knowing it wasn’t a question.

  “Naw. We were told to plow up the cotton, plow up the peas, plow up the corn. Shoot the pigs.” He exhaled slowly. “Then they told us to pack and leave. They did let us keep a couple of chickens. But that was all. Said we couldn’t live on the land no more. As for the landlord, he don’t care. He’s getting paid now for sitting in his rockin’ chair on the porch and smoking cigars and sippin’ mint juleps.”

  “I am so sorry,” Celeste said.

  “Ain’t your fault,” Mose said. “I’m just glad that Benji here took me in and gave me some work.”

  Benji leaned forward. “Do you happen to know the number for that phone in the store in Barnesville?”

  Mose’s head came up and he cocked his head. “I do. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if you do, we can try and call it tomorrow. Then you can leave a message for your family for when they come in next time. Tell them that you’re safe. Where you are. Maybe—”

  “No!” Celeste broke in. “Tell the storekeeper to send someone to get your family. Have them call our number and reverse the charges.” She looked at Benji. “Frank and I will pay for it.”

  “Not on your life,” he said. “Mom and Dad will do that. But that’s a great idea. Then you could talk to them, Mose. Let them know you’re okay.
See how they are doing.”

  Mose had leaned forward and was staring at the floor. When he looked up, tears streaked his cheeks. He started to speak but couldn’t get the words out. Finally he straightened and reached over to pick up the book that was lying facedown on the table. He turned it over, and Celeste was surprised to see it was a Bible. He held it up for them to see. “Are you good folk Christian?”

  Startled, Benji said, “Yes, we are.”

  “Supposed as much. When you have a Bible even in the bunkhouse, that says a lot about what kind of folk y’all be.” He reached across the table and put his huge hand over Celeste’s, dwarfing it completely. “This is what good Christians be doin’. Right, Miz Celeste? Helpin’ one another out.” The smile broadened. “Bringin’ ’em cookies and milk.”

  Celeste laughed, though she was close to tears.

  “And if I get a chance to talk to the missus on the phone, I’m gonna tell her about those celestial cookies you made. Maybe you can teach her how to do that?”

  Tears spilled over onto Celeste’s cheeks. “I would be pleased to do that, Mose. On one condition. That you forgive me for my rudeness earlier.”

  He chuckled. It was a deep, pleasant sound that made you feel good inside. “Miz Celeste, I ain’t got no idea what you’re talkin’ about. You hear me? None whatsoever.”

  Chapter Notes

  In the Great Depression, the rural South was hit particularly hard, pushing a large number of the poorer economic classes into stark desperation. Tenant farmers took the worst of it. Mose and his story, as found in this chapter, are largely based on an interview with Mose Sutton, a seventy-year-old tenant farmer from North Carolina. Much of what the character shares here comes from the real Mose’s own words. At the time of his interview, which was in the 1930s, the real Mose was still hoping to get an acre of land from his landlord. Many had been promised land for the years of work they put into it but then were thrust out by unscrupulous landowners or by the new government programs (see, for example, Nishi’s Life During the Great Depression, 24–51, and Kyvig’s Daily Life in the United States, 1920–1940, 209–30).

  June 8, 1933, 4:28 a.m.—EDW Ranch

  Benji yawned as he pulled his boots on and carefully stood up. In the bunk across from him, Mose stirred and raised his head. In the early dawn light, he made out Benji’s silhouette and then came up on one elbow.

  “You ready for work already?”

  Benji chuckled. “No, Mose. Go back to sleep. Mom and Dad didn’t get in until late, so I’m going to go milk the cow. Let ’em sleep in a little.”

  Mose sat up. “Then I’ll help you.”

  Benji pushed him back down again. “There’s only one cow, Mose. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up when it’s time for breakfast, all right?”

  “Promise?” he asked as he turned onto his side and closed his eyes again.

  “I promise,” Benji said, and he quietly went out the front door. As he headed toward the barn, he glanced up and was surprised to see that there was a light in the kitchen window of the main house. That was his dad, all right. First one up no matter how late he went to bed. He looked over at the barn. No lights on there, which was good. His dad hadn’t come down to milk yet. Benji would go tell him to go back to bed for once.

  As Benji approached the house, he saw the kitchen window was open. Through it he heard the murmur of voices. That stopped him for a moment. So it wasn’t just his father who was up. He moved closer to the window, thinking he would just tell his father that he was on his way to the barn, but what he heard next stopped him in his tracks.

  “And what about Mose?”

  What about Mose? Benji felt his ire shoot up. Obviously Celeste and told his father about their visitor. Had all the niceness and warmth last night been just a front with her?

  Benji edged in closer, careful not to be seen.

  “Maybe room and board will be enough,” his father was saying. “We can certainly use the help.”

  “No, Mitch. You heard what Celeste said. Mose has a wife and family. He needs the cash to send back to them. Room and board are fine for him, but not for them. What about the money we’ve got in our Independence Fund?”

  There was a long silence. Benji leaned in closer to hear.

  “Yes, we have some money there. But Rowland and Rena are on the verge of losing their ranch. We may need every dime of that and more to help them.”

  “I know.” Benji’s mother’s voice was heavy with weariness. “And they have to come first. Do you think the government will come back and pay us to kill more of our cattle?”

  “Perhaps. But not soon. They want to see how what they’ve already done is working.”

  The silence was heavy and seemed interminable.

  “What do we do, Mitch? We can’t just send him away. He’s got six children too.”

  “I know that, Edie. And it breaks my heart. But I don’t see any other choice. We can offer him room and board, but if he can’t take that, then we have to let him go.”

  “We could lose it, Mitch. We could lose it all, couldn’t we? Forty-five years of work, of sacrifice. Basically our entire adult lives—and we could lose it all.”

  “Not without a fight,” he replied softly. “But . . . the ranch has been good to us. We’ve sent all of our kids to college, except for Benji and Abby. Two of our brightest.”

  “Will they ever get to go?” Edie asked. “They’re both willing to pay their own way.”

  “I know, but we need the help on the ranch,” Mitch replied softly. “They’re the only ones we have left to work here. The money that Frank and Celeste send each month is a godsend. It’s the only cash we have coming in right now. And that’s what we need. More cash inflow. And, sadly enough, that’s what Mose needs too.”

  Benji moved away, walking very gingerly until he was about fifty feet away. Then he turned and walked back toward the house, stepping hard so his boots crunched on the gravel. “Dad!” he hollered as he got closer.

  There was an exclamation of surprise, and a moment later his father was at the window, peering out. He was in his pajamas. “Benji?”

  “Hi,” he said as he came up. “What are you two doing up so early?”

  His mother appeared. She was in a bathrobe. “Uh . . . we were just talking about what needs to happen today.”

  “I heard you drive in. It was late. I just wanted you to know that I’m headed out now to do the milking. So, Dad, you can go back to bed for a while.”

  “I can do the milking, son,” his father said.

  Benji shook his head. “You both look exhausted. I’ll do the milking if you go back and grab a couple hours of sleep. Then I’ll do the same. There’s nothing else pressing.”

  His mother slipped her arm through his father’s. “Mitch, he’s right. Let’s try to get a little more sleep.”

  Mitch hesitated, clearly torn. “All right, Benji. Thank you. That does sound good. It was a long, hard day yesterday.”

  His mother lifted a hand. “Thank you, dear.”

  “You’re welcome.” Benji raised a hand and waved. “See you later.”

  7:07 a.m.

  Edie pulled Mitch to a stop as they approached the kitchen door. The door was half open and they could see that the kitchen light was on. Then Mitch heard what Edie had heard. It was the sound of someone weeping. Together they rushed forward and went into the kitchen. Abby was seated at the kitchen table. Her arms were folded on the table and her head was down on them. Her body shuddered with wave after wave of sobs.

  “Abby!” Edie cried. She rushed to her daughter and leaned over her, putting an arm around her. “What’s wrong?”

  Mitch came up on the other side of her. “Tell us, Abby. What’s the matter?”

  She lifted her head. Her face was wet with tears and her eyes were bloodshot. She straightened, revealing a single pie
ce of paper beneath her arms. Without a word she handed it to her mother. “This was in the bunkhouse,” she wailed. “On Benji’s bed.” Then her head dropped and the sobs shook her body again.

  Edie took it, giving Mitch a worried glance, and started to read. Almost instantly, she moaned and her knees nearly buckled. “Nooooo!” It was a cry of pure anguish. She let the letter flutter to the table and dropped into the chair next to Abby. Then she too buried her face in her hands.

  Shocked and stunned, Mitch took the letter and began to read. Then he gasped.

  Edie looked up, her tears as copious as Abby’s now. “Read it aloud, Mitch.”

  He took a deep breath and began.

  “‘Dearest Mom, Dad, Abby, MJ, June, and the rest of the family,

  “‘It is shortly after 4:30 as I write this. Sorry, Dad. I promised you I would go to sleep after doing the milking, but for reasons quickly obvious you will understand why I did not do that. This will be a shock to you I’m sure, but just so you know, this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

  “‘By the time you read this, Mose and I will have been gone for a couple of hours, maybe longer. I know you will want to come looking for us. Please do not. That will only make this harder for you and for Mose and me.

  “‘We are off to try to find work. Work that will bring us both cash money that our families so desperately need.’”

  “Oh, Mitch,” Edie cried. “He must have heard us talking this morning. Oh, what have we done?”

  He shook his head slowly and went on.

  “‘I would ask you not to worry, but I know that will be impossible, so I will just ask that you have trust in me and trust in our Heavenly Father. Please ask Him to watch over us both. Though I’ve only known Mose for less than twenty-­four hours, he is already a wise and trusted friend. He has lived on the road for over a year now. He knows the ropes. He knows how to stay away from trouble. He said to tell you that he gives you his word that he will stay with me and help me as we go.