Read Online Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) by Shelia P. Moses - Free Book Online

year up in Raleigh.
    â€œI don’t know, Wilson. Let’s see what else you got.” That’s the way Grandma address all white folks, by their last name, with no Mr. or Mrs. She says if white folks can’t call colored folks by their name with a handle on it, she ain’t calling them Mr. or Mrs. And she says she ain’t calling them their first name either, because she don’t want them to think she’s their friend.
    Mr. Wilson turns red as a beet and walks back behind the counter where Mrs. Wilson is standing, so he can pick some new fatback. Mrs. Wilson waves and rolls her eyes at the same time. Grandma never even acknowledges that woman. She says, “Mrs. Wilson’s mouth just as good as mine. I don’t understand head and hand movements. If she can’t speak, I can’t speak.”
    Mr. Wilson ignores both of them and comes back armed with three new pieces of fatback laid out on wax paper.
    I think Grandma just like making that white man walk back and forth.
    â€œTake your pick and I will wrap it up for you.”
    Grandma still ain’t sure, but she knows she has less than two hours to buy her goods. Mr. Charlie surely will be back on time with the other controlling woman.
    â€œThat first piece you show me will do fine.”
    Mr. Wilson goes behind the counter to wrap the fatback. I see him weighing the meat. I look hard because Grandma told me to keep an eye on him to make sure he don’t cheat on the scales. Again, she don’t trust no white folks. When he comes back, he has pork chops, ribs, you name it. But I’ve seen this parade so many times, I just walk over to look at the map on the wall.
    Don’t know where Mr. Wilson got this map, but it has been my underground railroad since I was tall enough to stand on my tiptoes and see it. The world outside of Rehobeth Road. I have been trying to leave Rehobeth Road ever since the traveling salesman came with the encyclopedias that has every state in it. I was five or six when the white man in the black car came with the books he was selling in the backseat. He said Ma didn’t have topay the whole amount that day. He gave the books to her on time. That’s what folks on Rehobeth Road call credit—time. So within minutes we had new red encyclopedias and I started to read about all fifty states. Mainly New York and New Jersey, because that’s where all the folks from Rehobeth Road go when they leave here. New York looks so far away on the map. Farther than in my dreams. Five states away—Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and then New Jersey. I touch the map in the spot that says New York. I usually point it out to Uncle Buddy every Saturday. Everything feels wrong today. Wrong because I usually wait for Uncle Buddy to look at the map with me, so that he can point out all the places on the map that he traveled while working in difference factories up North.
    I walk outside and sit on the steps. The sawmill across the road looks so ugly to me. I bet nobody there is going to stick up for my uncle. Now he’s just three doors down, in the jailhouse. Three doors down! I have to see him. My feet feel so heavy as I try to walk down there to get a peep athim. But I walk on. The windows are high and I can’t see inside. I walk around back where the windows are covered with bars. This must be where they are keeping him. I move closer.
    â€œUncle Buddy.”
    No answer.
    â€œUncle Buddy.”
    Two hands appear at the barred window.
    â€œPattie Mae, is that you?”
    â€œYes, sir, it’s me. Are you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine, gal. Now get away from here.”
    â€œBut I want to see you.”
    â€œNo! Now go on! Tell everyone I’m okay. Now get!”
    My heart feels like snow in July.
    â€œBye, Uncle Buddy.”
    â€œBye, baby.”
    His hands disappear into the dark hole behind the bars.
    I start to walk away, but then I hear a voice. A voice that ain’t