Read Online When I Crossed No-Bob by Margaret McMullan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret McMullan
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like you see Mary done with Jesus Christ when they took him down off the cross. And they all sat down by his body on the ground and cried cried cried like Mary and them done. That's the way Little Bit and me left them that night. That's the way I'll always remember them.
The grave of Jess Still is not mine to mark. That is for his family. Even this makes me sad. Why must we all claim somebody, dead or alive? When a body dies, is it free or does it belong to God? When is a body free? How do we
be
free? Do we all need to be taught to be free?
Almost every family loses a baby here in these parts. But not like this. Babies aren't murdered. Nobody knows what to say. Are there any words for comfort?
After we put Jess Still in that sorry red ground, Mr. Frank, Miss Irene, and I head home in the wagon. Little Bit and Jack go home with Mr. Frank's pa and ma.
I think maybe they don't want me around Little Bit anymore. I think maybe they think she's seen too much on account of me. And I feel sorrowful bad about that, but I also want to say she's her own person. She is just now teaching herself to be free.
After we eat, none of us saying much, I go out near the barn to sit on Mr. Frank's praying log, but Mr. Frank is already there. He's reading his Bible, trying to find some story to keep his mood company.
Mr. Frank, he scoots over and doesn't say anything when I sit down. The log sinks a little with my weight.
"I'm sorry that you and Little Bit saw that little boy Jess die in that fire," he says. "I spoke with the sheriff. They're going to look for the men who did this."
When Mr. Frank came back from the fire that night, Little Bit and me, we told him all that we knew. Later, after Little Bit fell to sleep, I went outside, dug up the peach jar, unfolded the map, and stared and stared and stared at that man lighting the
match that lit the cross that fell on the schoolhouse that killed Jess Still. Then I folded the map back up and put it in the jar and into the hole under the log.
"Do you think they'll ever find the men that did it?"
"Hard to say," Mr. Frank says, sighing. He looks tired and pale. "Sheriff says there have been a lot of bad nights. A lot of violence mostly aimed at the freed slaves."
"You're not joining up with them Ku Kluxers, are you, Mr. Frank?"
"Course not, Addy. And you don't need to worry about these things."
"If I don't, who will?"
"You did a fine thing, going in after Jess. A fine and right thing."
"It didn't do no good."
"I guess you know now it is just as easy to do good as it is to do bad," he says.
I think of all those hooded men laughing. I think of all those men walking away from that fire, not catching any heat, no blame.
"No, it ain't," I finally say. "Doing good is harder. Doing nothing is the easiest of all."
Mr. Frank stays quiet and then nods. "You're right, Addy."
I bite my bottom lip. Even if I was right every day of my life, no one never ever, no one ever, told me so. It is hard
not
to smile and hug him, but we both, we just sit there a while longer on that log under which lay our buried map.
It is a school day the next day and we rise early like we have every day and Mr. Frank and I set out, same as we ever do, except that today we turn off and head toward the other schoolhouse. The burned-down schoolhouse.
When we get there, there's nothing left but a pile of burned-up mess.
Mr. Frank and me, we are not surprised or even awestruck by the destruction. We take it in like sleepwalkers and poke around some.
I look for the place where Jess Still had lain still. There is nothing on the ground to say that something terrible happened here. No blood, no bones, no markers or tombstones. Just this bad smell of burning.
There is not much left to do. There is not much more we can do.
I find a wood shingle that is not so burned from the fire and make the surface smooth. I think of what to cut on it with
my pocketknife. How does a body ever know a person? I think on Jess Still and
The grave of Jess Still is not mine to mark. That is for his family. Even this makes me sad. Why must we all claim somebody, dead or alive? When a body dies, is it free or does it belong to God? When is a body free? How do we
be
free? Do we all need to be taught to be free?
Almost every family loses a baby here in these parts. But not like this. Babies aren't murdered. Nobody knows what to say. Are there any words for comfort?
After we put Jess Still in that sorry red ground, Mr. Frank, Miss Irene, and I head home in the wagon. Little Bit and Jack go home with Mr. Frank's pa and ma.
I think maybe they don't want me around Little Bit anymore. I think maybe they think she's seen too much on account of me. And I feel sorrowful bad about that, but I also want to say she's her own person. She is just now teaching herself to be free.
After we eat, none of us saying much, I go out near the barn to sit on Mr. Frank's praying log, but Mr. Frank is already there. He's reading his Bible, trying to find some story to keep his mood company.
Mr. Frank, he scoots over and doesn't say anything when I sit down. The log sinks a little with my weight.
"I'm sorry that you and Little Bit saw that little boy Jess die in that fire," he says. "I spoke with the sheriff. They're going to look for the men who did this."
When Mr. Frank came back from the fire that night, Little Bit and me, we told him all that we knew. Later, after Little Bit fell to sleep, I went outside, dug up the peach jar, unfolded the map, and stared and stared and stared at that man lighting the
match that lit the cross that fell on the schoolhouse that killed Jess Still. Then I folded the map back up and put it in the jar and into the hole under the log.
"Do you think they'll ever find the men that did it?"
"Hard to say," Mr. Frank says, sighing. He looks tired and pale. "Sheriff says there have been a lot of bad nights. A lot of violence mostly aimed at the freed slaves."
"You're not joining up with them Ku Kluxers, are you, Mr. Frank?"
"Course not, Addy. And you don't need to worry about these things."
"If I don't, who will?"
"You did a fine thing, going in after Jess. A fine and right thing."
"It didn't do no good."
"I guess you know now it is just as easy to do good as it is to do bad," he says.
I think of all those hooded men laughing. I think of all those men walking away from that fire, not catching any heat, no blame.
"No, it ain't," I finally say. "Doing good is harder. Doing nothing is the easiest of all."
Mr. Frank stays quiet and then nods. "You're right, Addy."
I bite my bottom lip. Even if I was right every day of my life, no one never ever, no one ever, told me so. It is hard
not
to smile and hug him, but we both, we just sit there a while longer on that log under which lay our buried map.
It is a school day the next day and we rise early like we have every day and Mr. Frank and I set out, same as we ever do, except that today we turn off and head toward the other schoolhouse. The burned-down schoolhouse.
When we get there, there's nothing left but a pile of burned-up mess.
Mr. Frank and me, we are not surprised or even awestruck by the destruction. We take it in like sleepwalkers and poke around some.
I look for the place where Jess Still had lain still. There is nothing on the ground to say that something terrible happened here. No blood, no bones, no markers or tombstones. Just this bad smell of burning.
There is not much left to do. There is not much more we can do.
I find a wood shingle that is not so burned from the fire and make the surface smooth. I think of what to cut on it with
my pocketknife. How does a body ever know a person? I think on Jess Still and
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