Beryl stood at the door wringing her hands waiting to see if Eubie was coming down the road. The sun was now an orange sliver on the horizon and she instinctively knew that something was terribly wrong. Though totally not unsympathetic toward the curious leanings of his young son, Till paced the floor relentlessly. “Tole ‘em not t’go t’ that carni. Lookin’ like a buncha flies in milk.” He tried not to let anxiety get the best of him. “What if sumptin’ had happened to Rosetta?”
“Nuthin’ did. Besides, Henry brought ‘er,” Beryl said trying to ease some of his worry.
“Weren’t his place.” Till paced back and forth. “Too much schoolin’. Boy needs to be workin’ in the fields ‘stead a fillin’ up his head with nonsense.”
“He gots the rest of his life to learn ‘bout hard work.” Beryl maneuvered her big belly to see further out the door. She knew that her husband was caught between fear and tough love, and that nothing would change his mind. If the Slavers who lurked in the shadows to steal unsuspecting black folks didn’t get Eubie, his father would tan his hide for what he did then tan it again for making him and his mama worry.
***
The somber mood of a closing carnival was in stark contrast to the gaiety from the day before. Till knew that for a child like Eubie, carnival life looked inviting. When he approached the Gamekeeper, he removed his hat and waited. It was custom for black people when addressing white folks to be acknowledged before speaking. Anxious to get to the next town, the Gamekeeper could not afford to tarry as he pulled up stakes. He glanced down at Till’s worn and muddied shoes and assumed he wanted work. “Slop bucket needs cleanin’,” he said before continuing with what he was doing. Unsure if that was appropriate recognition, Till stood there fretfully twisting his hat into an indistinguishable shape. Finally, he dared to speak in a tone that commanded the Gamekeep’s attention.
“Lookin’ for mah boy.” Annoyed by the interruption of his work, the Gamekeeper looked up.
“’Cept for a coupla half-breeds an’ a Injun, everybody ‘round here’s white.” Then after giving it some thought, he recalled the incident at the firing range. “Come to think of it, I do ‘member runnin’ off three li’l troublemakers yesterday. “One wet his pants.” He chuckled. “The li’l girl was cute, but the other, he said shaking his head. “No tellin. Ya might wanna check that hinky li’l wagon down the road. A fella could make a whole lotta money with a boy lookin’ they way he do.”
Till knew that such wagons promised a false calm during anxious times and he feared that a curious child like Eubie would be ripe for misuse. His other dread was that the Slavers would get to him first.
Realizing that the Gamekeeperwas not obligated to tell him anything, Till showed his gratitude by emptying the slop buckets before walking away. The Gamekeeper, who made a living by quickly scrutinizing people, respected Till for retaining dignity under such circumstances. A change of heart melted his gruff exterior and he handed him two bits for his work.
Till increased his already measurable stride until he crossed the open field in what seemed like a matter of moments. When he came to the spot where the Spectorium should have been, all he found was the same black woman asleep under a tree. This time the finger adorned with the brilliant sapphire ring clutched at a ragged bundle that served as a pillow. Till wanted to wake her, but respectfully let her sleep. As he walked away, the woman’s one good eye popped open and followed him until he was out of sight.
***
Watermelon seeds stuck to Till’s shoes as he climbed the Culpepper’s back porch steps. Orin, who dared anyone with the exception of his father to scold him, intentionally spat out the seeds in Till’s direction. Till wanted to say something about the spilled laundry, but he knew that there were bigger issues at hand. He shook the seeds from his shoes, knocked loudly on the back door then waited until Nehemiah opened it.
The living room with its gaudy paintings of deceased relatives paid homage to the unattractive Culpepper lineage. A quick scan before gluing his eyes to the floor let Till know where Orin got his sour looks. Because he had always worked to provide for his family, he found it difficult to ask for time away so that he could look for his son.
Beads of sweat ran down Till’s face as the Colonel pulled out an immense ledger. Mrs. Culpepper lounged uncomfortably on one of the overstuffed chairs. “I suspect he done run off just like all the other ingrates ’round here,” she said fanning in an effort to stave off the oppressive heat that made her condition unbearable. “What makes him so special?” she sniffed. Till was so used to correcting Eubie’s overzealous behavior that he never spent a great deal of time considering his son’s special qualities.
“He mah son,” was all he could muster. An indignant Mrs. Culpepper was surprised at such a smug response. But considering the shortcomings of her own offspring, she had little else to say.
Col. Culpepper squinted at the ledger. “Shows here yer still in the red.” Till knew that plantation owners used creative accounting systems to keep workers bonded to them forever and it was possible that Colonel Culpepper was no exception. Although he nor his wife could read, they were adept at correctly keeping their own transactions.
“And just who’ll bring the Eubie in while you’re traipsin’ all over who knows where?” Mrs. Culpepper huffed. Till knew that the Colonel would have the last word, but Mrs. Culpepper had considerable influence especially when she nagged. As good manners dictated in the South, he was expected to respond when addressed.
“Why Miz Culpepper! A God-fearin’ woman like you knows the good Lawd always provides,” Till answered trying to sound sincere.
After receiving the Colonel’s permission to look for his son, Till met Nehemiah sweeping watermelon seeds from the back porch. “Don’ worry none,” Nehemiah said patting Till on the back. I’s tend to da crops like dey’s mah own.”
