The clouds had just enough cover to make the heat tolerable. It was the kind of day that made a determined Till’s job easier to scour every location that might have an interest in a boy with Eubie’s features. On one of the back roads, he happened upon a clearing congested with glorious black folks dressed in their Sunday best. A few carried picnic baskets and he could smell the buttermilk biscuits, fried okra and seasoned catfish as he walked alongside. He knew it wasn’t Sunday. He had kept track of the days by the phases of the moon. It must be a funeral or wedding he thought to himself. “Dead or wed,” he asked a woman whose girth was no doubt testimony to the goodies he hoped she would share from the large picnic basket that she carried on her head.
“Better’n that,” the woman replied. She was so thrilled to have the opportunity to tell anyone about the occasion that she gladly handed over two biscuits with freshly churned butter. “Don’t you know?” she said pointing to a VOTE FOR FREEDOM sign that hung from one side of a rickety mule-drawn wagon. Her gums bared broad smile. “We’s votin’!”
Before Till had the chance to ask about the details, a fast-talking Carpetbagger wearing a wrinkled suit and egg stained tie sidled up next to him. “You’re a free man now my friend,” said the Carpetbagger whose every consonant was punctured with a spray of spittle that made Till wish for a damp cloth. It seemed out of place to have such a friendly white man in the middle of all of these Negros that it raised Till’s suspicion. “And here’s a little insurance just to make sure you stay that way.” The Carpetbagger shoved a slip of paper into Till’s hand. “Phineas P. Finley at your service,” he said gesturing grandly.
“What’s this?” Till asked turning the paper upside down then right side up again.
“A poll tax receipt all bought and paid for jes’ so you can vote. All you have to do is remember to write your name right next to mine.”
“Can’t write.”
“An X will do jes’ fine.”
“Can’t vote for somebody I dunno know.”
“Don’t matter,” the Carpetbagger said before making his waytoward the next potential voter. He turned back on his heels and shouted, “I don’t know you either. That don’t stop me.” And off he went with his carpetbag stuffed full of false promises.
Till had no intention of voting. Deep down inside he knew that it had nothing to do with him or his people, and it certainly wasn’t going to help him find Eubie. Nevertheless, just like every other person who knew the meaning of thrift, he hung onto to the piece of paper just in case.
A familiar tune sounded through the hustle and bustle of the anxious voters. Because of a blinding light, Till couldn’t see what awaited him. But when he raised his hand to shield the glare, the Hoodoo Lady’s ring glistened from the Spectorium that stood immobile at the crossroads. He could not recall where he had seen the woman, but her face looked vaguely familiar.
From atop the Spectorium, Speck scrutinized every young black boy that crossed his path for a Monkey Boy replacement. Till motioned to get his attention. “S’cuse me, but I’m looking for a boy.” Not wanting to be interrupted at the task at hand in the event he might miss a candidate, Speck shot back in annoyance.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Can’t miss ‘im. Yay high,” Till said gesticulating Eubie’s height to be about up to his waist. “With a head ‘bout as big as a good sized melon.” It was enough to halt the search and grab Speck’s attention.
“With a straw hat that barely fits and knickers a size too big?” Till got excited. “Yeah, that’s mah Eubie. You seen ‘im?”
