A Thousand Never Evers Read Free

explanation.” The fork trembles in Mama’s hand because she’s so worried and mad. Being worried and mad is like biscuits and gravy for Mama. The two just go together.
    “We were picking out dye for Addie Ann, when we run into someone to talk to,” Elias says. “It was real important.”
    But Mama doesn’t see it that way. Not at all. She points her potato fork at my brother, then at me. “When I send my kids over to the white side, I don’t expect them to come through that door after the sun has set.” Mama’s so angry she doesn’t even ask what color dye I have in my sack. “Now who’s so important to talk to when it’s already getting dark?”
    “It was just Bessie,” Elias says. “She was working at the shop. We got to talking ’bout Medgar Evers and…”
    It seems Mama’s heard the news too. She sets down her potato fork, closes her weary eyes, and starts praying for the dead man’s soul.
    But her prayer sounds more like complaining. “Dear Lord,” she says, “that Medgar didn’t deserve to die. He been stirring up trouble, trying to get them schools mixed up, colored and white, as they should. And he been helping sign up Negro voters, Lord, ’cause don’t every person supposed to have a voice in these United States?”
    What’s so special about the vote? Mama always carries on about it, but what difference could one of her votes make anyway? Well, one thing’s clear: she thinks Medgar Evers’s work to help Negroes vote is more important than eating dinner while it’s hot.
    Now Mama shakes her head like she just can’t believe this Medgar guy’s dead and gone. “Lord, you listen to me,” she says. “You bless Medgar’s hardworking, full-of-courage soul.”
    After that, how am I supposed to eat? Hen or no hen, my stomach’s knotted up knowing someone can get killed for doing heaps of good.

CHAPTER 2

    June 16, 1963
     
    Old Man Adams, our boss, comes from a long line of white folk. He used to own the five-hundred-acre cotton plantation that separates Kuckachoo from Franklindale, but he sold that off. The only land he kept was his garden that’s right here in his backyard.
    Sometimes the old man’s garden is full of tomatoes, purple hull peas, and a whole lot of squash, and other times it’s covered with watermelon, collards, and string beans. That’s because he’s always changing his mind about which crops are best, though one thing’s clear: at six acres, Old Man Adams’s garden is the largest in town. Why, I reckon the whole Negro side of Kuckachoo could fit right inside it!
    I was five when I started working his garden. It was only last year, when I turned eleven, that Uncle Bump decided I knew enough cooking to help Elmira in the kitchen. Now instead of hunching over to pick squash, I stand up straight and fill gleaming vases with daffodils that have already been picked by someone else. And instead of cutting my fingers when I dig up sweet potatoes, I turn the silvery handles on the kitchen faucet till the sparkly water flows out.
    My favorite thing to do here in the big house is a secret. Sometimes I watch television in Old Man Adams’s living room. So long as the other servants aren’t around, Uncle Bump lets me. I flip through the three channels on the black-and-white set till I decide which show is best. After that, I settle onto the sofa and press my bare calves against the cool leather. One time, Uncle Bump even made lemonade and plunked down next to me. Then we watched the old film
Poor Little Rich Girl
from start to finish.
    Today, even though I’m working beside Elmira in Old Man Adams’s kitchen, everything’s different than usual. I look over my shoulder into the dining room, where Uncle Bump gives the old man some slippery elm to help clear his airway. The old man, just a shadow, sits in his rocking chair beside the oak table, while the chandelier above the table lights up each of his chalky wrinkles.
    The mayor, the sheriff, the white preacher, and seven