Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) Read Free

going to be a pretty woman like Ma when I get older. He says probably not as pretty as Ma, because it’s a “Sinfore God to look as good as Mer Sheals.” Her name is Mary. Somebody replaced the “a” with an “e” anddropped the “y” years ago, just like they took “tricia” off of Patricia and added “tie Mae” to my name. That’s just how it is on Rehobeth Road.
    So why is Ma wearing a dress? Surely she is going to pick cucumbers today. She always picks cucumbers when it rains. If she ain’t chopping, she picks cucumber every day from late May until they are all gone, from sunrise to sunset. Ma stops chopping in August in time to work in tobacco, because tobacco workers make $4.00 a day and we only make $2.00 a day chopping. But August nor tobacco are on my mind this year, because I will be on that train going to the unknown by then. This will be the first year that I am old enough to work in the tobacco field, like it is honor or something stupid like that to turn twelve and prime tobacco. That’s the rule on Rehobeth Road. You have to be twelve to work in the tobacco field. Myself, Pattie Mae Sheals, has other plans. Besides, Uncle Buddy says people who chop and prime tobacco ain’t nothing but $2.00 a day slaves.
    I stop on the back porch and wash my hands in the white face tub that Ma left there for me. Old likeeverything else around here. Clean like everything else around here. The smell of her biscuits reaches my nose before I reach the back door that is falling off the way it does at least ten times a week. I’m sure Grandpa is coming up here with his toolbox and fix it as soon as he gets around to it. He has been a bit under the weather, so I don’t want to mention the door to him again. No need to tell Uncle Buddy because it’s dark when he leaves home and dark when he comes back. Ma never complains about what Uncle Buddy don’t do around here. I guess that $35.00 a month includes Ma fixing things too. Ma swears that money keeps us out of the poorhouse. If this ain’t the poorhouse, I don’t know what is.
    Inside the slave house, in the kitchen, on the table I notice Ma’s black leather bag. The one that her oldest sister, my aunt Louise, brought her all the way from Harlem. I also notice that Ma doesn’t have on just any dress; she has on her Sunday go to meeting dress. She would never dress like this during the week, unless she was going to a funeral or the relief office over in Jackson. Lord have mercy, I just want to ask her why she is all dressed up, butMa says that children ain’t suppose to ask grown folks questions.
    That’s another rule on Rehobeth Road. “Don’t ask grown folks no questions.”
    I know I really don’t have to. All I have to say is “Ma, you look so pretty.” And she does. Even if she don’t, Uncle Buddy says never beg a woman. “If you tell her she looks good, she will tell you anything you want to know.” Stuff like “Honey, honey you fine as you want to be” and “Baby, you the sugar in my coffee.” Now that’s the kind of mess Uncle Buddy says he used to tell them gals up in Harlem. I don’t know about them city women that Uncle Buddy knows, but Ma loves a compliment. So I just take my seat at the end of the table, next to the stove, where I have been sitting since Ma took me out of the high chair. The high chair we sold back to the thrift shop in Jackson when I got too big for it. Ma has prepared the usual two eggs, two pieces of bacon, and one biscuit. No milk, just water from the rusty well in the backyard.
    â€œMy, you look pretty today, Ma.”
    â€œWell, thank you, child. I thought I would getdressed early. Mr. Charlie will be here soon.”
    Ma would not be dressed like this just because Mr. Charlie is coming by. He comes by all the time. Mr. Charlie and his wife, Miss Doleebuck, are Grandpa and