“What? Long enough to eat some of Ma Pearl’s cooking?”
Normally, Hallelujah would’ve laughed. But that day he didn’t. He didn’t even smile.
“Happy birthday,” I called, hoping to at least conjure a lip curl.
But Hallelujah’s expression remained stoic. With a wave of his hand, he gave me a dry “Thanks.”
I leaned on the heavy hoe and wiped sweat from my face with my sleeve. When Hallelujah got closer, I could see that his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Hallelujah tilted his head sideways. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“About Levi.”
My legs went weak.
I knew something bad had happened.
With Ma Pearl acting jittery that morning and Papa being quieter than usual, I knew something had happened that they didn’t want me to know about it. Mr. Albert, Levi, and Fish had been working with us in Mr. Robinson’s fields for as long as I could remember, and they had never missed a day of work.
My top lip felt numb when I spoke. “S-something happened to Levi?”
Hallelujah removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. Before he put his glasses back on, anxiety shone in his eyes. “Rosa Lee,” he said, his voice shaking, his eyes tearing up, “Levi’s dead.”
My knees buckled. If it hadn’t been for the hoe, I would’ve crumbled to the ground.
Black, pulsating dots flashed around me as Hallelujah’s next words floated to my ears: “pickup . . . shotgun . . . head . . .” Dead.
The black dots multiplied as the earth spun beneath my feet. Nausea rose in my stomach, and every drop of biscuits and eggs I’d eaten that morning threatened to come back up.
Dropping the hoe, I grabbed my stomach and bolted from the field.
As I stumbled clumsily between the dusty rows of green cotton leaves, I couldn’t help but resent them. Levi Jackson, a fine young man, had spent most of his life tending to that field, bringing that cotton to life every summer. Now he no longer had his.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream until my anguish was heard all over Stillwater—?all over Mississippi—?all the way to Chicago, straight to my mama’s ears. I don’t know why, but I hated her at that moment. I hated her more than the nameless face that had shot Levi Jackson for no good reason.
But I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t open my mouth and take a chance on throwing up and killing any of Mr. Robinson’s precious cotton.
By the time I reached the edge of the field, my stomach lurched. Racing past the chickens scratching in the yard, I dashed toward the toilet, heaving the whole time.
I’m not sure why I ran to the toilet, knowing its stench would only make me gag more. When I reached it, I ran behind it, my body lurching forward, spewing the last of my breakfast toward the ground.
Hallelujah banged on the door of the toilet. “Rosa Lee, you okay?”
“I’m back here,” I called weakly, all my strength now a yellow puddle on the ground.
Rubbing goose bumps from my arms, I came from behind the toilet and headed up the path to the backyard. Hallelujah trailed behind me. When I reached the yard, I hugged my arms around my stomach and doubled over. A sick moan followed.
Hallelujah put his arms around my shoulders and ushered me to the back porch. When my body dropped on it like a sack of overgrown potatoes, I pressed my face in my palms and screamed. I screamed until my stomach hurt.
I shouted into my palms. “Why, Hallelujah? Why?”
“He registered to vote,” Hallelujah said, his voice hoarse. “And they killed him.”
I raised my face from my palms and wiped away tears with my sleeve. “Levi wasn’t old enough to vote,” I said angrily.
Hallelujah removed his glasses and wiped tears from his own face. “He turned twenty-one last Thursday,” he said. “Went to the courthouse and registered the next day.”
“Levi left the field early on Friday,” I said, my voice choking. “Said he had something important to do.”