After someone died, it normally took colored folks a good two weeks before they had a funeral, seeing how they had to gather up enough money to pay the undertaker and everybody else. But Levi’s funeral happened quickly, in less than a week, as Mr. Robinson paid for the funeral.
I was already annoyed by the way folks acted as if Levi had simply died in his sleep, but when Louvenia Smith, also known as Miss Doll, began belting out “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” I became even more annoyed. A self-appointed funeral singer (and Ma Pearl’s personal friend), she sang a solo at every funeral she attended, whether the family asked her to or not. Back in her younger days, she had been a great singer, I was told. Now she was way past her prime, and her voice had faded significantly, but the kind folks in Stillwater didn’t have the heart to tell her so.
“‘I looked over Jordan,’” she croaked, “‘and what did I see?’” She moaned. “‘A band of angels comin’ after me . . .’”
And with that, Miss Etta hit the floor with a thud.
A gasp escaped from the crowd, followed by a hush, as Sister Jenny Louise Harris stopped banging on her out-of-tune piano.
Within seconds, Miss Etta was surrounded by a flurry of white uniforms.
“Scoot over!” a male usher ordered our row.
We practically piled on top of one another as we moved over to make room. On the count of three, four ushers hoisted Miss Etta up and onto the pew. The pew creaked.
Did I mention that Miss Etta was about the size of Ma Pearl?
Chapter Eight
SATURDAY, JULY 30
SHE KNEW DIRN WELL SHE COULDN’T SERVE AT HER own boy’s fune’,” Ma Pearl said as she dropped large spoons of chicken dressing on plates as mourners passed through the assembly line in Miss Etta’s cramped kitchen. Once served, most of them headed straight on out the back door to feast under the shade trees as they fanned away flies. I was surprised they held the repast at the Jacksons’ anyway, seeing that theirs was one of the smallest and most dilapidated houses on Mr. Robinson’s land. But it seemed that all the colored people in Stillwater and the other small communities in Leflore County were assembled there that day.
As usual during a repast, each family had brought their own plates, cups, and utensils, along with a large pot or pan of some food item to share with everyone else. Ma Pearl had brought a pan of dressing and a pan of fried chicken.
Miss Doll—?who was anything but—?frowned as she slapped creamed potatoes next to the chicken dressing. “If it’d been my boy,” she said, “they wouldn’ta been able to keep me outta that casket. Shame how they ack’n like nothing happened. Like that boy just died from somp’n natra.” She tapped the spoon against the side of the pan to rid it of stuck-on potatoes. “Wadn’t his time,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t care what Rev’ren Blake say. Wadn’t his time.”
I stood beside them, as silent as a stump as I made sure that each person in the line received one, and only one, piece of Ma Pearl’s famous fried chicken.
“Humph,” Ma Pearl said. “That boy was a fool. That’s what got him kil’t.”
Miss Doll’s face tightened. “They didn’t hafta shoot him. Coulda jest warned him like they did Say-rah’s boy. You see how he got on outta here the next day. Caught the first bus to Memphis.”
Ma Pearl snorted. “Memphis ain’t no better. They killin’ niggas up there, too.” She gave me an evil look and said, “I bet’ not catch one of mine going down to the courthouse talk’n ’bout vot’n. They wouldn’t hafta wor’ ’bout the white man. I’d kill ’em with my own two hands.”
Miss Doll dipped the spoon into the mountain of potatoes and scooped up a helping. “I still don’t like how they ack like the boy just died from somp’n natra. He was shot,” she said bluntly. “How else they ’splain the bullet hole in his head?”
“If you ast me,” Ma Pearl said, “he already had a hole in his head. A whole lotta stupid.”
Miss Doll chortled. “Sweet, you sho’ is crazy.”
“Not half as crazy as these young folks,” Ma Pearl said. “I ain’t too happy ’bout the way things is myself. But they better than they used to be. And they sho’ ain’t worth gittin’ shot over.”
Miss Doll sighed. “Nah, they ain’t,” she said, shaking her head. “They sho’ ain’t.”
Ma Pearl groaned. “My name ain’t Jesus, and I ain’t ’bout to be nobody’s sacrificial lamb and find myself hanging from no dirn tree.”
I doubt there’s a tree limb in all of Mississippi strong enough to hold you, I said to myself.
“What’s so funny?” Ma Pearl said when she caught me grinning.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Then wipe that grin off yo’ face, ’fore I do it for you,” she said. “You jest left a fune’, not a dirn wedding.”
I pressed my lips together and concentrated on the chicken. But out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Miss Doll. She, too, was trying hard not to grin. I could only wonder what she might have been thinking.
“Psst,” came a soft voice from the back door. I turned and saw Hallelujah beckoning me with his finger.