“Of course not,” Monty answered. “But at least we could have made a case for it.”
“Every colored man in the county coulda been on the courthouse reg’stry as voters. Still wouldn’ta made a diff’rence,” said Papa.
“Will you even consider it, Mr. Carter?”
“Trying to git on the voting reg’ster?”
“Yes,” Monty said, nodding. “Signing up. Registering to vote.”
“Son, I have a family to provide for. Gittin’ shot down at the courthouse won’t put food on the table.”
Aunt Belle raised her head slightly. “How can anythinth chane if our people won’th voth?”
As the room went silent, I imagined Papa, aging and hunched over, walking up the courthouse steps in Greenwood. The next thing he knows, a bullet strikes him in the back. Then another. Then another. They keep hitting him, even after he has fallen and tumbled down the stairs.
“When I’m old enough, I’ll register to vote,” I said. Everyone stared at me, not saying a word. “Papa’s right. He has a family to take care of. He can’t take chances like that. It’s the young folks who have to take a stand while we can. Before we have families depending on us.”
When Monty smiled and said, “Good for you, Rose,” my heart melted. And it melted for two reasons. One, Monty was handsome and smart, and I was glad he was about to marry my favorite aunt. And two, I thought about Levi Jackson and how, simply because he wanted to vote, he was shot and killed. What if that happened to me and I never got a chance to even vote in the first place? What good was my name on some voters’ list if I was dead? Fear rose up in my throat at the thought of something so daring. Now I understood why folks were fleeing to the North rather than staying and fighting. Why die in Mississippi when you could live up north?
But everybody couldn’t leave, or wouldn’t—?like Papa, who seemed to be perfectly content with living and dying in Mississippi. I had never asked him before, but that moment seemed as good as any to pose the question.
“Papa, how come you didn’t leave?”
“Mississippi is home, daughter,” he said. “I’m a farmer. I loves the land. I loves the fresh air. My animals. The cotton.”
“Do you love working for that white man living in his mansion down the road?” Monty asked, his sarcasm lingering in the air again.
“Matter of fact, I do,” said Papa. “I loved working for his daddy, too. Every white person ain’t full o’ evil, son.”
I thought about the day after Levi’s death, when I went to the Robinsons’ and Mr. Robinson was hosting a meeting for the White Citizens’ Council. From what Hallelujah had told me about the group, how they wanted to make sure the government didn’t interfere with the way things were in Mississippi, I couldn’t help but side with Monty.
“I didn’t say he was evil,” Monty said. “But you have to agree that the living conditions are unfair.”
Papa raised his brows. “Who told you life was fair? You think ’cause a man don’t live in a mansion he can’t be happy? I never go to bed hungry, son. I ain’t never went without clothes on my back. And this roof over my head don’t leak. This furniture,” he said, gesturing around the room, “I didn’t pay a dime for it, but it sets as good as anything you can git in one of them catalogs lying there on the floor.”
Monty was silent.
“Mr. Robinson never done me no wrong, son,” Papa said quietly. “Neither his father. They were both good to me.”
Aunt Belle threw in her garbled two cents. “They oughth thue be. Everythinth they own is becauth of Negroes workin’ them fieldths.”
“Daughter, I ain’t complaining,” Papa said. “This is where the good Lord saw fit for Paul Elias Carter to be born, right here in Stillwater, Mississippi. He knowed I’d love the land before I was even here. He shaped me in my mother’s womb and fitted me to farm. And with that I’m happy. With that I’m content. Ain’t no shame in serving others.”
When nobody said anything else, Papa continued. “The minute I saw you,” he said to Aunt Belle, smiling, “I knowed you’d be like Isabelle. That’s why I wanted to call you Belle. Isabelle was never happy with the land. She hated the outdoors. She hated the fields. She wouldn’t even plant a garden or go fishin’. She loved taking care of the house. But she always wanted one of her own. A big one. The first chance she got, she caught that train to Saint Louis and took a job housekeeping for that old white man after his wife died. When he died, his chi’ren give that house to Isabelle. She made herself a living by opening that house up and serving others.”
Aunt Belle’s face hardened. “Doesth Mama know thath?”
Papa nodded. “She know.”