Legend of Buddy Bush (9781439131824) by Shelia P. Moses Page B

to a nightmare. I put my jar under the bed. They talk. I sleep.

6
The Queen’s Chair
    I ’m not sure if anyone is getting any sleep tonight other than Grandma and me. She says the Lord is going to take care of this, and she gets up Saturday morning singing and getting ready to go to town. Grandpa says we should all stay home. But Grandma keeps on dressing and tells me to do the same.
    Not even Uncle Buddy’s troubles will stop Grandma from her Saturday ritual because somehow over the years, Grandma has managed to control Mr. Wilson, too. I think going in his store, bossing them white folks around, feels like justiceto my grandma. Justice for all the colored folks who don’t have the courage to do what she does every Saturday morning.
    Mr. Charlie comes for us at 10:00 just like he always does.
    â€œGood mornin’, Mr. Charlie.”
    â€œGood mornin’, Pattie. Good mornin’, Babe.”
    â€œMornin’, Charlie,” Grandma says, like it hurts her to talk.
    I help Grandma in the front seat of the car and close the door gently. I climb into the back right behind Mr. Charlie, so that we can talk. But he is too upset about Uncle Buddy to talk and he hardly says a word all the way to town.
    It’s really not far to Wilson’s Grocery in the heart of Main Street. But it always takes Mr. Charlie about twenty minutes every Saturday morning because he drives, as he puts it, at his own speed.
    The slower he drives, the sadder I become as I look out at cotton and the coloreds chopping it even on a Saturday morning. Then I remember what Grandpa told me last year when I was complaining about fieldwork. “Don’t let nothing thatyou can change worry you.” I know in my twelve-year-old heart that I will soon be leaving Rehobeth Road and the cotton fields forever, so no need to worry. But what about Uncle Buddy? We can’t change what’s happening to him. He’s just sitting in that jail. He don’t belong in no jail.
    When we get to Wilson’s Grocery, I open the door to the store for Grandma, and to my surprise, Mr. Wilson has already put a chair in the middle of the floor for Grandma to sit in. Usually, she will pull her own chair away from the table where the white men sit to play chess and talk all day. Mr. Wilson seems to really like Grandma and he lets her come in and rearrange his chairs every week. Uncle Buddy said all them white men are doing is sitting round that table calling us niggers. I told Uncle Buddy that I think Mr. Wilson really like Grandma, but he said Mr. Wilson don’t like nothing black, he just know that her bra is filled with green. Grandma walks over to that chair and sits down like she is a queen. Mr. Charlie comes in to buy some tobacco. He looks at her and shakes his head. “I’ll be back in two hours,” Mr. Charlieannounces, biting into a fresh piece of tobacco.
    I know he will have Miss Doleebuck with him when he gets back. He rarely drives the two controlling women to town together. He says they talk too much and try to tell him how to drive when they are together. I have taken that ride with him many Saturday mornings and he ain’t lying about them trying to tell him where to turn, how fast to go, and when to stop. It’s a mess. I’m telling you. It’s a mess.
    The minute Mr. Charlie walks out the door, Mr. Wilson come over with his first samples of meat for Grandma to pick from. She ain’t about to walk around the store like other customers. Mr. Wilson rolls back the wax paper enough for Grandma to see his prize meat.
    â€œHow do you like this piece of fatback, Miss Babe?” he ask, pointing at the biggest piece. She is shopping for meat for her and Ma. Ma tells her every week not to bring her nothing but chicken, but Grandma always add another meat using her bra money for Ma and me.
    Grandma studies all three pieces of fatback likethey are paintings in the state museum that our class went to last