and backhoes tomorrow, and they’ll start work the day after. He’s dead-set on bringing those houses down.”
Chapter 7
Lillian gave out a low moan and leaned against me, as a chorus of anguished cries and calls to Jesus rose from the congregation. Sam walked down the aisle toward the reverend, touching Lillian’s shoulder as he passed our pew.
“Reverend,” Sam said, nodding to him. Then he turned to face us, holding up his hands for quiet. “Folks, let me talk to you a minute. I’ve tried everything I know to get Mr. Gibbs to delay clearing that property, but he says he’s waited long enough. He wants you all out by tomorrow. Now, wait,” he cautioned, as several people began to cry out again, and some moved toward the aisles to leave. “There’s nothing you can do tonight, but we do need to talk about what you’re going to do tomorrow.”
The Reverend Abernathy started shaking his head. “This just bad doin’s, Mr. Sam. Where these poor souls gonna go? All us here at the church been tryin’ to find places for ’em to move to, but they few and far between.”
“First of all,” Sam said, as I marvelled that he was able to speak in such sensible terms. In fact, I was beginning to feel quite proud of his grasp of the situation. “I might’ve been able to get an injunction against that eviction order, if there’d been enough time. But even if we’d started earlier, it would’ve been a long shot. As you know, sentiment in this county is pretty strong on property owners’ rights. I’ve tried appealing to Gibbs’s sense of community responsibility, but I’ll be honest with you; I didn’t get very far.”
“Oh, Lawd,” one old man quavered. “Can’t somebody do something?”
Sam shook his head. “If I’d had more time . . . maybe we could’ve done something. As it is now, Gibbs is making plans to put up a water-bottling plant on the site.”
“A water plant!” a voice called out, echoing my thought. What in the world would Clarence Gibbs do with a water plant?
“Water- bottling plant,” Sam clarified. “Seems he’s found a spring up on the ridge that he thinks has commercial possibilities.”
One man—it might have been Mr. Wills—started laughing, and he kept on at it so long that it began to infect the rest of us, a welcome relief from the rampant sadness. “Mr. Sam,” he finally managed to get out as he struggled to his feet, “They been stories ’bout that ole spring ever since I was a boy, an’ long before that. My granddaddy used to go get him a sip ever’ now an’ again, but too much of it’ll fly back on you. I could tell some stories, uh-huh, I could. It strong stuff, so just a taste be all a man need to keep on a-goin’ strong, don’t matter how old he is. It keep on buildin’ up his strength. ’Scuse me, ladies, I jus’ tellin’ what I heard. Never tried it myself. Never had no need to.”
He sat down, still chuckling to himself. But another man chimed in. “I heard them tales, too, an’ lots of people b’lieve ’em. You reckon he make a go of it, Mr. Sam?”
“Sounds pretty risky to me,” Sam said, smiling. “I wouldn’t want to invest in it.”
Lillian leaned over and whispered to me. “I heard ’bout that spring, an’ ever’ man here an’ a lot more’s tried it out, I don’t care what they say.”
Hazel Marie leaned across me to ask, “Does it work?”
“Nobody say it do, an’ nobody say it don’t,” Lillian said, covering her mouth to hide a smile. “They jus’ so tired from trompin’ ’round up on that ridge, they have to lay down an’ rest when they get back.”
A heavy-set woman stood up, ignoring the laughter around her. “Well,” she said, her flower-laden hat quivering on her head. “All this talk ’bout springwater’s not helpin’ us right now. Don’t look like nobody care but us.”
“I wouldn’t care myself, if I didn’t live there,” the woman with the walker said. “Them houses oughtta come down
Chapter 7
Lillian gave out a low moan and leaned against me, as a chorus of anguished cries and calls to Jesus rose from the congregation. Sam walked down the aisle toward the reverend, touching Lillian’s shoulder as he passed our pew.
“Reverend,” Sam said, nodding to him. Then he turned to face us, holding up his hands for quiet. “Folks, let me talk to you a minute. I’ve tried everything I know to get Mr. Gibbs to delay clearing that property, but he says he’s waited long enough. He wants you all out by tomorrow. Now, wait,” he cautioned, as several people began to cry out again, and some moved toward the aisles to leave. “There’s nothing you can do tonight, but we do need to talk about what you’re going to do tomorrow.”
The Reverend Abernathy started shaking his head. “This just bad doin’s, Mr. Sam. Where these poor souls gonna go? All us here at the church been tryin’ to find places for ’em to move to, but they few and far between.”
“First of all,” Sam said, as I marvelled that he was able to speak in such sensible terms. In fact, I was beginning to feel quite proud of his grasp of the situation. “I might’ve been able to get an injunction against that eviction order, if there’d been enough time. But even if we’d started earlier, it would’ve been a long shot. As you know, sentiment in this county is pretty strong on property owners’ rights. I’ve tried appealing to Gibbs’s sense of community responsibility, but I’ll be honest with you; I didn’t get very far.”
“Oh, Lawd,” one old man quavered. “Can’t somebody do something?”
Sam shook his head. “If I’d had more time . . . maybe we could’ve done something. As it is now, Gibbs is making plans to put up a water-bottling plant on the site.”
“A water plant!” a voice called out, echoing my thought. What in the world would Clarence Gibbs do with a water plant?
“Water- bottling plant,” Sam clarified. “Seems he’s found a spring up on the ridge that he thinks has commercial possibilities.”
One man—it might have been Mr. Wills—started laughing, and he kept on at it so long that it began to infect the rest of us, a welcome relief from the rampant sadness. “Mr. Sam,” he finally managed to get out as he struggled to his feet, “They been stories ’bout that ole spring ever since I was a boy, an’ long before that. My granddaddy used to go get him a sip ever’ now an’ again, but too much of it’ll fly back on you. I could tell some stories, uh-huh, I could. It strong stuff, so just a taste be all a man need to keep on a-goin’ strong, don’t matter how old he is. It keep on buildin’ up his strength. ’Scuse me, ladies, I jus’ tellin’ what I heard. Never tried it myself. Never had no need to.”
He sat down, still chuckling to himself. But another man chimed in. “I heard them tales, too, an’ lots of people b’lieve ’em. You reckon he make a go of it, Mr. Sam?”
“Sounds pretty risky to me,” Sam said, smiling. “I wouldn’t want to invest in it.”
Lillian leaned over and whispered to me. “I heard ’bout that spring, an’ ever’ man here an’ a lot more’s tried it out, I don’t care what they say.”
Hazel Marie leaned across me to ask, “Does it work?”
“Nobody say it do, an’ nobody say it don’t,” Lillian said, covering her mouth to hide a smile. “They jus’ so tired from trompin’ ’round up on that ridge, they have to lay down an’ rest when they get back.”
A heavy-set woman stood up, ignoring the laughter around her. “Well,” she said, her flower-laden hat quivering on her head. “All this talk ’bout springwater’s not helpin’ us right now. Don’t look like nobody care but us.”
“I wouldn’t care myself, if I didn’t live there,” the woman with the walker said. “Them houses oughtta come down
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