The Return of Buddy Bush by Shelia P. Moses

with cars passing. Don’t many cars come on Rehobeth Road, except for Mr. Charlie and folks that farming. White folks and Randy ride up and down Rehobeth Road all summer. Ole Man Taylor owns most ofRehobeth Road and he let Randy, who ain’t old enough to drive, do all of his driving. Of course you see the milkman. Other than that, you don’t see a soul from sunrise to sunset. But here in Harlem, cars are everywhere. Right in front of my eyes. It’s too many to count. But I better stop looking at these cars and pay attention to the street signs so that I will not get lost or worse. I might get hit by a car the way Flossie Mae’s brother, Wink, did last year.
    For the life of me, I can’t figure out how you get hit by a car on Rehobeth Road. You can hear a car coming a mile away because it’s so quiet around there. Mr. Bud was driving over to see Grandpa when Wink stepped out in front of his car and it knocked him clean into Mr. Bay’s cow pasture. He better be glad he wasn’t hurt too bad to run, because them bulls had started coming toward him. Old as Mr. Bud is, he jumped that fence and helped Wink out with a broken arm before the bulls broke all his bones. If that boy had not got out, his obituary would be in that chest on Jones Property too. Right beside the paper for Mr. Bud, who died last winter.
    First stop, a candy store.
    Everybody in here look like they know I’m from Rehobeth Road. They looking at me funny. Maybe they know Uncle Buddy. As soon as I pay for my candy, I’m going to ask the storekeeper about my uncle.
    â€œCan I help you, young lady?” the storekeeper asks when he see me looking in the glass case that is filled with candy and bubble gum.
    â€œYes, sir, I would like two chocolate drops.”
    â€œTwo chocolate drops it is. What a nice little voice. And just where are you from?”
    â€œNorth Carolina, sir.”
    â€œDon’t know why I asked. Your Southern drawl is a dead giveaway.”
    Oh, Lord, these city folks are a mess. He sounds like he from back of Grandpa’s field and he talking about
my
accent.
    â€œWhere you from, sir?”
    â€œSouth Carolina.”
    He got some nerves. I saw South Carolina on a map at school and accordingly to that map South Carolina is farther south than North Carolina. ButI will just let him think he sounds citified.
    â€œDo you know a man named Goodwin Bush?” I ask.
    He stop dead in his tracks.
    â€œWhat you doing asking about Buddy child?”
    He knows my uncle.
    â€œWell, I read about him in the paper and I just wanted to know if you know him.”
    â€œEveryone in Harlem know Buddy. And we know what them white folks down home tried to do to him. So don’t you go asking a bunch of folks around here about Buddy unless you want to get yourself in a world of trouble. White folks looking for him and I don’t want no problems in my store.”
    â€œBut I ain’t white, sir.”
    â€œDon’t make no difference. We don’t talk about Buddy here in Harlem. And don’t you back talk me. Now run along.”
    â€œYes, sir.” I pay for my candy and get out of his store.
    This is going to be harder than I thought. But one thing I know for sure now. Uncle Buddy ishere in Harlem. If he was not here, why would that man act like that? They are hiding Uncle Buddy from the law.
    Maybe if I walk a little farther, I will ask someone else. Maybe I will run into someone with a big mouth and they will tell me everything I need to know. I’m not getting very far because I have to stop and look in every store window. It is something to see, all right. One store has clothes hanging in the window on big dolls. The prettiest dresses I have ever seen. Well, maybe not as pretty as the dresses that Grandma makes. Her dresses got love in them.
    My Lord, I believe a colored person own this dress store. ’Cause ain’t nothing in there but colored folks.
    Reckon its true