The Return of Buddy Bush by Shelia P. Moses Page B

on his way to church. He is writing away on a piece of yellow paper.
    â€œWhat are you writing, sir?” I ask without thinking first.
    â€œA novel.”
    â€œYou mean like Mark Twain’s
Tom Sawyer
?”
    â€œNo, like Richard Wright.”
    â€œRichard Wright. Well, I never heard of him.”
    â€œLittle girl, you should know who RichardWright is if you know who Mark Twain is,” the shoeshine man says.
    â€œBut everyone read Mark Twain’s book,”
    â€œThat’s real good and they should. But every little black girl in Harlem reads Richard Wright’s books,”
    â€œWho is Richard Wright?”
    Now I know I said something stupid. The shoeshine man stop shining and the man in his chair stop smiling and look at me. He said:
    â€œ
I
am Richard Wright,”
    â€œYou mean, you are a real writer? Why sir, I didn’t know there were colored writers!”
    â€œWell, there are black writers and you should know all about them.”
    â€œThem. You mean there’s more than one?”
    â€œWhy, sure. There’s Langston Hughes, who lives right across the street. There’s Zora Hurston, who lives a few blocks away, and Dorothy West, too.”
    â€œWomen! Colored women writers?” I can’t believe what I am hearing.
    â€œYes, child. And you should know who the black writers are.”
    He is saying black, not colored. I’m not going to ever say colored again.
    â€œWell, I don’t know who the black writers are. Do you know who Buddy Bush is?”
    The shoeshine man stand up fast. “Girl, who are you and where did you come from?” he says.
    â€œSir, I’m from down South and I’m looking for Buddy Bush.”
    Mr. Wright don’t seem to know or care who we are talking about, but this shoeshine man definitely knows my uncle. He grabs my arm and pulls me around the side of the building.
    â€œChild, don’t you know better than to come around here asking about Buddy?”
    â€œBut I have to find him.”
    â€œFind him for what? Don’t you know the law is looking for him?”
    â€œYes, sir, that’s the reason I have to find him. I have to tell him that they caught the men who tried to hang him. I have to tell him that it’s okay to come home.”
    â€œHome! Child, what are you talking about? Harlem is Buddy’s home now. He can’t ever go down South again!”
    â€œBut he has to. Grandma wants him to come home.”
    â€œGrandma? You mean Miss Babe Jones?” Then he looks at me real hard. “Good God from Zion, you must be Pattie Mae Sheals!”
    The shoeshine man done forgot all about Mr. Wright. How on earth does this man know my name? He is hugging me so tight I can’t breathe.
    â€œDon’t be afraid, child. I’m Tom. I’m Mr. Charlie and Miss Doleebuck boy.”
    I just look at him. “But I know all of Mr. Charlie’s children,” I say. Then I remember the missing boy that ain’t been south of Baltimore since he left all them years ago.
    â€œAll but me. I don’t go down South for nothing. And I told Buddy to stay away from down there, but he would not listen. A colored man ain’t got no business south of Baltimore. None!”
    He looks sad as Mr. Wright comes around the corner to pay him two quarters.
    â€œI’ll see you next week, Tom, before I go back to Paris.”
    Paris! I almost fall on the ground. He lives in Paris, France. He just visiting New York. I’m going to ask Mr. Tom about that as soon as I find out where Uncle Buddy is.
    â€œYes sir, Mr. Wright. I will see you next time,” Mr. Tom thanks Mr. Wright and turns back to me. “Pattie Mae, go on home,”
    â€œNo, I can’t go home. Not until you tell me where my uncle is.”
    â€œLook! Go home. Come back tomorrow at the same time. Now, go!”
    I better do as I am told. If Mr. Tom knows Grandma got a telephone, he might call down there and