The Sittin' Up by Shelia P. Moses

yelled.
    â€œBye, Bean. I’ll be back.”
    Papa didn’t say a word to Ma about me and Pole peeping in the window. Maybe he didn’t want to upset her. She didn’t look as sad. That nap did her some good. I started bathing for the sittin’ up ’cause I knew our house would be chockablock full soon enough. There had been talk all week ’bout how many folk from Occoneechee Neck and Bone Town were coming over to see Mr. Bro. Wiley. Not to mention all the folk from Rehoboth Road and Bryantown Road. I knew for sure that Cousin Braxton and Cousin Babe were coming with their daughter, Cousin Mer. Cousin Mer had three children, Coy, Barb Jean, and the youngest, Pattie Mae.
    Cousin Braxton’s grandchildren never missed school because he moved out of the Low Meadows long before they was born. Mr. Bro. Wiley said Cousin Braxton was a smart man like Mr. Creecy and Mr. Gordon without all the degrees. Just common sense in his head.
    â€œThat Braxton Jones is a man,” Mr. Bro. Wiley told me and Pole.
    â€œWhy is that?” Pole asked as she always did when she wanted the long version of what Mr. Bro. Wiley was saying.
    â€œBraxton said, ‘No grandchild of mine will miss school to sharecrop. Let the white folk keep their own children home from school,’” Mr. Bro. Wiley confided. “So Braxton purchased him a backhoe and two mules. He started to rent land from white folk and buy his own seed. That way the children didn’t have to work for nobody but him.”
    â€œDo you think my daddy and Mr. Stanbury smart too?” Pole asked.
    â€œSho’ I do. They ain’t as old as Braxton. Life teached him more.”
    A thousand feelings were in my heart about Cousin Braxton and all the other menfolk that Mr. Bro. Wiley told us about. I felt bad knowing how much they had suffered for us children to have a better life.
    Of course Ma interrupted my thoughts.
    â€œBean, are you taking your bath?” she yelled from the kitchen loud enough to wake the dead. Loud enough to wake Mr. Bro. Wiley.
    â€œI’m bathing, Ma,” I said.
    I kept on sitting in the silver washtub and thought about my old friend. I thought about how much I really did love him. He was mighty good to me.
    Sometimes on Saturday evening while Pole was sewing with the womenfolk, me and Mr. Bro. Wiley would stay down at Ole River until the sun faded away. We would do us some fishing and talking.
    â€œHold your pole tight, boy,” Mr. Bro. Wiley said the last time we were at the river together. I had a big catfish waiting on the other end of the line.
    â€œI got it, Mr. Bro. Wiley. I got it.” Before I could say another word that fish had yanked me halfway in the water.
    â€œYou got it, huh?” Mr. Bro. Wiley laughed as I finally pulled our dinner into the grass.
    I would never tell Papa, but I liked going fishing with Mr. Bro. Wiley a lot more than I did with him. Mr. Bro. Wiley could catch a tin tub full of fish and Papa could only catch about five. That’s all—five.
    It wasn’t just the fishing that made me want to sit at Ole River. It was the stories Mr. Bro. Wiley used to tell. He told me all about being a slave when he was a little boy. Mr. Bro. Wiley’s sad childhood made me appreciate living in the Low Meadows. At least we were free people. We might have been poor, but we were free.
    â€œBean, I done lived back here all my life. My papa was a blacksmith for Mr. Thomas’s papa’s pappy. It was his job to shoe all the horses. I helped him many a day and night. I would hold the nails in a tin cup while he put the new shoes on. When we weren’t making horseshoes for the Wileys, they would send us into town to work for the other white folk. We could build fences and take care of their horses. They would pay Massa Wiley, but we never saw a dime of that money.”
    â€œWhat happened to your daddy?” I asked Mr. Bro. Wiley.
    â€œI just remember my