The Sittin' Up by Shelia P. Moses Page A

mammy cried for almost a year when they sold him away to a plantation in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I reckon I was ’bout eight, but I remember real good.”
    â€œYou mean you never saw him again?”
    â€œNever. Massa Wiley’s money got low ’cause he had a bad cotton season that year. My pappy had been their blacksmith for so long that he wasn’t much good in the field. They sold him while my mammy was cooking supper at the big house that used to be right over yonder. When she got home, Pappy was gone.”
    â€œWhat happened to your ma?” I asked as I looked at the empty space where the big house once sat.
    â€œShe cried herself to death. Her heart broke in half. Yes, sir, my mammy went away from here the next year. I lived with my sisters and brothers till I married Celie Mae.”
    Mr. Bro. Wiley didn’t say nothing for a minute. His old black wrinkled face looked darker than ever.
    He stared at Ole River. The waves were big like Mr. Bro. Wiley said they get before a storm, but no storm was coming. That day the sky was bluer than I had ever seen it. Not one cloud, but the river was moving as if Ole River was talking back to him.
    â€œThere are things that don’t nobody but me, the Lord, and Ole River know.”
    Then Mr. Bro. Wiley helped me pull another big fish out of Ole River. He never looked at me. Not one time. He kept his eyes on the water. I reached over and touched him on the knee. I wanted him to know that I was there for him the way Ma said folk supposed to be when they love somebody.
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    I thought about all the good times we had together as my bathwater got cold. At least I had his mama’s picture to hold on to. I had his watch and the slave papers. I would surely take good care of his things.
    No sooner had I’d washed under my arms, Mama yelled from the kitchen again, “Bean, drag your water outside and dump it before folk start to come. Don’t nobody want to see your nasty bathwater.”
    â€œYes, Ma,” I answered. I finished washing up and put on my clothes. Then I drug the bathtub with wheels on it outside. After I dumped the water in the backyard under the pecan tree, I ran in the kitchen for supper.
    â€œStop that running, Bean,” Papa said while loading his plate with food. We had more food on the table than we’ve had all year. Mama didn’t seem to be looking, so I filled my plate with food too.
    â€œSlow down-down with your eating, boy. You gonna choke to death,” Papa said.
    â€œDon’t talk like that when you know Mr. Bro. Wiley is dead in the other room. That is downright disrespectful,” Ma said to Papa.
    â€œYou-you right, Wife.”
    â€œCan I be excused now?” I asked, swallowing my last piece of chicken.
    â€œWhat about dessert?” Ma asked.
    â€œI’ll eat dessert later.” She reached over and touched my forehead.
    â€œYou sick, Bean?”
    â€œI ain’t sick at all. I just want to go on the porch and wait for Pole.” I looked at Papa. He still hadn’t said a word about me and Pole peeping at Mr. Bro. Wiley.
    â€œGo ahead,” Ma said.
    Truth was I wanted to see who else was gonna bring sweets over. I knew it wasn’t right to lie like Uncle Goat. As soon as I thought about him, he came walking through the back door still dressed in his work clothes acting as if he didn’t know about the sittin’ up.
    â€œHey, Sister. Hey, Bean. Hey, Bro.” He gave Ma a big kiss.
    â€œHey, Brother.”
    â€œI heard tell two hundred folk coming tonight,” Uncle Goat said, grabbing a piece of chicken.
    â€œWash your hands, nasty.” Ma pushed her lying brother’s hand out of her chicken bowl. “And who in the Sam Hill told you two hundred people coming over here tonight?”
    â€œYeah, who-who, Goat?” Papa asked.
    â€œFolk in the ’bacco field said so today,” Uncle Goat said with his