The Road to Memphis Read Online Free PDF Page A

ditch.”
    “Pair of mules or an engine. Thing is, though, I don’t see no mules, and I got no time to go fetchin’. Now, nigger, you do like I say.”
    The look in Stacey’s eyes hardened as he stared at Mr. Simms, but he said nothing. We all knew that there was little he couldsay, that for the most part, there could be no disputing white folks, despite their insults. If a person did, the repercussions could be terrifying.
    “Ain’t you heard me? Move!”
    In silence, Stacey turned and walked back to the car. Standing beside it, he took off his hat, his shirt, his shoes, his socks as well, and rolled up his pants.
    “Hell, boy, wh-what you doin’?” sputtered Mr. Simms.
    Stacey looked at him again and replied quietly, “Getting ready to get your truck out.” Returning to the truck, he handed the rope back to Mr. Simms. “But we won’t be using my car.” He glanced at the rest of us and stepped into the ditch. Willie, Clarence, Moe, and Little Man, too, all followed his lead. They took off their shirts and shoes and socks, rolled up their pants, and joined him. So did Jeremy. Then together they lifted the truck level to the road and pushed it out of the ditch. Mr. Simms stood aside, the rope in his hand, watching stone faced. Once the truck was back on the road, he got in without a word and tried to start it. At the first attempt, the truck sputtered and died. He tried again, and the engine roared to life. He barked for Jeremy to get in.
    “We thank y’all for what ya done,” Jeremy said.
    Stacey looked at him, glanced at Mr. Simms, and replied, “Well, that’s what neighbors do.”
    “Jeremy!”
    Jeremy looked around, left us with a nod, and got into the truck. Before the door was closed, Charlie Simms stomped on the gas and tore up the road toward Strawberry. He never even said a word of thanks. But that was the way of Charlie Simms. He had been that way for as long as we had known him. There was no changing him now, and we sure weren’tgoing to try. We weren’t going to worry about him either. The boys cleaned themselves up as best they could, put their shirts and shoes back on, and we again went on our way. It was too hot a day to worry about the likes of Charlie Simms. Besides, we had a fine new car to celebrate.

Friendships
    Moe Turner propped his arms on the wooden fence and stared out at the cotton field stretching flatly toward the woods that separated the Turner plot of farmland from the next plot over. Beyond the woods, beyond that next plot of land, vast acres of the Montier Plantation swept southward past Smellings Creek. Most of the Montier acreage was farmed by sharecropping families, folks like Moe’s family, who lived on the land and gave half or more of their crops to Mr. Joe Billy Montier for the right to farm his land.
    Standing there beside Moe, I noticed the frayed cuffs and collar of his shirt. The shirt had been perfectly clean before our run-in with the Simmses and their truck—Moe alwayskept his clothes clean; he washed and ironed them himself. The thing was, though, he never bought himself anything. All his money, except for rent money in Jackson and a few dollars for living up there, went straight to his father. He was the oldest of seven and he took that position seriously. I glanced into his face, noticed how proud he was of the cotton, and I propped my elbows on the fencing and stared out too. “It’s been a good crop,” I said.
    “Yeah,” Moe agreed. “Papa maybe even make a little something after he give Joe Billy Montier his half and pay the expenses.”
    “Hope so.”
    Moe sighed, his eyes still on the field. Then he turned, looking first at me, then over to where his widowed father stood by the Ford talking to Stacey, and Little Man strutted casually around the car, showing it off to Moe’s six younger brothers and sister. Little Willie and Clarence weren’t with them. We had already dropped them off. “That car of Stacey’s, it’s pretty nice, huh?”