“Just One Family Tree”

By Wayne McCray

Just One Family Tree

Multiple gunshots echoed. Faces sprung up and outward from cotton fields and row houses. Hearing such blasts so close to where they lived was unordinary. Many halted what they were doing to go investigate. Those having sharp eyes saw a small crowd circling something laying on the gravel road. Upon closer look, what could've been mistaken for an animal was instead a man. He laid there pleading, then he died.

His mae culpa was unpersuasive. Those standing over him became malicious. Spats of tobacco chew landed on him. Many smiled while others cursed. Some turned out his pockets. All the rest were wide-eyed, looking at the shooter, listening to why the old lady had done it. She told her grandson to go fetch the law. Now he didn’t go directly to the police station. That was too far. Two neighbor's houses were chosen instead. Mrs. Pearl who had telephone and Mr. Freeman; he owned a rundown box van. The old lady was well aware that it should take him about an hour to go there and back. He had to run almost a mile. Most of it through considerable pine forests.  

His first stop was made and pretty soon he reached his second and began knocking on the backdoor. Ms. Pearl flung it open and an exhausted black boy stood before her. Mercury wasn't invited inside, but was told to get hold of himself. Once he caught his breath he told her who sent him and for what. And after he delivered the message she shut the door on him, prompting him to whisperly curse her before hurrying off.

Night soon fell. A bright moon had lit up the darkness. Soon a police car parked itself in front of the roadkill. Two country cops got out and walked up to the body. One officer knelt down, while his partner stood beside him, giving his two cents, taking notice of the victim's overall look, but once the body was rolled over and its face shown itself they gasped. It was Smoke Joe. Mr. Pennybaker's right arm and personal eyes and ears. A prized man who managed multiple plantations and all the sharecroppers who worked them. Smoke Joe was excellent at his job and did it so well he rubbed people wrongly. However, his rash tactics made his family wealthy landowners and community bigshots.

This death changed both officers' moods. Neither expected to find a dead somebody; however, both began wondering what fool would be so dumb and bold to commit such a violent act. They radioed back then began canvassing, banging on doors, on assumptions that someone should've known and seen or heard what happened and when. But after lengthy questioning one thing became apparent: all of them suffered from monkey wisdom.

Sirens blared in the distance. Moments later an ambulance had arrived. Another vehicle was behind it. It was Mr. Pennybaker. He jumped out and hurried over, bending down to confirm his fears, and his face instantly reflected how he felt, becoming sullen. He gently brushed the deceased's curly hair with his hand and kissed his nordic face before watching his body get carted off. He quickly wanted to know what info they had and when they replied very little, it didn't sit well with him, and he told them so. "Knock on them again. The sonofabitch who did it is here and I want him by tomorrow, if not sooner, and alive."

News spread and before sunrise came random acts of violence and intimidation began against those living there. Drive-by shootings occurred. Molotovs followed. A porch bomb. Piked shrunken heads were posted. Finally, a flaming cross had been hoisted. Monkey rules wavered after that and another messenger bravely went out. That morning a fancy black car rode up, rejecting the dust that tried landing on it. It shone bright and clean. An opulent put-together woman got out and began looking around at what wrath had wrought then went toward a short old lady who was sitting on the front porch, adorned in her Sunday best, and singing a spiritual.

"Morning Pirine," she greeted.

The old lady replied, "Morning Salt."

"Here I am," she told her. "So whodunit? "Ms. Pearl phoned, she said that you asked for me personally."

"I did," she responded, then sat up, drew a kitchen knife and fisted it. Soon there were tiny blood droplets. Then she held it out, wanting her to do likewise.

"What for?" She stirred. "This isn't a family matter. That vow isn't for this; however, I am here seeking a life for my son's life."

"I know that," Pirine reminded. "Now if you want what you came for then swear to it and promise harm will only befall the killer and not the family," she continued, "So until we come to that understanding you drove out here for nothing." There was some hesitancy at first but finally Salt did it and they shook hands.

"Satisfied," she said. "Now tell me, whodunit?"

"I did it," Pirine admitted.

Her answer pushed Salt back, briefly off the porch, that's when she debated reneging her oath, becoming radish color and menacing, pondering if she should gut her right then.

"I said I killed him."

"For what?" She hollered, "What had he done to you?"

"He became a typical nigger," the old lady replied, leaning forward. "I caught that son of yours shaking the wrong tree."

"He wouldn't do such a thing," his mother insinuated. "He knew better."

"So you say?" Pirine denied. "I told him often to keep his fixation to himself and stop cradle courting. But no, not him. It went into one ear and out the other. So he got slick, or thought he had, by being all nice and shit, in getting Rene out of the fields and far from us and back into school. I had no problem with that. All of us knew it was the best thing for her, because she disliked physical labor anyhow. Along with its imagery of having calloused hands, burnt skin, and arthritic body. She'd rather commit random acts of sabotage than do real work. To her, fieldwork was an obscene business. Truth be told, she was horrible at it. She couldn't pick fifty pounds of cotton if given a full sack. Her brother did her work for her, stuffing her sack with what he picked, to help keep her close to the group and far from Smoke Joe. Otherwise, she'd spend most of her time scribbling numbers and letters and symbols in the dirt. Her mind dreamed only of math and such a gift should be as far from this place as possible and beyond your son's reach.

"So yesterday, it looked and smelled like rain; but none fell. As soon as sunlight broke through the cloudy sky, I felt a sudden prick, then I heard God and was told to get home and be quick about it. School was out and the earth had swallowed Smoke Joe. So I ran across that field as fast as I could and when I got there Rene wasn't on the front porch, so I went inside. Her books sat on the kitchen table. The front room was empty. Middle room too. Then I heard some low sounds in the backroom and headed there and what did I find? The damn devil at work. Smoke Joe laying atop thrashing legs, holding a feather pillow over her face. I ran up and hit him with all I had left. Hard enough to force him off of her and for her to escape into another room. He felt his head, spun around in shock, wondering who dared hit him. He rose up and knocked me down, hovering, threatening I shouldn't believe my lying eyes. That I had better keep it to myself if I knew what was best.

"I've lived a long time dealing with such foul behavior, of men having their way. As soon as he took his weight off my chest, I got up and reached under my mattress for the gun but it wasn't there. Rene had gotten hold of it and had him in her sights, telling him what he could do with himself. He tried talking to her at first, but once that hammer clicked, and her face became brave, his feet raced down that narrow hallway. She shot him twice before he reached the front door. After that, I did what I had to do. I took the gun from her and told her to go get her mother and brother and pack, they needed to leave town as soon as possible and before nightfall. Because anytime we do what's right, particularly against those who get caught doing wrong, excuses flow, scapegoats arise, and things quickly go off the rails and nothing and nobody is safe.

"To say differently would be a lie, because you're here, and being from the same family tree, we both were brought up knowing to do what's best for our children, that our branch should have branches, and spread long after we're dead and gone. And now that God has kindly blessed this family with his brilliance, I'm not letting such talent whither on the vine. She's but a child, bright and smart, and not a grown ass woman, regardless of how mature she looks. Yet, your son tried taking her innocence and future and got what he deserved.

"So there, straight from my mouth, and not someone else's. Now let's keep it simple. I don't want any pretended niggers in dunce caps having fun at my expense. Nothing worse than folks masking themselves, believing if they look and do as the others do is far favorable than the alternative. I seek to avoid that kind of hatred. Just do what I ask, do what we shook on, and let my branch thrive. And Salt, please accept my apology." Pirine sat up in the chair, bracing herself. "I'm ready. It's on the kitchen table."

Salt entered the shack, returned, then shot her, causing her to fall back, out of the chair, and off the porch. She went around and unloaded again. Then she stood there: "That's for my son and of course I wish your family well," and departed. Before she got into her car, she told all within earshot to give Pirine, her big sister, a proper funeral. Burn her so her soul could rise up. It was unfit for a tree, and she began crying and drove off.

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Wayne McCray was born in East St. Louis, Illinois, in 1965, and grew up in Chicago until 1984. He attended Southern University A and M College in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He currently lives in Itta Bena, Mississippi, enjoying country life. His writings have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, The Bookends Review, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, and Wingless Dreamer.