“You going to the evening church service with us? We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
“Not this time, Daddy. My head is still aching, so I think I just need to lie here and take it easy.” I rubbed the side of my head.
“And it’s going to keep on hurting if you don’t take some pills.”
“I’ll take some before I go to sleep.”
Daddy turned to leave, and then he snapped his fingers. “I forgot the real reason I came in here. Mother’s going to Mobile tomorrow morning with Maxine Fisher to do some shopping and she’ll be gone most of the day. If you ain’t got no plans for lunch tomorrow and that headache is gone, I’ll swing by the school around noon to pick you up and we can go to Mosella’s. Monday is the only day peach cobbler is on the menu, and I been dying for some.”
“You don’t have to drive all the way from the store to pick me up. That’s out of your way. One of the other aides has an appointment with her doctor in the same block, so I can ride with her and have her drop me off at the store. I need to pick up a few items anyway.”
“That’ll work,” Daddy said, rubbing his chest. “I’ll see you around noon then?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
It was still light outside, but I went to bed anyway. Each day I slept more than I needed and wished I could sleep even more. At least then I wouldn’t have to talk to people and walk around with a fake smile on my face.
Chapter 2
Odell
I WAS SO ANXIOUS TO GET BACK TO WORK, I COULDN’T WAIT FOR TOMORROW to come. I’d only been on my new job at MacPherson’s for a week. It was a dyed-in-the-wool country convenience store with benches inside for people to sit on when they needed to take a break from their shopping. Regular customers could expect a complimentary pig foot or some lip-smacking pork rinds on certain days. I could already tell that this was the best job I ever had. It was a nice family-friendly business, and I was really looking forward to the experience, especially since I’d be working for colored folks. Mr. MacPherson didn’t pay me that much to start, but as long as it covered my rent I didn’t care. I was a born hustler, so I knew I’d find ways to cover my other expenses once I got a toehold on my new situation. Stocking shelves was much better than dragging along on farms and other odd jobs I’d done all my life. The small building where MacPherson’s was located sat on a corner next to a bait shop. There was a sign printed in all capital letters in the front window that said: WE SELL EVERYTHING FROM APRONS TO MENS’ PINSTRIPE SUITS. But they never had more than six or seven of each item in stock at a time. When inventory got low, the MacPhersons immediately replenished everything and gave their customers discounts when they had to wait on a certain item. The customers were happy because this kind of service kept them from having to make the eight-mile trip to nearby Butler where there was a Piggly Wiggly market and much bigger department stores.
People kept complaining about the Great Depression we was going through, but it didn’t even faze me. Like almost every other colored person, I couldn’t tell the difference because we’d been going through a “depression” all our lives. Some of the white folks who used to have enough money to shop at the better stores started shopping at MacPherson’s. On my first day, me and Mr. MacPherson had to help a nervous blond woman haul a box of canned goods, some cleaning products, produce, toys, and even a few clothes to her car. The whole time she’d belly-ached to him about what a disgrace it was to her family that they had to shop where all the colored people shopped, something she’d never done before. In the next breath, she complimented him on how “happy-go-lucky” he was for a colored man, and because of that he was “a credit to his race.”
One of the things I noticed right away was how loosey-goosey the MacPhersons ran their business. Like a lot of folks, they didn’t trust banks, especially since so many people had lost every cent and all the property they owned when the banks failed. One of the richest white families I used to pick cotton for had ended up flat broke and had to move to a tent city campground with other displaced families.
Preston “Mac” MacPherson and his wife, Millie, only kept enough in their checking account to cover their employees’ checks and to pay their business expenses. I’d found that out from Buddy Armstrong, the tubby, fish-eyed head cashier and the nosiest, grumpiest, and biggest blabbermouth elderly man I’d ever met. The other cashier, a pint-sized, plain-featured, widowed great-grandmother named Sadie Mae Glutz was almost as bad as Buddy.
On my first day, they’d started running off at the mouth before the first morning break, telling me all kinds of personal things about people I had never met. Buddy and Sadie was good entertainment, so I pretended to be interested in their gossip and even egged them on. The MacPhersons were their favorite target. Even though it was supposed to be a company “secret,” they wasted no time telling me that Mr. MacPherson kept most of his money locked up in his house. At the end of each day he’d pluck all the cash out of the two cash registers and stuff it into a brown paper bag.
“I hope that information don’t get to the wrong person. I’d hate to hear about some joker busting into that house robbing such a nice elderly couple,” I said.
“You ain’t got to worry about nothing like that. Mac keeps a shotgun in the house,” Buddy assured me.
“I hope he
