"Why not!" I asked angrily. "She made me apologize to that ole ugly Lillian Jean 'bout something wasn't even my fault. She took them ole Simmses' side without even hearing mine."

The ride home was long and silent. None of us felt like talking, not even T. J. Big Ma had informed him shortly after leaving Strawberry that she did not want to hear another word out of him before we reached home. He sulked for a while with a few audible grumbles which no one paid any attention to, but finally he fell asleep and did not awaken until we had driven up the Granger road and stopped in front of the Avery house.

By the time Jack pulled into our own yard, the night was a thick blackness and smelled strongly of a coming rain. Big Ma climbed wearily down from the wagon and went into the house without a word, I stayed with Stacey to help him put the wagon inside the barn and unhitch and feed Jack. While I held the flashlight on the barn doors, Stacey slowly slid aside the plank of wood that held the doors fastened. "Cassie," he said, in a quiet, thoughtful voice, "don't go blaming Big Ma for what she done."

"And I s'pose you do, huh! Ever since you went down into Louisiana to get Papa last summer you think you know so doggone much! Well, I betcha I know one thing. If that had been Papa, he wouldn't've made me apologize! He would've listened to me!"

Stacey put the plank on the ground and leaned against the barn. "There's things you don't understand. Cassie --"

His voice trailed off as he peered into the barn. Suddenly he cried. "Cassie, give me that flashlight!" Then, before I could object. he tore the flashlight from my hand and shone it into the barn.

"What's Mr. Granger's car doing in our barn!" I exclaimed as the silver Packard was unveiled by the light. Without answering me, Stacey swiftly turned and ran toward the house. I followed closely behind. Throwing open the door to Mama's room, we stood dumbfounded in the doorway. Instead of Mr. Granger, a tall, handsome man, nattily dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and vest, stood by the fire with his arm around Big Ma. For a moment we swayed with excitement, then as if by signal we both cried, "Uncle Hammer!" and dashed into his arms.

"Had to do it!" I practically screamed, "She didn't have to do nothin'! She's grown just like that Mr. Simms and she should've stood up for me. I wouldn't've done her that way."

"Well, maybe she couldn't help it, Cassie. Maybe she had to do it."

Stacey sighed and swung open the barn doors."Well. Papa… that's different. Bur Big Ma ain't Papa and you can't expect…"

"Uncle Hammer's!" Stacey exclaimed, exchanging shocked glances with me. "No kidding!"

Uncle Hammer smiled a strange, wry smile. "Well, not exactly like it, Mama. Mine's a few months newer. Last year when I come down here, I was right impressed with that big ole Packard of Mr. Harlan Filmore Granger's and I thought I'd like to own one myself. It seems that me and Harlan Granger just got the same taste." He winked slyly at Stacey. "Don't it, Stacey!"

"That's your Uncle Hammer's car," Mama said. "Did you unhitch Jack!"

Uncle Hammer was two years older than Papa and, un- married, he came every winter to spend the Christmas sea- son with us. Like Papa, he had dark, red-brown skin, a square-jawed face, and high cheekbones; yet there was a great difference between them somehow. His eyes, which showed a great warmth as he hugged and kissed us now, often had a cold, distant glaze, and there was an aloofness in him which the boys and I could never quite bridge, When he let us go, Stacey and I both grew consciously shy, and we backed away. I sat down beside Christopher- John and Little Man, who were silently gazing up at Uncle Hammer, but Stacey stammered, "Wh-what's Mr. Granger's car doing in our barn!"

Big Ma stammered, "Hammer, you -- you went and got a car like Harlan Granger's!"

"You like, maybe we'll all go riding in it one day. If it's all right with your mama."

Stacey grinned.

Since no one told me to help Stacey, I forgot all about Jack and settled back to listen to Uncle Hammer. Christopher-John and Little Man, who Big Ma had feared would be moping because they had not been allowed to go to town, seemed not at all concerned that Stacey and I had gone. They were awestruck by Uncle Hammer, and compared to his arrival a day in Strawberry was a minor matter.

"You mean it, Uncle Hammer!" I asked. "Mama, can we!"

"We'll see," Mama said. "But in any case, not tonight. Stacey, go take care of Jack and draw up a bucket of water for the kitchen. We've done the other chores."

"Oh, boy!" cried Little Man.

For a while Uncle Hammer talked only to Mama and Big Ma, laughing from deep down inside himself like Papa, but then to my surprise he turned from them and addressed me. "I understand you had your first trip to Strawberry today, Cassie," he said. "What did you think!"

Big Ma stiffened, but I was pleased to have this opportunity to air my side of the Strawberry affair. "I didn't like it," I said. "Them ole Simmses -

As Mama stood up, I started again. "Them ole Simmses --"

"Oh, I don't mind," said Mama, heading for the kitchen. "Go ahead, Cassie, and tell your uncle about Strawberry."

"Yessir," I said softly, wondering why he was laughing.

Uncle Hammer laughed. "You told him that i"

"Yes, ma'am," said Mama standing. "I'll set it on the table for you."

"Cassie!" Big Ma exclaimed, hearing this bit of news for the first time.

"That ole Lillian Jean Simms made me so mad I could just spit. I admit that I bumped into her, but that was 'cause I was thinking 'bout that ole Mr. Barnett waiting on everybody else in his ole Store 'fore he waited on us --"

I looked strangely at Big Ma, then up at Mama.

Big Ma nodded mutely, and I went on. "But I told him he shouldn't've been 'round there waiting on everybody else 'fore he got to us --"

"Let Cassie get it, Mary." said Big Ma nervously. "You must be tired."

"Jim Lee Barnett!" asked Uncle Hammer, "turning toward Big Ma. That ole devil still living!"

"Mary, I feel a bit hungry," Big Ma interrupted abruptly. "Supper still warm!"

His dark eyes had narrowed to thin, angry slits. He said; "He knocked you off the sidewalk, Cassie! A grown man knocked you off the sidewalk?"

"Oh, that's great! Then what happened!"

"Stacey made me leave and Mr. Barnett told me I couldn't come back no more and then I bumped into that confounded Lillian Jean and she tried to make me get off the sidewalk and then her daddy come along and he --"

Big Ma's eyes grew large and she whispered hoarsely, "Cassie, I don't think --"

This Lillian Jean Simms, her daddy wouldn't be Charlie Simms. would it!"

"Y-yessir."

Uncle Hammer grasped my shoulders. "What else he do to you!"

"-- and he twisted my arm and knocked me off the side- walk!" I exclaimed, unwilling to muffle what Mr. Simms had done. I glanced triumphantly at Big Ma, but she wasn't looking at me. Her eyes, frightened and nervous, were on Uncle Hammer. I turned and looked at him too.

"Y-yessir."

"N-nothin'." I said, frightened by his eyes. "Cepting he wanted me to apologize to Lillian Jean 'cause I wouldn't get in the road when she told me to."

"Big Ma said I had to."

"Not hurt! You look into her eyes and tell me she ain't hurt!"

"And you did?"

"Charlie Simms knocked Cassie off the sidewalk in Straw- berry and the child just told Hammer," said Big Ma in one breath, still holding on to Uncle Hammer's arm.

Uncle Hammer released me and sat very still. No one said a word. Then he stood slowly, his eyes icing into that cold distant way they could, and he started toward the door, limping slightly on his left leg. Christopher-John. Little Man, and I stared after him wonderingly, but Big Ma jumped up from her chair, knocking it over in her haste, and dashed after him. She grabbed his arm. "Let it be, son!" she cried. "That child ain't hurt!"

Mama came back from the kitchen with Stacey behind her. "What is it!" she asked, looking from Big Ma to Uncle Hammer.

"Oh, Lord," Mama groaned. "Stacey, get Mr. Morrison. Quick, now!" As Stacey sped from the room, Mama's eyes darted to the shotgun over the bed, and she edged between it and Uncle Hammer. Uncle Hammer was watching her and he said quietly, "Don't worry. I ain't gotta use David's gun… I got my own."

Little Man, Christopher-John, and I dashed to the door as Big Ma and Mama ran after him. "Get back inside," Mama called over her shoulder, but she was too busy trying to grab Uncle Hammer to see to it that we obeyed, and we did not move. "Hammer, Cassie's all right," she cried. "Don't go making unnecessary trouble!"

Suddenly Mama lunged to the side door, blocking it with her slender body. "Hammer, now you listen to me --"

Mama and Big Ma could not keep him from reaching the car. But just as the Packard roared to life, a huge figure loomed from the darkness and jumped into the other side, and the car zoomed angrily down the drive into the black- ness of the Mississippi night.

But Uncle Hammer gently but firmly pushed her to one side and, brushing Big Ma from his arm, opened the door and bounded down the steps into the light rain.

"Unnecessary trouble! You think my brother died and I got my leg half blown off in their German war to have some red-neck knock Cassie around anytime it suits him! If I'd've knocked his girl down, you know what'd've happened to me! Yeah, you know all right. Right now I'd be hanging from that oak over yonder. Let go of me, Mary."

"He's not going anywhere," Mama said, stepping aside and waiting until both Big Ma and Stacey were inside; then she locked the door.

"If he don't," said Little Man ominously, "I betcha Uncle Hammer'll teach that ole Mr. Simms a thing or two. 'Round here hitting on Cassie,"

"Mr. Morrison'll bring him back," said Christopher-John confidently, although he looked somewhat bewildered by all that had happened.

"Where'd he gel" I asked as Mama slowly climbed the steps. Her face under the glow of the lamp was tired, drained. "He went up to the Simmses", didn't he! Didn't he, Mama?"

"I hope he knocks his block off," I said.

"No, ma'am, Mama, we ain't --"

Mama's gaze blazed down upon us. "I think little mouths that have so much to say must be very tired."

"Go to bed."

"Mama, it ain't but --" Mama's face hardened, and I knew that it would not be in my best interest to argue further; I turned and did as I was told. Christopher-John and Little Man did the same. When I got to my door, I asked, "Ain't Stacey coming!"

"There's no maybe to it."

"No'm," I muttered and went into my room. After a few minutes Mama came in. Without a word of reprimand, she picked up my clothes from where I had tossed them at the foot of the bed, and absently draping them over the back of a chair, she said, "Stacey tells me you blame Big Ma for what happened today. Is that right?"

Mama glanced down at Stacey sitting by the fire. "I don't recall his mouth working so hard, do you!"

I thought over her question and answered, "Not for all of it. Just for making me apologize to that ole dumb Lillian Jean Simms. She oughtn't've done that, Mama. Papa wouldn't've --"

"I don't want to hear what Papa wouldn't have done!" Mama snapped. "Or what Mr. Morrison wouldn't have done or Uncle Hammer! You were with Big Ma and she did what she had to do and believe me, young lady, she didn't like doing it one bit more than you did."

"Well," I muttered, "maybe so, but…?"

"Yes'm," I said softly, deciding that it was better to study the patchwork pattern on the quilt until the anger left Mama's eyes and I could talk to her again. After a moment she sat beside me on the bed and raised my chin with the tip of her forefinger. "Big Ma didn't want you to be hurt," she said. "That was the only thing on her mind… making sure Mr. Simms didn't hurt you."

The way of what things?" I asked warily.

Mama's voice grew hard. "Because that's the way of things, Cassie."

"Yes'm," I murmured, then flared, "But, Mama, that Lillian Jean ain't got the brains of a flea! How come I gotta go 'round calling her 'Miz' like she grown or something!"

"But, Mama, it ain't fair. I didn't do nothin' to that con- founded Lillian Jean. How come Mr. Simms went and pushed me like he did?"

Mama's eyes looked deeply into mine, locked into them, and she said in a tight, clear voice, "Because he thinks Lillian Jean is better than you are, Cassie, and when you --"

"Baby, you had to grow up a little today. I wish… well, no matter what I wish. It happened and you have to accept the fact that in the world outside this house, things are not always as we would have them to be."

"That ole scrawny, chicken-legged, snaggle-toothed, cross --"

"Cassie." Mama did not raise her voice, but the quiet force of my name silenced me. "Now," she said, folding my hand in hers, "I didn't say that Lillian Jean is better than you. I said Mr. Simms only thinks she is. In fact, he thinks she's better than Stacey or Little Man or Christopher-John --"

"No, baby, because she's white."

"Just 'cause she's his daughter!" I asked, beginning to think Mr. Simms was a bit touched in the head.

Mama's hold tightened on mine, but I exclaimed, "Ah, shoot! White ain't nothin'!"

Mama's grip did not lessen. "It is something, Cassie. White is something just like black is something. Everybody born on this earth is something and nobody, no matter what color, is better than anybody else."

"Like Big Ma's papa and mama!"

"Because he's one of those people who has to believe that white people are better than black people to make himself feel big." I stared questioningly at Mama, not really under- standing. Mama squeezed my hand and explained further. "You see, Cassie, many years ago when our people were first brought from Africa in chains to work as slaves in this country --"

"Then how come Mr. Simms don't know that?"

Mama nodded. "Yes, baby, like Papa Luke and Mama Rachel, except they were born right here in Mississippi. But their grandparents were born in Africa, and when they came there were some white people who thought that it was wrong for any people to be slaves; so the people who needed slaves to work in their fields and the people who were making money bringing slaves from Africa preached that black people weren't really people like white people were, so slavery was all right."

"They also said that slavery was good for us because it taught us to be good Christians -- like the white people." She sighed deeply, her voice fading into a distant whisper. "But they didn't teach us Christianity to save our souls, but to teach us obedience. They were afraid of slave revolts and they wanted us to learn the Bible's teaching about slaves being loyal to their masters. But even teaching us Christianity didn't make us stop wanting to be free, and many slaves ran away --"

Mama nodded again. "That's right, honey. He was hiding in a cave when freedom came, so I understand." She was silent a moment, then went on. "Well, after a while. slavery became so profitable to people who had slaves and even to those who didn't that most folks decided to believe that black people really weren't people like everybody else. And when the Civil War was fought and Mama Rachel and Papa Luke and all the other slaves were freed, people continued to think that way. Even the Northerners who fought the war didn't really see us equal to white people. So now, even though seventy years have passed since slavery, most white people still think of us as they did then -- that we're not as good as they are -- and people like Mr. Simms hold on to that belief harder than some other folks because they have little else to hold on to. For him to believe that he is better than we are makes him think that he's important, simply because he's white."

"Papa Luke ran away," I reminded her, thinking of the story of how Great-Grandpa had run away three times. He had been caught and punished for his disobedience, but his owners had not tried to break him, for he had had a knowledge of herbs and cures. He had tended both the slaves and the animals of the plantation, and it was from him that Big Ma had learned medicines.

"Of course they aren't," Mama said. "White people may demand our respect, but what we give them is not respect but fear. What we give to our own people is far more important because it's given freely. Now you may have to call Lillian Jean 'Miss' because the white people say so, but you'll also call our own young ladies at church 'Miss' be-cause you really do respect them.

Mama relaxed her grip. I knew that she was waiting for me to speak. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach and I felt as if the world had turned itself upside down with me in it. Then I thought of Lillian Jean and a surging anger gurgled upward and I retaliated, "Well, they ain't!" But I leaned closer to Mama, anxiously hoping that she would agree with me.

"Baby, we have no choice of what color we're born or who our parents are or whether we're rich or poor. What we do have is some choice over what we make of our lives once we're here." Mama cupped my face in her hands. "And I pray to God you'll make the best of yours." She hugged me warmly then and motioned me under the covers.

Mama had been right about Uncle Hammer.

As she turned the lamp down low, I asked, "Mama. Uncle Hammer. If Mr. Morrison can't stop him, what'll happen!"

"Mr. Morrison will bring him back."

"But just what if he can't and Uncle Hammer gets to Mr. Simms!"

A shadowy fear fleeted across her face, but disappeared with the dimming light. "I think… I think you've done enough growing up for one day, Cassie," she said without answering my question, "Uncle Hammer'll be all right. Now go to sleep."

When I awoke the next morning and followed the smell of frying ham and baking biscuits into the kitchen, there he sat at the table drinking coffee with Mr. Morrison. He was unshaven and looked a bit bleary-eyed, but he was all right: I wondered if Mr. Simms looked so good. I didn't get a chance to ask, because as soon as I had said good morning Mama called me into her room, where a tub of hot water was waiting by the fireplace.

Mama's brow furrowed. "Well, I just don't know. He did say something about hitching up Jack…"

"Hurry up," she said. "Uncle Hammer's going to take us to church."

"In his car!"

"No'm, I want you to fix me my grown-up hairdo."

My smile faded, but then I caught the teasing glint in her eyes, and she began to laugh, "Ah, Mama!" I laughed, and splashed into the water.

Mama began buttoning the top of her dress with long, flying fingers as I slowly fastened the lower buttons. I loved to help Mama dress. She always smelled of sunshine and soap.

After my bath I went into my room to dress. When I rejoined Mama she was combing her hair, which fanned her head like an enormous black halo. As I watched, she shaped the long thickness into a large chignon at the nape of her neck and stuck six sturdy hairpins into it. Then, giving the chignon a pat, she reached for her pale-blue cotton dress sprinkled with tiny yellow-and-white flowers and polished white buttons running from top to bottom along its front. She glanced down at me. "You didn't comb your hair."

When the last button had slipped into place, she buckled a dark-blue patent-leather belt around her tiny waist and stood ready except for her shoes. She looked very pretty.

"Right here," I said, picking up the brush from where I had laid it on the chair.

When Mama finished, I ran to the mirror, then turned, facing her with a grin. She grinned back and shook her head at my vanity.

Mama sat down in Papa's rocker and I sat on the deerskin rug in front of her. Mama divided my hair from ear to ear into two sections and braided the front section to one side and the back section right in the center. Then she wound each braid into a flat chignon against my head. My hair was too thick and long for me to do it well myself, but Mama could do it perfectly. I figured I looked my very best that way.

"Where's your brush?"

"One day, Mama, you gonna fix my hair like yours!"

"That'll be a few years yet," she answered, readjusting the cardboard lining she had placed in her shoes to protect her feet from the dirt and gravel which could easily seep through the large holes in the soles. She set the shoes on the floor and stepped into them. Now, with the soles facing downward and Mama's feet in them, no one could tell what the shiny exteriors hid; yet I felt uncomfortable for Mama and wished that we had enough money for her to have her shoes fixed or, better still, buy new ones.

"Y-you don't mean Mr. Simms whipped Uncle Hammer!" stammered an unbelieving Christopher-John.

"But something must've happened," I said. "I mean Uncle Hammer and Mr. Morrison look like they haven't even been to bed. How come they look like that if nothin' happened!"

"Nothin'."

"Mama said so. I asked her straight out this morning."

"No." said Stacey quietly.

"Mama said Mr. Morrison talked all night to Uncle Ham- mer. Talked him tired and wouldn't let him go up to the Simmses'."

"How you know!" asked Little Man suspiciously.

"Nothin'!" I repeated, disappointed.

"Oh," replied Little Man, resigned.

"Nothin' happened." said Stacey in explanation as he tugged irritably at his collar.

"No!" cried Little Man.

After breakfast Stacey, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I sat impatiently by the dying morning fire waiting for Mama, Big Ma, and Uncle Hammer. Uncle Hammer was dressing in the boys' room and Mama was in with Big Ma. I checked to make sure none of them was about to appear, then leaned toward Stacey and whispered, "You think Uncle Hammer whipped Mr. Simms!"

"It ain't fair." Christopher-John sympathized, patting me lightly with his pudgy hand.

"Ah, shoot!" I exclaimed, my dream of revenge against the Simmses vanishing as Stacey talked. I propped my elbows on my knees, then settled my head in my upraised hands and stared into the glowing embers. A burning knot formed in my throat and I felt as if my body was not large enough to hold the frustration I felt, nor deep enough to drown the rising anger.

"She' aint," agreed Little Man.

"Cassie." Stacey said softly. At first I didn't look at him, thinking he would go ahead and say what he had to say. But when he didn't, I turned toward him. He leaned forward secretively and automatically Christopher-John and Little Man did the same.

"Y'all better be glad nothin' happened," he said in a whisper. "'Cause I heard Big Ma tell Mama last night that if Mr. Morrison didn't stop Uncle Hammer, Uncle Hammer might get killed."

"Who'd do that!" I cried. "Not one of them puny Simmses!"

"Killed!" we echoed as the fire sputtered and died.

When Uncle Hammer joined us, freshly shaven and in another suit, the boys and I put on our coats and headed for the door;

Uncle Hammer stopped us. "Stacey, that the only coat you got, son!" he asked.

Stacey looked down at his faded cotton jacket. Everyone else did too. The jacket was too small for him, that was obvious, and compared to Little Man's and Christopher-John's and mine, it was admittedly in sadder shape. Yet we were all surprised that Uncle Hammer would ask about it, for he knew as well as anyone that Mama had to buy our clothes in shifts, which meant that we each had to wait our turn for new clothes. Stacey looked up at Mama, then back at Uncle Hammer. "Y-yessir," he answered.

Uncle Hammer stared at him, then waving his hand ordered. "Take it off." Before Stacey could question why, Uncle Hammer disappeared into the boys' room.

Again Stacey looked at Mama. "You'd better do like he says." she said.

Uncle Hammer returned with a long box, store wrapped in shiny red Christmas paper and a fancy green ribbon. He handed the package to Stacey. "It was supposed to be your Christmas present, but I think I'd better give it to you now. It's cold out there."

Stacey started to speak, but then Mama and Big Ma entered, and he cautioned us into silence.

Gingerly, Stacey took the box and opened it.

"Come on, we'd better go." said Mama.

"A coat!" cried Little Man joyously, clapping his hands.

"Wool." Mama said reverently. "Go ahead, Stacey. Try it on."

The morning was gray as we stepped outside, but the rain had stopped. We followed the path of bedded rocks that led to the barn, careful not to slip into the mud, and got into the Packard. shining clean and bright from the washing Uncle Hammer and Mr. Morrison had given it after break- fast. Inside the Packard, the world was a wine-colored luxury. The boys and I, in the back, ran our hands over the rich felt seats, tenderly fingered the fancy door handles and window knobs, and peered down amazed at the pillow and carpet peeping out on either side of the rubber mats.

Stacey eagerly slipped on the coat; it was much too big for him, but Mama said that she could take up the sleeves and that he would grow into it in another year. Stacey beamed down at the coat, then up at Uncle Hammer. A year ago he would have shot into Uncle Hammer's arms and hugged his thanks, but now at the manly age of twelve he held out his hand, and Uncle Hammer shook it.

Mr. Morrison, who was not a churchgoing man, waved good-bye from the barn and we sped away.

As we drove onto the school grounds and parked, the people milling in front of the church turned, staring at the Packard.

Then Uncle Hammer stepped from the car and someone cried, "Well, I'll be doggone! It's our Hammer! Hammer Logan!" And in a body, the crowd engulfed us.

T. J. ran up with Moe Turner and Little Willie Wiggins to admire the car. "It's Uncle Hammer's," said Stacey proudly. But before the boys could sufficiently admire the car, Mama and Big Ma shooed us toward the church for the service. it was then that T. J. noticed Stacey's new coat.

"Uncle Hammer gave it to him," I said. "Ain't it something?"

"All right!" I cried, indignant at his casual reaction to the coat. "Boy, that's the finest coat you ever did lay eyes on and you know it!"

T. J. ran his long fingers over the lapels, and shrugged. "It's all right, I guess, if you like that sort of thing."

T. J. sighed. "Like I said, it's all right… if you like lookin' like a fat preacher." Then he and Little Willie and Moe laughed, and went on ahead.

As we slid into the pew in front of T. J., T. J. whispered, "Here comes the preacher." then leaned forward and said snidely. "How do you do, Reverend Logan!"

After church, as T. J. and the others looked longingly at the car, Mama said. "Stacey, maybe T. J. wants to ride."

Stacey turned on T. J… but I poked him hard. "Mama's looking." I whispered, and he turned back around.

Before Stacey could reply, I spoke up hurriedly. "No, ma'am, Mama, he got something else he gotta do." Then under my breath so that I would not be guilty of a lie, I added, "He gotta walk home like he always do."

"I know it." snapped Stacey sourly.

The sun was out now and Uncle Hammer suggested that we take a real ride before going home. He drove us the full twenty-two miles up to Strawberry by way of the Jackson Road, one of two roads leading to the town. But Mama and Big Ma objected so much to going through Strawberry that he turned the big car around and headed back toward home, taking the old Soldiers Road.

Stacey looked down at the coat with its long sleeves and wide shoulders. His smile faded. "He don't know what he's talking 'bout." I said. "He's just jealous, that's all."

"Yeah." agreed Christopher-John, but Stacey sulked by the window and said nothing.

"That'll teach him." whispered Little Man.

The road was hilly and curving, and as we sped over it scattered road stones hit sharply against the car's underbelly and the dust swelled up in rolls of billowing clouds behind us. Little Man, Christopher-John, and I shrieked with delight each time the car climbed a hill and dropped suddenly downward, fluttering our stomachs.

"Me and John Henry and David grew up together. And John Henry and me even fought in their war together. What good was it! A black man's life ain't worth the life of a cowfly down here."

Eventually, the road intersected with the Jefferson Davis School Road. Uncle Hammer stopped the car at the intersection and, leaning his right arm heavily over the steering wheel, motioned languidly at the Wallace Store. "Got me a good mind to burn that place out," he said.

Supposedly, Rebel soldiers had once marched up the road and across Soldiers Bridge to keep the town from falling into the hands of the Yankee Army, but I had my doubts about that. After all, who in his right mind would want to capture Strawberry… or defend it either for that matter!

"Hammer, hush that kind of talk!" ordered Big Ma, her eyes growing wide.

Uncle Hammer looked glassy-eyed at the store, then sighed and eased the Packard across the road toward Soldiers Bridge.

Soldiers Bridge was built before the Civil War. It was spindly and wooden, and each time I had to cross it I held my breath until I was safely on the other side. Only one vehicle could cross at a time, and whoever was on the bridge first was supposed to have the right of way, although it didn't always work that way. More than once when I had been in the wagon with Mama or Big Ma, we had had to back off the bridge when a white family started across after we were already on it.

We were taking the long way home.

"I know that, son, but that kinda talk get you hung and you know it."

Mama touched Uncle Hammer's arm. "There might be another way, Hammer… like I told you. Now don't go do something foolish. Wait for David -- talk to him."

As the bridge came into view the other side of the river was clearly visible, and it was obvious to everyone that an old Model-T truck, overflowing with redheaded children, had reached the bridge first and was about to cross, but suddenly Uncle Hammer gassed the Packard and sped onto the creaking structure. The driver of the truck stopped, and for no more than a second hesitated on the bridge, then without a single honk of protest backed off so that we could pass.

"But one day we'll have to pay for it. Believe me," she said, "one day we'll pay."

As we came off the bridge, we could see the Wallaces, all three of them -- Dewberry, Thurston, and Kaleb -- touch their hats respectfully, then immediately freeze as they saw who we were. Uncle Hammer, straight-faced and totally calm, touched the brim of his own hat in polite response and without a backward glance sped away, leaving the Wallaces gaping silently after us.

"Well, now, won't they be surprised when we reach the other side," said Uncle Hammer.

"Hammer!" Big Ma cried. "They think you're Mr. Granger."

Stacey, Christopher-John, Little Man, and I laughed, but Mama's cold glance made us stop. "You shouldn't have done that, Hammer," she said quietly.

"The opportunity, dear sister, was too much to resist."