Free Between Black and White by Robert Bailey Page B

mother?” Tom asked. “Did she ever—?”
    “She left,” Bo interrupted. “Two weeks later I woke up and she was gone. Not even a note.”
    “Why?” Tom asked.
    “I really don’t know. I . . . was never as close to Momma as I was Daddy. Sometimes before Daddy was killed, I’d be playing in the house or outside, and I’d catch Momma staring at me like she was mad or something, even when I hadn’t done anything.” He shook his head. “But I don’t know exactly why she left. I’ve always thought it was because she was scared. I overheard her talking to my Aunt Mabel a few days after the hanging. Said she knew she was next. Said ‘that monster ain’t goin’ stop till I’m as dead as Roosevelt.’” He sighed again. “She was gone the next morning.”
    “How—?” Tom started, but Bo raised a hand up to stop him.
    “I’m getting there.” He crossed his arms and squeezed them tight against his body, staring down at the table again. “Aunt Mabel woke me up that morning, and it was still dark outside. Said I needed to put some clothes on and pack my bags. I was goin’ go stay with her and Booker for a while. I asked about Momma, and Mabel said Momma wanted me to stay with her and Booker for a few days. She was trying to sound calm, but her voice seemed off. Like she was out of breath. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how bad until I got outside and saw Uncle Booker. He was standing by his truck, holding a shotgun, watching the road that led up to the shack. I had never seen my uncle with a weapon of any sort, not even a knife. He was the pastor at the Bickland Creek Baptist Church, and he always preached against violence. He didn’t even go rabbit or squirrel hunting.” Bo shook his head. “But he had a gun that day. Aunt Mabel picked me up and carried me out of the house, and Uncle Booker wasn’t even watching us. He had his gun on his shoulder, his eyes moving up and down the road. Once I was in the truck, I sat in between them, and they didn’t say a word on the way to their house. I must have asked a hundred questions about Momma, but they were stone silent. The only sound I heard was the vibration of the steering wheel that came from Booker’s hands, which were shaking like crazy.
    “When we got back to their house, which was the parsonage next to Bickland Creek Baptist, Booker took me inside the sanctuary, and we sat in the first pew, looking up at the pulpit. He didn’t say anything for a long time.” Bo’s lip started to quiver. “Then he told me that Sister—that’s what he called my momma—had left the previous night, and she had asked Booker and Mabel to take care of me. I asked him where she had gone, and he said he didn’t know. I asked him when she would be back, and he said he wasn’t sure. Then he told me that I was welcome to stay at the parsonage for as long as I wanted.” Bo paused, returning his eyes to Tom. His whole body had tensed at the retelling, and his glare was harsh. Tom had to look away for a second. “That turned out to be thirteen years,” Bo finally continued. “I never heard from my momma again.”
    “I’m sorry, Bo,” Tom said, feeling another pang of guilt. Bocephus Haynes was probably his best friend in the world. How could I not know that his mother had abandoned him?
    “It’s not something I share with a lot of people,” Bo said, seeming to sense Tom’s thoughts.
    Watching his friend, Tom had the strange premonition that perhaps Bo’s father’s death, while unimaginably horrific for a young boy to watch, might in some ways have been easier to deal with than his mother’s abandonment. The lynching was black and white. He could explain it because he saw it. But his mother leaving . . . How could a five-year-old boy ever understand that?
    “I’m sorry, Bo. I . . . can’t imagine.” It was all Tom could think to say, and it was the truth.
    Bo nodded and wiped his eyes. “They were good to me, Booker and Mabel,” he