Free The Sittin' Up by Shelia P. Moses Page A

clothes and the flowers.”
    â€œI sho’ appreciate you coming. Stanbury ’bout to run himself to death this week.”
    â€œYou know I don’t mind, Miss Magnolia.”
    Ma seemed to be in deep thought for a minute.
    â€œBean, you and Pole go to Mr. Bro. Wiley’s room and get his things.”
    Not only did we pick the flowers, but we get to take Mr. Bro. Wiley’s clothes to the truck.
    â€œBe careful not to get any dirt on the white shirt,” Pole said with her bossy voice.
    â€œGet the shoes too,” I said, noticing Papa had placed the Mason pin on the suit jacket.
    We rushed outside to finish our duties for Mr. Bro. Wiley. Pole continued to supervise.
    â€œCareful, Bean. No wrinkles,” she said as Ma finished her business with TJ.
    â€œHow much do I owe you?” Ma asked.
    â€œMiss Magnolia, you don’t owe me a dime. I’m happy to do something for Mr. Bro. Wiley.” TJ was no different from the rest of us. He had a lot of love in his heart for the slave man. Mr. Bro. Wiley was always fussing at the twins because they loved womenfolk like Uncle Goat. No matter how much he fussed at them they still came by to bring him a little chewing tobacco for Christmas. They would sit with him for hours. TJ lifted the tub as if it didn’t have a drop of water in it. His muscles grew inside his shirt. He was a strong man like my papa. Strong in the way I imagined Mr. Bro. Wiley was before Father Time made him feeble.
    We stood on each side of Ma as TJ drove away. It seemed that grief tried to come back into her heart.
    â€œDon’t be sad, Miss Magnolia. It’s not good for your baby,” Pole said, like she was already a doctor. That girl done lost her mind mentioning that baby. She knew good and well children don’t talk about babies in the Low Meadows until we see the child. Ma was so sad that she didn’t even hear Pole talking grown-folk mess.

E LEVEN
    O n Friday, me and Pole stayed home again. We had instructions from Papa to help clean the house. Of course, Miss Lottie Pearl was right by Ma’s side.
    â€œBean, we working like Governor Hoey coming to visit us from Raleigh or President Roosevelt coming down from Washington, D.C.,” Pole said.
    â€œDon’t complain, girl. All of this is for Mr. Bro. Wiley.”
    â€œI’m not complaining. Mr. Bro. Wiley is the first person who told me my hands are for doctoring not priming ’bacco and cleaning.”
    While Pole was carrying on, I was thinking about what she said about President Roosevelt.
    â€œThat’s it. I can do one more thing for my friend,” I thought to myself. I will write the president and tell him that the old slave man was dead. Folk say that the first lady cares about the coloreds. She might read my letter and ask her husband to send a proclamation like they do when important white folk die. It was something inside my heart that made me feel like I should help give Mr. Bro Wiley a good send-off to hev’n.
    â€œWhere you going?” Pole shouted as I ran out of the house.
    â€œTo the outhouse,” I yelled back.
    Pole was messing with the big gloves on her hands, so she didn’t notice me when I grabbed a piece of notebook paper and pencil from Mama’s living room chest.
    It sure did stink in the outhouse, but that was the only place I could go on Low Meadows Lane where Pole wouldn’t follow me. I just wanted my private time to think about what I wanted to say about Mr. Bro. Wiley to the president. If Pole came she would surely try to tell me what to write. And she could take a pencil and correct every other word. I wanted to say what I wanted to say.
    Dear Mr. President Roosevelt,
    I know you don’t know me, but my name is Stanbury Jones Jr. My papa’s name is Stanbury Jones Sr., and my mama is Magnolia Jones.
    We are not city folk and you probably never heard of Rich Square, North Carolina, or the Low Meadows. I want to tell