Silas Wrenfield's Goodbye

He is big.  He has always been big even in his oversized overall, Silas Wrenfield has been a large man.  Built like an oversized snowman, he sits patiently at the train station waiting for the 3:15 north to Chicago from Birmingham, Alabama.  It is his first time in Birmingham.  He is wearing his Sunday best just like his mama told him to with a fine suit jacket covering his suspenders, white shirt and bow tie with a straw hat covering his massive head and a magnolia grandiloquent pinned to his lapel by his mama who had tears in her eyes as she did so. Roscoe, his father, sits next to him on the bench with a long piece of grass he picked on his way to the depot platform.  While he is only fifty-two years old, Roscoe looks much older due to his hard life in the fields picking cotton up around Goodsprings that has given his back a bit of a hunch and a slight shuffle in his walk.  His once jet black hair is now peppered with white and his nose has started to hook back pointing toward his toothless mouth.  Wearing his bib overalls and waffle shirt that has faded over time, Roscoe is only about half the size of his son, a virtual scarecrow walking in old duds. Despite the size disparity, Silas will never sass his father, because Roscoe has put the fear of God into his son and his mama Caldillia strictly enforces the Word of God in her humble home.  

Besides the fear of God, there is also the respect for Mr. Crow, yeah, Mr. Jim Crow, where a Negro knows his place and never steps too far out of line.  Only problem is, folks have begun to question this some, but the Klan has been quite vigilant in keeping the status quo around these parts.  One time Roscoe joined a small gathering of sharecroppers who were looking for an increase in income.  One night when Silas was just six years old the riders came and broke Roscoe’s right leg which is why he hobbles some on it and uses a cane when he has to walk for a spell.  Silas remembered the white hooded riders with the blazing torches and how two of the big ones grabbed his papa by his bony shoulders, put his leg on the tree stump while another brought down a sledge hammer crushing his shin bone.  He will never forget his father’s holler of pain and how his mama rushed to his side.  Some of the neighbors helped get him into the wagon and they drove on to the bone setters’ house.  The old man gave Roscoe a towel to bite down on and a good swallow of home brewed whiskey so the pain would not be so bad.  Still Roscoe vomited and passed out before the work was done. 

“Son?” Roscoe said as a breeze blew casually down the empty deserted track.

“Yeah pa.” Silas’ voice came from a deep down place which is why he sang in the church choir since his voice changed to the base it now was.

“My sister waitin’ on you up there in Shee-cago.  Been up there for going on eight years.  Her husband, James, works at the steel plant.  Makin’ good money.” He sniffed, “Now she takin’ ya in, so ya treat her jus’ like us, ya hear?”

“Yes papa.” Silas nodded.

“Colored folks up there ain’ got no Jim Crow, but make no mistake they still Colored and the white folks still treats as such.” He leaned back because his bones ached in the humid early morning air. “So watch yasself.” 

“I will, papa.” Silas agreed as he had when he first heard the same warings from his mother. 

“God has give ya a gift.” Roscoe managed a smile, but it was short lived. “Ya’ll gotta voice that makes the angels green with envy. Dat jazz they be playing in da clubs up there be needing a deep voice like yours.”

“Yassar.” Silas smiled enjoying the rare praise his father was giving him. 

“But doncha stray from the church.  Aunt Mae is a church-goin’ woman like ya mama.  She got eight of them to raise and each of them be goin’ to church every Sunday.  Now ya’ll be makin’ nine.” He closed his eyes as he did so often lately, because he was tired, worn to the bone, his joints ached and his movements had become slower and more deliberate.  

There was a whistle in the distance and suddenly a train appeared on the tracks still some distance off.  The station master wearing his bright  blue starched suit and bow tie appeared on the platform.  He gave a curt nod to the two men sitting on the bench, remarking, “Are ya on this un?”

“Yassir.” Silas answered coming to the position of attention like his dad had during the Great War.  Roscoe had served in a support unit during the war, digging many a trench and outhouse for the white troops serving under General “Black Jack” Pershing, who had earned that name commanding Negro troops during the brief engagement with the Mexican revolutionaries, mainly Poncho Villa.  

Silas grabbed his bags as the train drew near.  The platform wobbled and swayed under the heavy weight of the approaching engine.  The whistle sounded again, but this time it was ear piercing and Silas held his ears which delighted the station master who chuckled at his rube behavior.  Boys from the sticks were always startled by the sharp sound of the train whistle, but having been here for over twenty years, a train whistle was just part of the job.  

“Right on time.” He remarked looking at his pocket watch on a gold fob.  

The wind changed directions as the train pulled up to the platform.  Faces began to appear on the deck, moving slowly toward the station building, bags in hand, looking weary from travel, but still with enough strength to continue to move from place to place. 

“Connection to Atlanta and parts east, the train will be here in about twenty minutes.” The station master announced in a voice that rose above the din of the crowd noises as they shuffled along the wooden deck.  “If you are headed north to Chicago, the train will pull out in ten minutes as soon as more fuel is loaded on board.”

A crew of overall wearing Negroes began to load the coal into the coal car.  It looked to Silas as heavy back-breaking work like he had seen his father do and he had done for the past four years. There was no conversation, just six men loading the heavy fuel onto the car in silence.  A Coleman porter with shiny black skin, the darkest skin Silas had ever seen as a matter of fact, walked out onto the deck and began to load heavy bags onto a cart to be rolled to the luggage car where a couple of the porters dressed in very snappy uniforms began to pile the bags into the empty spaces on the compartment.  Watching this, he marveled at the size of the bags the white folks had and he wondered what they all had in those bulging bags the porters were loading.  Unlike the coal crew, the porters were a lively bunch full of conversation and laughter.  

“Got this woman down around Mobile, sassy as all get out.” One of them told the story as he piled bags in the car. “She be  raisin’ her chin like some queen of somethin’ and then fell right into some horse droppin’s.  Got it all over her nice white dress.”

Laughter erupted from each of them, some closing their eyes and shaking their heads as they laughed.  One of them started singing a spiritual which Silas joined in on.  A couple of them looked at him and smiled.

“Ya’ll gots a nice deep voice, boy.” One of the porters shook his head.

“I’ been singin’ since I was just so high.” He held his hand out to show the porters.

“Sounds like it, too.” The one with the blackest skin Silas had ever seen, added.  

“I’s goin’ on this leg.  I takes good care of ya.” A short porter jabbed Silas in the shoulder and winked. “Ya be like a king.  Mabbe we sing some gospel in the quiet hours. My name be Moseby, but ya can call me Mose.” 

“Hey boy, is dat ya pa over there?” The man with the dark skin pointed to Roscoe.

“Yassar.” Silas nodded.

“He be about my age. My name is Missah Alben.” His teeth nearly sparkled when he smile, “Ustda be a mins-ral.  Travel all over Missasipy, Loussanna, and Georgia singing old Negro tunes.  Call our tunes dirty ditties on account they was about gettin’ it on wiff da ladies.” 

He did a little jig, but then the station master yelled, “Get all back to work.  Ain’t no time for shuckin’ and jivin.’” 

“Percy be askin’ fo’ it.” Alben snapped.

“Yeah and if’n ya give it to him, them riders’ll getcha.” The porter who was almost as big as Silas, noted as they finished loading the bags.  

“Rider?  Riders, ya’ll scared ‘bout them riders.” He sniffed.

“Riders killed my pa.” The big man shook his head glaring at Alben.  

“I reckon up there in Shee-cago ain’t be no riders.” Alben shook his head walking away from the others. 

“No, but sometimes I reckon what they got is worse.  They got coppers who won’t give it a second through ‘bout beatin’ ya hard head with one of them nightsticks, ya’ll.” Moseby smiled, but that smile came more from pity and ignorance than humor.  He walked over to Roscoe who was standing there turning up his collar to the wind that had suddenly began to kick in.  It was almost November and the warm sun was in hibernation already.  There were rumors of snow in the Windy City, but Silas figured he’d deal with when he got there. 

“Massah Wrenfield.” Moseby called as he approach.

“How’d ya know mah name?” Roscoe came to his feet. 

“It be on the ticket ya son’s holdin’.” Moseby answered.

“Ya can call me Roscoe…”

“Moseby, but ya can call me Mose.” He smiled, “Didja go to France for the Great War?” 

“Yassit, I was there.” He smiled, ‘Rained almost every day.” 

“Mud, got so tired of mud.  Mud in the chow even.” He laughed.

“Bettah dan maggots.” Roscoe nodded.

“For sure.” Moseby agreed.  He sniffed and added, “We take good care of yawr son.”

“I appreciate that.” Roscoe words caught in his throat as he watched Silas converse with the porters.

“Shee-cago is a happenin’ place.” Moseby patted Roscoe on the back.

“I jus’ don’ wan’ him to be like me...old before my time. “ Roscoe shook his head. “I hear Chicago be good for us Colored.” 

“Far better than here.” Moseby nodded in agreement. 

“He’s a good boy.  We done him right.” Roscoe eyes glossed over with tears, “Got the fear of God in his belly.”

“There be lotsa temptation in that city.” Moseby bowed his head. “I gots me sucked into some of the pitfalls.  But when I was at my lowest there was a man who took me in.  Saved me.  I ain’ gonna let him follow my footsteps.” He gave Roscoe a wide smile.

“I precaite that, Mose.” He wiped a stray tear from his cheek.

“I bess be gettin’ on.  You take care of yourself.  We were the muckrakers of that army.  Got myself shot one month ‘for the end.  Was in a hospital when we gots the news.  Did manage to kiss me a French nurse--ooh-la la.” Both of them hooted with laughter. 

“Boarding will begin.” The station master shouted.  

“Got to get ready.” Moseby shook Roscoe’s hand and jogged off to get on board the train.  

The landscape was changing and Roscoe knew it.  If Silas stayed, chances are, he’d get caught up in the circus like atmosphere that was playing out all over the deep south.  There was a popular preacher from Atlanta who had come to Alabama Negro rights and his people were singing some of the old spirituals from slavery days when slaves would sing about Moses leading his people to the promised land.  So far the only promised land waiting for them was the one after death.  Living in this Jim Crow South was too much for him at times.  He hated how some of the white folk looked at him when he had to go to town.  In the Negro section of town was where he longed to be, but when it came time to turn his crop into cash, he had to go Mr. Shively’s place where he would short change them and laugh about it to his old cronies.  He called Roscoe names like Shufflin’ Sack of Shit.   They’d laugh and the way he talked.  None of them ever had their jaw broken by some white son-of-a-bitch just so he could show off to his girlfriend.  Doc Randle did his best to put it together, but there’s only so much a Negro bone setter can do when he can’t afford the proper medical supplies and he’s the only bone setter for the Colored folks.  Randle was a good man and would have been a great doctor if he wasn’t Colored. 

They lynched my brother. 

He made an improper remark at some woman.

Her father screamed at Silas from his porch when she screamed.

Her father was a judge, an important man. 

He would run for office a few years later and win.

But the men surrounded Silas.  

One of them had a club and brought him to his knees with a blow. 

I come running down the street, but one of them tripped me and I fell in the mud.  I hear them laughing.  When I get to my feet, I see him kicking his legs as the rest of the crowd starts laughing.  By the time I gets there, he ain’t kicking no more.  

I call out his name, “Silas!  Silas!” 

He ain’t speaking no more.

A few years later when my son was born, I named him Silas in honor of his uncle, my brother.  “Son,” I tell him when he was still a wiggling infant in his cradle, “I ain’ never gonna let them do to you what they done to my brother.  Never gonna let you think you any less a man than those who will call you names on account of the color of ya skin.”

That preacher, he’s going to get Colored people killed, but some rather die than live as I have lived. I know he's going to go north, live with his kin, and become the man he was meant to be.  I don’t want him looking at me, knowing that he can’t hope for no better. 

Your mama would be here, but she told me her heart can’t stand saying goodbye, so that’s why I am here in her stead.  

“Pa, they are gettin’ ready to load the Colored section.” Silas’ voice called from the fog Roscoe was in.  “Are ya listen to me?”

“Yes son.” Roscoe answers, still hearing the powerful voices swirling in his head. 

“They boardin’ the Coloreds.” Silas points with his thumb.

“Ya bess be gettin’ on.” Tears flood Roscoe’s eyes.

“I’ll write ya, pa.” Silas embraces his father.

“I know ya will.” He puts his face into his son’s jacket so his tears won’t be seen, but Silas is also crying with no one there to hide his tears.

“You go sing that jazz.  You go sing them blues like ya used to.  You let the world know how beautiful ya voice is, ya hear?” He pulls his son’s head down so he can look at him one last time in the eyes.  When he lets go of Silas he knows that this may be the last time.  Death is settling in Roscoe’s bones, his lungs are not as strong as they used to be after filling them with all that cotton dust over the years.

He sees Mose put his arm around his son as he climbs up on the steps of the train and Mose turns around and gives Roscoe a salute like they used to salute all the white officers whose trenches they dug in the mud.  And as Silas stands on the steps, he turns around to get one last look at his father as the train jerks ahead.  

“All aboard.” The conductor shouts as the steam hisses out of the valves and life is breathed into the engine.  A whistle sounds as the late October rain begins to fall like tears sent earthward from heaven.  And as the train jolts forward the Great Migration begins.