The Sittin' Up by Shelia P. Moses Page B

ain’t but one thirty.” Ma thought for a minute and looked down at herself. She pulled the red-and-white apron over her head and threw it behind Mr. Bro. Wiley’s chair. She rubbed her hair to make sure it was lying flat. “Don’t worry, Miss Magnolia. You look real pretty,” Pole said. She smoothed the right side of Ma’s dress down. Pole could help Ma look pretty, but she couldn’t keep her from crying. The tears ran down her face, down her neck, and all the way to her bosom. Pole walked to the end of the porch and yelled towards Stony Hill.
    â€œHurry up, Mama. Mr. Gordon here with Mr. Bro. Wiley.”
    â€œIt ain’t no need to yell. It ain’t no need to rush. Mr. Bro. Wiley gone forever. Ain’t no hurry at all. Mr. Gordon just bringing his shell back to us. His soul is already resting.” Then Ma stuck her hands out like a stop sign. She bent her knees, stooped down real low, and began to holler.
    Don’t know why she told us not to yell when she was shouting all over the porch. Pole ran behind Ma, fanning her the best she could.
    I peeped down into the back window of the hearse. The wooden casket was covered in the flowers me and Pole picked on Thursday. I felt mighty proud.
    Mr. Bro. Wiley appreciated anything you did for him and I knew the flowers made him smile from heaven.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mrs. Jones. Good afternoon, Bean, Pole,” Mr. Gordon said. He was wearing a fine double-breasted black suit and white gloves again.
    He looked dignified, but something was missing from his spirit. His serious face was darker. Then I realized that he was not just the undertaker bringing Mr. Bro. Wiley home. He was a broken-hearted man, just like Papa, Mr. Jabo, and Mr. Creecy.
    â€œAfternoon to you, Mr. Gordon,” Ma said.
    â€œAfternoon,” me and Pole echoed.
    â€œWhere is Mr. Jones?”
    â€œHusband’s not home. He’s in the field getting up ’bacco ’fore the storm comes. He’ll be back directly. We were expecting you at two. Lottie Pearl will be back any time now.” Ma was talking a mile a minute.
    â€œDo you want us to wait?” Mr. Gordon asked.
    â€œNo, bring Mr. Bro. Wiley inside. The Lord is with us. You just come right on in.”
    Mr. Gordon and his men pulled the casket out of the back of the hearse real slow.
    â€œIt ain’t fancy ’cause Mr. Bro. Wiley didn’t have no bury legion,” Pole whispered in my ear.
    â€œBury legion? What in the world is that?” I whispered back.
    â€œBoy, you know a bury legion—life insurance.”
    â€œWell, that don’t make no sense. Why don’t they just call it life insurance?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know. That’s just the way grown folk in the Low Meadows do. They call words whatever they want to.”
    I knew Pole was telling the truth because even though the folk at church took up a collection at Bible study on Wednesday night to help Ma and Papa pay for the sittin’ up, it still wasn’t enough. I believe they sent Papa thirty-one dollars and some change by Mr. Jabo. Papa thanked him and went under the house to dig up his mason jar of money while Mr. Jabo waited with a lantern.
    I thought about what Mr. Bro. Wiley told Ma about his own funeral. It was an evening last fall right after supper. We were all sitting on the front porch eating pumpkin pie.
    â€œMagnolia, when I leave this here earth, you sell this rocking chair. You’ll get enough money for my funeral. I don’t need nothing fancy. Just a pine box to carry me home.” Mr. Bro. Wiley never took his eyes off Ma as he ate his pie.
    â€œI will do no such thing. I ain’t selling your rocking chair. Besides, you already home.”
    â€œHome! Child, this ain’t my home. My home is in
hev’n.
I’m just a stranger passing through this here ole earth. We all just strangers passing through.”
    â€œI hear you, Mr. Bro.