Alex Haley - Roots - The Saga of an American Family

“De drummers, Amos!” cried L’il Kizzy, with everyone smiling at her pride.

“Yeah,” said Amos. “Dey’s de ones Miss Nancy purely love to have put up in de hotel! Sometime two, three ’em git off’n de same train, an’ me an’ ’nother nigger hurries up carryin’ ’head o’ ’em to de hotel dey suit bag an’ big heavy black web-strap cases what we knows is full o’ samples whatever dat ’ticular drummer’s sellin’. Miss Nancy says dey’s real gen’lmens, keeps deyselves clean as pins, an’ really ’preciates bein’ took good care of, an’ I likes ’em, too. Some jes’ quick to give you a dime as a nickel fo’ carryin’ dey bags, shinin’ dey shoes, or doin’ nigh ’bout anythin’! Gin’ly dey washes up an’ walks roun’ town talkin’ wid folks. After eatin’ dinner, dey’ll set on de porch, smokin’ or chawin’ ’baccy an’ jes’ lookin’, or talkin’ til dey goes on upstairs to bed. Den nex mornin’ after breakfas’, dey calls one us niggers to tote dey samples cases over crost to dat blacksmith’s what fo’ a dollar a day rents ’em a hoss an’ buggy, an’ off dey drives to sell stuff at I reckon ’bout all de stores ’long de roads in dis county—”

In a spontaneity of sheer admiration that Amos worked amid such wonders, the chubby L’il George exclaimed, “Amos, boy, I ain’t realized you is leadin’ some life!”

“Miss Nancy say de railroad bigges’ thing since de hoss,” Amos modestly observed. “She say soon’s some mo’ railroads gits dey tracks jines togedder, things ain’t gwine never be de same no mo’.”

Chicken George slowed his galloping, lathered horse barely enough for its sharp turning off the main road into the lane, then abruptly his hands jerked the reins taut. It was the right place, but since he had seen it last: unbelievable! Beyond the weeds’ choked lane ahead, the once buff-colored Lea home looked a mottled gray of peeling old paint, rags were stuffed where some window panes had been; one side of the now heavily patched roof seemed almost sagging. Even the adjacent fields were barren, containing nothing but old dried weathered stalks within the collapsing split-log fences.

Shocked, bewildered, he relaxed the reins to continue with the horse now picking its way through the weeds. Yet closer, he saw the big-house porch aslant, the broken-down front steps; and the slave-row cabins’ roofs were all caving in. Not a cat, dog, or chicken was to be seen as he slid off the horse, leading it now by its bridle alongside the house to the backyard.

He was no more prepared for the sight of the heavy old woman sitting bent over on a piece of log, picking poke salad greens, dropping the stems about her feet and the leaves into a cracked, rusting washbasin. He recognized that she had to be Miss Malizy, but so incredibly different it seemed impossible. His unnecessary loud “ Whoa! ” caught her attention.

Miss Malizy quit picking the greens. Raising her head, looking about, then she saw him, but he could tell she didn’t yet realize who he was.

“ Miss Malizy! ” He ran over closer, halting uncertainly as he saw her face still querying. Her eyes squinting, she got him into better focus... suddenly pushing one hand heavily down against the log, she helped herself upward. “George... ain’t’cha dat boy George?”

“Yes’m, Miss Malizyl” He rushed to her now, grasping and embracing her large flabbiness within his arms, close to crying. “Lawd, boy, where you been at? Used to be you was roun’ here all de time!”

Her tone and words held some vacantness, as if she were unaware of nearly five years’ time lapse. “Been crost de water in dat Englan’, Miss Malizy. Been fightin’ chickens over dere—Miss Malizy, where my wife an’ mammy an’ chilluns at?”

So was her face blankness, as if beyond any more emotion no matter whatever else might happen. “Ain’t nobody hardly here no mo’, boy!” She sounded surprised that he didn’t know it. “Dey’s all gone. Jes’ me an’ massa’s lef ’—”

“Gone where, Miss Malizy?” He knew now that her mind had weakened.

With a puffy hand she gestured toward the small willow grove still below the slave row. “Yo’ mammy... Kizzy her name... layin’ down yonder—”

A whooping sob rose and burst from Chicken George’s throat. His hand flew up to muffle it.

“Sarah, too, she down dere... an’ ol’ missy... in de front yard—ain’t you seed ’er when you rid by?”

“Miss Malizy, where ’Tilda an’ my chilluns?”

He didn’t want to rattle her. She had to think a moment.

“’Tilda? Yeh. ’Tilda good gal, sho’ was. Whole lotta chilluns, too. Yeh. Boy, you oughta knowed massa sol’ off all ’em long time ago—”

“ Where, Miss Malizy, where to?” Rage flooded him. “Where massa, Miss Malizy?”

Her head turned toward the house. “Up in dere still ’sleep, I reckons. Git so drunk don’ git up ’til late, hollerin’ he want to eat ... ain’t no vittles, hardly... boy, you bring anything to cook?”

His “No’m” floating back to the confused old lady, Chicken George burst through the shambles of the kitchen and down the peeling hallway into the smelly, messy living room to stop at the foot of the short staircase, bellowing angrily “ Massa Lea! ”

He waited briefly.

“MASSA LEA!”

About to go stomping up the stairs, he heard activity sounds. After a moment, from the right doorway the disheveled figure emerged, peering downward.

Chicken George through his anger stood shocked to muteness at the shell of his remembered massa, gaunt, unshaven, unkempt; obviously he had slept in those clothes. “Massa Lea?”

“ George! ” The old man’s body physically jerked. “ George! ” He came stumbling down the creaking staircase, stopping at its foot; they stood staring at each other. In Massa Lea’s hollowed face, his eyes were rheumy, then with high, cackling laughter he rushed with widening arms to hug Chicken George, who sidestepped. Catching Massa Lea’s bony hands, he shook them vigorously.

“George, so glad you’re back! Where all you been? You due back here long time ago!”

“Yassuh, yassuh. Lawd Russell jes’ lemme loose. An’ I been eight days gittin’ here from de ship in Richmon’.”

“Boy, come on in here in the kitchen!” Massa Lea was tugging Chicken George’s wrists. And when they reached there, he scraped back the broken table’s two chairs. “ Set, boy! ’LIZY! Where my jug? ’LIZY!”

“Comin’, Massa—” the old woman’s voice came from outside. “She’s done got addled since you left, don’t know yesterday from tomorrow,” said Massa Lea.

“Massa, where my fam’ly?”

“Boy, less us have a drink fore we talk! Long as we been together, we ain’t never had a drink together! So glad you back here, finally sombody to talk to!”

“Ain’t fo’ talkin’, Massa! Where my fam’ly—”

“’LIZY!”

“Yassuh—” Her bulk moved through the door frame and she found and put a jug and glasses on the table and then went back outside as if unaware of Chicken George and Massa Lea there talking.

“Yeah, boy, I sure am sorry ’bout your mammy. She just got too old, didn’t suffer much, and she went quick. Put ’er in a good grave—” Massa Lea was pouring them drinks.

On purpose ain’t mentionin’ ’Tilda an’ de chilluns, it flashed through Chicken George’s mind. Ain’t changed none... still tricky an’ dangerous as a snake... got to keep from gittin’ ’im real mad...

“‘Member de las’ things you said to me, Massa? Said you be settin’ me free jes’ soon’s I git back. Well, here I is!”