The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of Your Heart by Michael Phillips Read Free Book Online

you going to tell on us?”
    “I don’ rightly know yet, Miz Kathleen,” he said. “Who wud I tell, an’ what wud I tell ’em? But afore I do anyfing, ah needs ter spen’ some time ruminatin’ an’ prayin’ an’ axin’ da Lord what He thinks ’bout dis whole thing. ’Cuz it’s da Lord who tells me what I’m ter do an’ not ter do. So I got ter fix mysel’ on what His min’ is on hit—den I’ll know what I’m ter do.”
    We watched him go, but didn’t talk much amongst ourselves after he was gone either. Like she was with her uncle, I think in a way maybe Katie was relieved that Henry finally knew.
    And Henry did pray too, just like he said. Back in town, he was thinking and praying long and hard about what he ought to do about us.
    He went back to the livery stable and finished up his day’s work. But he said he couldn’t hardly sleep that night for thinking about us.
    “Lawd, show me what I’m ter do ’bout dese chilluns er yers,” he said he prayed over and over. “Dey’s in some kine er pickle wiffout dere mamas an’ papas, an’ some kine er danger too, but maybe not so much as effen folks knew. An’ since I’m da only one roun’ ’bout dat does, I reckon I gots ter do what I can fer ’em, but you gots ter show me what dat is, Lawd.”

T HE S TORM
    7

    I F THERE’S ONE THING WE LEARNED TO DEPEND ON about Henry, he was true to his word.
    As sure as he’d said it, the next morning we’d hardly finished breakfast and milking and getting the cows out when Jeremiah appeared walking into Rosewood from town.
    He gave me a big smile when he saw me and my heart fluttered a bit.
    “My daddy tol’ me everything dat’s goin’ on here wiff you and Miz Katie,” he said. “An’ he said you’s needin’ mo help wiff da cotton.”
    Half an hour later we were out again in the field. It was so nice not having to pretend anymore. Katie was in especially exuberant spirits, and Jeremiah was more talkative than he’d ever been.
    But the clouds hadn’t gone away and it was chilly and windy. Dust was flying about, getting in our hair and eyes, and every now and then Jeremiah would look up into the sky and shake his head.
    That evening Henry came out again. With him and Jeremiah working, the cotton mounted twice as fast. I don’t know how they managed it, but the next day they both came out a little before lunchtime, and we finished the field where we had begun a month ago and got started on another even bigger one a little farther from the house. We had one wagon full of five hundred-pound bales sitting by the barn before we were done that evening, and another started. It had filled up in no time compared to before.
    All the while as we worked that day it got chillier and chillier and windier, until finally Emma and William had to go back to the house. About an hour later Katie sent Aleta inside too. She was just too tired and cold and wasn’t doing much good anyway and we didn’t want her getting sick. Henry kept picking faster and faster and was mumbling to himself as he glanced up at the clouds swirling above us.
    Gradually I began to feel the moisture in the air so thick you could smell it. We kept working almost frantically now, nobody saying a word. We were all thinking the same thing. I don’t think Katie fully realized the danger, but she knew we couldn’t keep picking in the rain and so she was working as hard, if not harder, though not so fast, as the rest of us.
    Another hour went by. We were emptying our satchels into the wagon faster than ever and the loose cotton was piling up. But we didn’t stop to stuff it into bales.
    Suddenly the wind stopped. The air became calm and still and heavy and warm. We all felt the change and paused, glancing around.
    Henry looked around in every direction, sniffing in the air and still muttering. He looked worried.
    “Hit’s comin’,” he finally said aloud. “Hit’s comin’ fo’ sho’.—Jeremiah!” he called. “We gotter git dis