Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [364]
It wasn’t until they’d seen each other regularly for almost two months—and had begun to talk secretly about marriage—that Tom Murray, who had known about them from the start, ordered her to stop skulking around and bring him home from church the following Sunday. Elizabeth did as she was told. John Toland couldn’t have been friendlier or more respectful when he was introduced to Tom Murray, who was even more taciturn than usual, and excused himself after only a few minutes of painful pleasantries. After John Toland left, Elizabeth was called by Tom Murray, who said sternly: “It’s plain to see from de way you act roun’ dat boy dat you’s stuck on ’im. You two got anythin’ in mind?”
“What you mean, Pappy?” she stuttered, flushing hotly.
“Gittin’ married! Dat’s on your mind, ain’t it?”
She couldn’t speak.
“You done tol’ me. Well, I’d like to give you my blessin’s, ’cause I wants you to be happy much as you does. He seem like a good man—but I can’t let you hitch up wid ’im.”
Elizabeth looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“He too high-yaller. He could nigh ’bout pass fo’ white—jes’ not quite. He ain’t fish or fowl. Y’unnerstan’ what I’se sayin’? He too light fo’ black folks, too dark fo’ white folks. He cain’t he’p what he look like, but don’t care how hard he try, he never gon’ b’long nowhere. An’ you got to think ’bout what yo’ chilluns might look like! I don’t want dat kinda life fo’ you, ’Lizabeth.”
“But Pappy, ever’body like John! If ’n we gits ’long wid Ol’ George Johnson, why can’t we git ’long wid him?”
“Ain’t de same!”
“But Pappy!” she was desperate. “You talk ’bout people not’ceptin’ ’im! You’s de one ain’t!”
“Dat’s ’nough! You done said all I’m gon’ hear ’bout it. You ain’t got de sense to keep ’way from dat kinda grief, I gotta do it fo’ you. I don’ want you seein’ ’im no mo’.”
“But Pappy . . .” She was sobbing.
“It’s over wid! Dat’s all is to it!”
“If ’n I cain’t marry John, ain’t never gon’ marry nobody!” Elizabeth screamed.
Tom Murray turned and strode from the room, slamming the door. In the next room, he stopped.
“Tom, what do you . . .” Irene began, sitting up rigidly in her rocker.
“Ain’t got no mo’ to say ’bout it!” he snapped, marching out the front door.
When Matilda found out about it, she got so angry that Irene had to restrain her from confronting Tom. “Dat boy’s pappy got white blood in ’im!” she shouted. Suddenly wincing, then clutching at her chest, Matilda lurched against a table. Irene caught her as she toppled to the floor.
“O my God!” she moaned, her face contorted with pain. “Sweet Jesus! O Lawd, no!” Her eyelids fluttered and closed.
“Grandmammy!” Irene shouted, seizing her around the shoulders. “Grandmammy!” She put her head to her chest and listened. There was still a heartbeat. But two days later it stopped.
Chicken George didn’t cry. But there was something heart-breaking about his stoniness, the deadness in his eyes. From that day on, no one could remember him ever smiling again or saying a civil word to anyone. He and Matilda had never seemed really close—but when she died, somehow his own warmth died with her. And he began to shrink, dry up, grow old almost overnight—not turning feeble and weak-minded but hard and mean-tempered. Refusing to live anymore in the cabin he had shared with Matilda, he began to roost with one son or daughter after another until both he and they were fed up, when old gray-headed Chicken George moved on. When he wasn’t complaining, he’d usually sit on the porch in the rocker he took along with him and stare fiercely out across the fields for hours at a time.
He had just turned eighty-three—having cantankerously refused to touch a bite of the birthday cake that was baked for him—and was sitting late in the winter of 1890 in front of the fire at his eldest granddaughter Maria Jane’s house. She had ordered him to sit still and rest his bad leg while she hurried out