Bear Bob's Story as told to Edward Summer

Chapter Thirteen
Another Bear
 

The days and the weeks passed. The time for the cotton came once again and I went to the fields to pick the cotton. I did not go to the house every day as I had. Someone else took the chamber pots outside every morning.

     I only saw the little girl from time to time. She would run by. Sometimes she would smile at me. If no one was looking, I smiled back.

     One morning I noticed that I had not seen her for many days.

     “Has the little girl gone away?” I asked the big brown woman from the kitchen. She always knew these things.

     “No, boy! She is sick! They keep her in her bed!”

     “Oh,” I said. “Oh.” I felt very sad for her.

     The big brown woman shook her head at me. I think she smiled, too, but I was not sure. I was not sure.

     All the day while I picked the cotton, I thought about the little girl. She must be unhappy if she is sick. She loved to run around all of the day. She loved to make noise. She loved to make trouble. I could see her running with her red scarf blowing in the breezes.

     I must do something to make her feel better, I thought. What could I do? What could I do?”
 
 

     All at once Teddy looked up and stopped speaking. His eyes opened and stared directly into Teedie’s.

     “What’s wrong, Teddy?” Teedie sat up and looked at the bear sitting in the room in front of him. “Why did you stop?”

     Teddy was silent.

     “What happened then?” Teedie asked.

     “If I tell you, you must promise,” Teddy said in the strange voice. “If I tell you, you must promise never to tell. Never.”

     “I promise, Teddy, I promise,” Teedie said immediately.

     “No. This is a special promise. We are all only as good as our word. If we say a thing, we must mean it. You must mean it, Teedie. You must mean it.”

     Teedie was silent for a moment. Clearly, he was thinking about what this meant. Several minutes passed.

     “Yes,” Teedie said, at last. “Yes. I understand what you mean. I promise.”

     “Good,” Teddy said. “Good. You are the only other one who will know. The only one.”

     Teddy closed his eyes. There was a pause, and then Bear Bob’s story continued.
 
 

     “That night I sat on my bed and watched the women make the quilt outside out cabin. They had finished many, many quilts during the time I had been here at this place. Plantation. That is what they called the place. Plantation. Perhaps the way I counted the time I had been on the plantation was the number of quilts. It took many weeks for each quilt, and there were many quilts. I did not know how to count when I came to the plantation. But the little girl had taught me how. Since the time she taught me there had been 7 quilts. Seven. So it was many months. I had been here more than a year. More than a year. I shook my head.

     I watched the needles go in and out of the small pieces of cloth that made the quilt. I heard the women laugh and talk and sometimes sing. They would sing songs all together. They were not like the songs of home, but they reminded me of my people singing. Sometimes the men would gather and clap their hands and dance while the women sewed. Sometimes I would even stand in the shadows and dance, too.

     Tonight, the women were singing. Tonight the men were dancing. The needles and the thread flashed in the light of the lamps. There was rhythm in the air, almost like the drums of home. But we had no drums. Drums were forbidden.

     Tonight, in the rhythm and in the darkening light I thought of the little girl lying in bed, sick. In my mind, I saw her showing me the books and the words and talking to me and smiling. In my mind, I saw the huge Mother bear come for the little girl.

     The women sang. The men danced. I sat quietly.

     I got up and went over to the big brown woman.

     “May I sew a piece of cloth?” I asked.

     “That is woman work,” she said to me and frowned. “Woman work.”

     “May I please sew a piece of cloth?” I asked again. “That one!” I pointed to some pieces of brown, rough cotton that lay upon the ground next to her.

     She looked at me and wrinkled her forehead.

     “Here,” she said. “Here. Now you bring that needle and thread back to me when you are done. They do not grow on trees, boy! Do you hear?”

     “Yes ma’am.” I said. “Yes, ma’am.”

     I took the brown cloth. I took the needle and the thread. I went and sat by myself and lay the cloth on the ground. I arranged the pieces and began to sew. I sewed here. I bit off the thread, made a new knot and sewed there. I bit off the thread, made a new knot and sewed in a different place.

     The sewing felt like the dancing. My fingers danced over the cloth. The needle flashed as the men clapped their hands. The thread pulled in and out as the women sang.

     Soon there was a shape. I looked at the shape. I got up and went back to the big brown woman. “May I borrow the knife?”

     She looked at me and wrinkled her forehead.

     “Here, boy,” she said. “You bring it back. Do you hear?”

     “Yes.” I said. “Yes, I will.”

     I went back. I trimmed the brown cloth here. I trimmed the brown cloth there. I stitched in more places. I trimmed in another spot. I stitched and trimmed and stopped. I smiled.

     Now I held the cloth and looked at it.

     “Hmmmm.” I thought out loud. This is a very thin thing I have sewn. It is a thin thing with a flat head and flat ears and a flat tummy and flat arms and legs. I must fatten it up. What will do that?

     I took the needle and the thread and the knife back to the big woman and I thanked her. I carried my strange brown quilt back to my bed and pushed it under my pillow. I lay down my head on the pillow. That is when I remembered.

     I jumped out of bed and lifted up my mattress. Everyone was still outside. There was still dancing and singing. I lifted up my mattress. There was the cotton I had saved. The cotton bolls from the field. The soft, white cotton bolls with the seeds inside. I pulled them out and stuffed them into the brown cloth. The men stomped. The men clapped. I pushed the cotton bolls into the brown cloth. I pushed the cotton into two small legs. I pushed the cotton into two small arms. I filled up the head, I filled up the body of the small, stitched brown cloth.

     I looked at it and smiled. It was almost a bear. Almost. There was something missing. What was missing? It was eyes! The bear could not see!

     Quickly I ran outside and over to the big woman. It was getting dark, but the women still sewed.

     “Do you have two buttons,” I said. “Two buttons?” I held out my hand.

     “Boy! What do you want with buttons, boy?” she looked at me and scowled. Scowled.

     “It is a present,” I said softly. “A present.”

     “A present? Who would you be giving a present to?” She scowled and looked down at my empty hand. She did not say anything for a moment.

     She reached down and picked up a small box.

     “Look in here, child,” she said and handed me the box. “Oh, and you will need this, too.” She handed me another needle with a long thread already attached.

     I took box and the needle and thread. and went near to a glowing kerosene lantern. Inside the box were dozens of little buttons. They were all shapes, all sizes, all colors.

     As the women sang, I pushed the buttons around with my fingers. They rattled in the box in rhythm with the clapping all around me. They rattled and rolled in the box.

     And then two eyes stared up at me out of the box. They were round and brown and deep as the night. And they stared up at me and smiled out of the box.

     I reached in and took them out.

     They were two glass buttons. They were transparent, but they were not transparent. They were brown and dark, but they were clear. They had a little loop on the back. Quickly I sewed them in place on the face of the cloth bear.

     “Is that good?” I whispered into the darkness. “Is that good?” I whispered to the small brown cloth ears that flopped down from the bear’s head.

     The animal stared up at me with these deep, bushbaby eyes, and seemed to say; “Yes. The eyes are good! I can see you. Now, I need a nose to find the honey with.” And I thought yes, yes, yes. You need a nose for the honey.

     I dug through the box and there was a small, round, flat black button. Quickly. Quickly,  I sewed the button on. “Ahhhhh,” the bear seemed to say, “that is so much better I can smell. Now I need  a mouth to talk to you. A mouth.”

     A mouth, I thought. A mouth. A button will not do for a mouth. Then I was sad. I took the box and the bear and the buttons and I went back into the darkness and sat upon my bed.

     I sat and listened to the singing. The singing. And then I remembered. And then I smiled. Hanging on the side of my bed was Mittie’s red-flannel scarf. She had given it to the big woman to tie around my head.

     Quickly, quickly. I cut a piece of the red cloth. I stitched a row of thread teeth and then, snip, stitch, snip, a small red tongue.

     The bear seemed to smile. “That is good,” it seemed to say inside my mind. “That is good, I will be able to taste the honey now! But there is still one thing missing.” This was all talking in my mind. It was silent out in the room..

     “Missing?” I whispered aloud. “Missing?”

     “A heart,” said the bear. “A heart. I cannot truly love without a heart.”

     Oh, I thought. Oh. Where will I get a heart? I looked through the box of buttons. I looked at them all. And they were only buttons. Only buttons. So I sat. Silent. Holding the bear on my lap in the darkness, listening, listening, to the singing and the clapping and the dancing. Listening quietly.

     All at once it was clear. In the singing I heard the hope. In the clapping I heard the joy. In the dancing I saw the freedom. All at once I knew.

     I reached around my neck and took off the leather pouch.

     I opened the pouch and poured out the three baobab seeds. They sat in my hand.

     Now I knew. Here. Here was the love. Now I would give it away.

     I put one of the seeds between my lips and held it carefully. Then I put the other two back into the bag and hung it around my neck.

     I opened my lips and let the seed fall onto my palm. I polished it carefully against my chest where my heart was. Gently, I blew upon it until it was dry and shiny and beautiful.

     “Here. Here is the love.” I whispered aloud into the empty cabin.

     Carefully, I started to place the seed inside the bear, just where its heart should be. Then I stopped, because now I truly understood.

     I removed it once again and held it between my thumb and first finger.

     “Love,” I whispered to the seed. “You are the heart of love. You have come from the baobab tree. On the great sea, you were lost in the darkness and invisible hands returned you to me. You were nearly destroyed, but you survived and traveled to this place. Even the slave master spared you. It was nothing I did. It was the love of others, and the love of the universe.”

     “Debein,” I whispered to the seed. “Jaa debein - debein ni hwe gbo.  True love is without end. Jaa debein - debein ni hwe gbo. True love is without end.”

     My lips touched the seed in a kiss. Just as my mother had kissed me when I was a child.  Just as my mother had kissed me.

     Now I placed the seed inside the bear’s chest. I nestled the baobab seed into the bolls of cotton. I tucked it snugly into the soft whiteness.

     With a few stitches the seed was inside. Forever and ever.

     “Now, bear, now you have a heart.”

     “Yes! Yes!” the bear seemed to whisper, “Yes. Thank you.” The bear seemed to rest now.

     My mind was silent and I stared at the bear. I took a deep breath and listened to the air pass in and out of my nose. In that quiet, I heard the bear whisper to me again.

     “Please,” the voice said in my mind. “Please tell me who I am. I need a name. A name. A name.”