Some Sing, Some Cry

  “Shoot, woman, you know how many time the trumpet inna Bible? . . . The horn be a powerful instrument of Gawd. Number Ten, verses one to ten. Signal of there gonna be danger. Signal for the people of Israel to gather together. Blow on feast day and the Sabbath. No work till Monday! Celebrate when you win a battle and honor the dead. Joshua used it in Jericho. Gideon in the victory over the Midianites. When Solomon was made king, a hundred twenty priests sounding trumpets. That’s a lot of sound. Revelations, the trumpet will sound and the dead will rise and the Lord Hisself will descend. Sides, this be a cornet.”

  “I didn’t figure you to be so studied up on the Bible, Mr. Winrow.”

  “I ain’t that easy to figure out now. Look like Preachuh needed a little help this mornin’,” he joked, then continued. “I don’t go in much fuh the prayin’ part myself, but I likes the music . . . I figured a good woman wouldn’t much go wid nuttin but a church man, sose I might as well find a church what likes music.” His humor was greeted with silence from both women. Dora liked Win, and his waiting upon her she found very convenient and flattering. Still she dreaded his advances. She preferred her relationship with Win just the way it was. Neighborly.

  “I would much been wantin’ to inquire, Miss Dora. I see you real good at readin’ and writin’. I kin do figurin’ well enough, but eben a grown man could use some schoolin’. I been fittin to ax iffen you had some time, could set aside some time, to teach me book learnin’ in private—never too old, but nobody’s business you doin’ it juss the same.”

  Dora sighed with relief that Win’s request was not a proposal. “Cose I don’t mind tutorin’ you, Mr. Winrow. Readin’ is a powerful thing. You are a courageous and wise man to recognize that. It would be my pleasure.”

  “I would consider that more than exchange for the livery and would like to do sompin fuh you . . . and your grandmammy.”

  In the span of a country sermon, Mah Bette had decided she didn’t like Thomas Winrow anymore. A musician had stolen her Juliet and brought her to a bad end, and she did not want that fate for Dora. Bette sucked her teeth and retorted, “You doan have to pay me no mind. I be juss fine.”

  “I know that, Mah Bette. Seen you wid yo banjo. Got a nice strum to it. But you know, Callendar’s Minstrels be in town in a fortnight. Got thirty pickers inna band. If you never seen a real traveling show, this the one! All colored. Got they own railroad car.” Bette perked up. He boasted further, “Some of my buddies inna band. Won Miss Lizzie offa one. Oh, that my horn, not no other woman.”

  Dora hesitated. “I should think you’d wanna take Miss Pilar.”

  “Pilar ain’t no nevermind to me. Useta keep comny, but not for no permanent purpose, and that was a long way back. She juss a good bidness partner, card games and such, is all. But I don’t plays much no more. Hardly even think about it. Cuz I done found God, I has. I done seent me a bit of heaven the first day I laid eyes on you. I would like to ’scort you, if I may.”

  Dora had never seen a real minstrel show. And even she knew of Callendar’s and their trademark song, “Oh Dem Golden Slippers.” She could wear her precious lace boots for the occasion. “I don’t rightly know, Mr. Winrow. I will consider it, I guess. I will consider to consider it, I reckon.”

  “Gotta hab some fun sometime, Miss Dora.”

  “Well, yes, I spose I could. We—Mah Bette and me.”

  “Great day in the mornin’!” Thomas Winrow rubbed his palms together, threw them above his head and out into the shape of wings.

  Bette waited until they were back at Rose Tree Lane to fuss. She followed Dora up the narrow stairs to their flat. “Don’t hitch up to him just yet. You might wait till he’s got some hired help or something. You don’t haveta marry him at all. He ain’t paid that lien yet, and you want a man who’s got something of his own.”

  “Oh, fuh goodness sakes! I ain’t marryin’ nobody. Juss goin’ to the show.” They opened the door and found young Roswell Jr. seated at the kitchen table, now reinforced and shellacked. He stood upon their entrance. Dora folded her hands together in indignation.

  “You have done wonders with this place, Dora.”

  “Thank you. I wonder should I invest in some new locks.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger. Seems you’ve made an impression on quite a few people.” He handed her a small square envelope. “Miranda Marivale has sent me on a mission. You’ve arrived, my dear cousin.”

  With Bette plying her for what it said, Dora could barely read the note. “It’s an invitation. The Brown Society of Charleston . . . Cordially invites you to a reading by Miss Ida B. Wells . . . Grandma, I’ve been invited to a book party.”

  Bette put her hands on her hips. “Who ever heard of a party fuh uh book?”

  6

  “I reckon I recommend a ruffle at the cowl, Miss Tildie, to set off your figure, and a ribbon brooch around your neck to match your cameo earrings, with your hair up like so. With perhaps a few curls in the front to show off—”

  “My forehead, I know.” Tildie Bonneau squinted in the looking-glass.

  Dora peered out from behind her. “I kin show you how to make the curl tuh stay.”

  “Kin yuh, Dora?”

  “Oh yes, of course, Miss Tildie, my pleasure.” Somethin’ gotta make this dress look right.

  For weeks, Dora had been preparing gowns for Tildie Bonneau’s trousseau and wedding party. The harvest party season presented a perfect framing for Miss Bonneau’s announcement of engagement—dinners, balls, and casual gatherings designed to impress her fiancé’s family with her social prominence and her privileged Charleston elite friends with his money. Tildie and her bridesmaid gossiped shamelessly, both of them prisoners of straight pins, while Dora finished their fitting. Dora had learned to ignore their chatter.

  “Other than his bein’ from Delaware, he’s the perfect pedigree. Princeton—old Yankee money—Mayflower. One Southern grandma. All he needs now is a young Southern wife. Young, Southern, virginal, and pure,” Tildie went on.

  “When is Cole going to find me a Princeton classmate?” Dora heard one of the bridesmaids whine. The entourage—Nimmie, Ginny, Nancy P., and Annie—were interchangeable. Dora could never tell them apart.

  “They’ve gotta let him back in first.”

  “I’m young, Southern, virginal, and pure, bein’ goddaughter to Julius Mayfield oughta count fuh, ow! What’s wrong wid you—nig—”

  “Dora, where is yo’ mind today? Go an’ get me somethin’ to drink.”

  “Yes, m’am.”

  “Do not call me m’am! Call me Tildie or Tootie or Miss Tootie. Anything but m’am!”

  “Yes, miss.”

  As she exited, the bridesmaid jiggled on the hem stool. “Tildie, I gotta go to the potty.”

  “Dora! Where is your silly ass? Get us outta these pins, please!”

  Dora ignored them and continued down the hall. The wedding dress and the bridesmaids’ gowns would surely make an impression. Business would grow. That was the plan. And now it had gone awry again. How they just presumed she was there to wait on them! She had not expected her own pedigree to come up, but if the Mayfields were still a prominent family, there was no indication of their relation to her. Even so, the comment had unnerved her.

  “Miss Matilda would like some mint tea,” she announced to the regular maid, the kitchen swing door swaying loudly behind her. The young girl folded her arms across her chest, announcing she had no intention of budging. “Git it yoseff.” Dora gritted her teeth and got the glasses from the cupboard. She pulled apart the sprigs of mint, doused the water pitcher with sugar, then placed the whole saccharine presentation on a silver serving tray. The maid snickered as she left. The swing door popped her in the back. Sparks pricked at her woolen stockings as she marched across the hallway Persian carpet and up the stairs.

  The day had collected static, distracting Dora from other concerns. She had put off telling Winrow that she could not go to the minstrel show with him. She had prac
ticed several versions—lies, the truth, the truth with different emphases, part of the truth. Maybe won’t say nothin’. Maybe somethin’ll happen and won’t be no need. But nothing had happened and now she only had two days left. How was she going to tell him that the minstrel show was the same day as the book party? When he come over for his readin’ lesson, why din’t you tell him then? Her confusion was turning her whole day into a medley of irritations.

  Oh dem golden slippers, oh dem golden slippers, golden slippers I’se goin’ to wear, because they look so neat . . . She had wanted to hear that music, but an invitation to the Marivales’ was an entrée to colored society, one that had not been offered by her own blood kin. It not only meant business opportunity, but the opportunity to meet some more suitable partners. No, cain’t say that. She didn’t actually believe that. She hated the presumptions of entitlement, worth, and acceptance that her aunt’s social group assigned to color. Nevertheless, as strongly as she disdained their practice of exclusion, she wanted so very much to pass their judgment. Her desires were torn. She so wanted to hear the music and to wear her lace-tipped shoes. Oh dem golden slippers, oh dem golden slippers, golden slippers I’se goin’ to wear, to walk the golden street . . . Suddenly Dora realized that the song’s refrain wasn’t in her head but was emanating from across the upstairs hall.

  Following the music, she ascended the stairs and crossed the hall, then stood transfixed in the doorway, the tray of mint tea juleps in her hand. Coleridge McKinley was seated with his papers and cigar. She moved away wordlessly, her back straight as a pin as always, her head a little bowed. “No, Dora, it’s fine really. It’s just a piano. Plays by itself. Come see.” The new player piano had brought the bird to his perch. He cranked up the handle and a medley of tinny chords danced across the keys. Like magic!

  “I bes’ get back to yo’ cousin Miss Tildie.”

  Languishing in his rooms, Coleridge was in dread of his own dementia. His grandfather, who had lived in baronial splendor, now wandered around a withered old fool in gray homespun and soiled tights. The sight disgusted him, the slobbering excuses for defeat. He found it all so tedious. He blocked her path. “You needn’t go just yet.” Mid-afternoon and he had already been drinking.

  “Please let me pass.”

  “Why, Miss High and Mighty?”

  “Get away from me, suh.”

  “Bring you something nice.”

  “Get away.”

  He leaned against the door frame and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I seen yo grandmammy on the docks. Sellin’ charms. Crab claw under the tongue. Where’s your charm, huh? Let me see?” When his palm graced her lips, she bit him good. The tray went flying. Green crystal glass and sprigs of mint crashed to the floor. Coleridge retreated back to his room as Tildie came running out, followed by her entourage—Nimmie, Ginny, Nancy P., and Annie.

  “Goddammit, Dora, clean that up! Takin’ it out yoah wages, yuh know.”

  Dora determined from thenceforth to finish up early and get on home. Come back inna morning is better. His ol’ drunk ass be sleep.

  She walked back to her home that day, marching off her fury. As she approached the two-story row house, narrow alleys closed in on her. Less space than the quarters. Slave street. Was there no escape? She was still sputtering fury when Winrow arrived. Sweat poured from her forehead as she ironed a batch of dress shirts for Yum Lee. How stupid!

  “Whyn’t you wait fuh me to fetch yuh?”

  “What is it of your business, Win? I am doin’ my work.”

  “A woman of mine wouldn’t do no work.”

  “I am my own woman, not one uh yourn.”

  Her sharpness took him aback. “. . . You got the niggah’s attention, Miss Dora. What’s wrong? Sumpin happen at that house?”

  “No, nuthin happen. Why you ax sumpin like that?”

  “Things is changin’, that’s all. Times mo dangerous. Sully got pulled off the railroad n beat up. Stoah got shot up in Allendale, dragged the colored sheriff through the street back of his own wagon. Lynchin’ up the way at—”

  “That’s lowlife white trash cuttin’ up, not respectable folk. I have a respectable job.”

  “Look around. Rights stripped away, more every week it seem. They even trying to say I cain’t do livery no mo. Axing where my license, sayin’ they a new law an cullud cain’t cart no people, only produce n livestock. It’s raining fire, Dora. And you just walkin’ through it blind. I juss wanna make sure you safe.”

  She slapped the hot iron upright on the table. “I kin see juss fine. Everybody kin see it’s the women that’s gettin’ the work. I got to get this money. That’s how I be safe. That’s what people respect.” She did not tell Win anything of the incident. She felt confident that she could handle it herself. Her back was strong from lifting bolts of material, her fingers nimble enough to gouge, pinch, and scratch.

  “I didn’t come to fight wit yuh, I used too strong words. Just let me pick you up is all I ax.”

  “All right then.” She watched him, fingering his hat. “But I ain’t goin’ to the minstrel show with you. I cain’t . . . I been invited somewheres else.”

  “If you wanna miss the bess band inna country, don’t understand that. But I’ll go wherever you wants.”

  “The invitation was just for me, Win. It is a private function, but it’s a chance to improve my condition, my situation in life. There’ll be a lot of clients for work. It’s important for my business, really. But you go on to the show. And I’m sure Mah Bette still wanna go.”

  “Well, awright then. I kin understand that. But you got to take some time to have some fun sometime, Miss Dora.”

  “I kin have fun latuh. I gotta make sumpin of my life right now.”

  “Well . . . how you goin’ git to this thing? I could drop you on my way if you needin’ transport?”

  “Thank yuh, but my cousin Mr. Diggs has kindly offered me a ride.”

  “Oh I see. Show’s in two days, you juss findin’ this out? . . . Oh I see.”

  “No, Mr. Winrow, you don’t,” she lied. “I just need to go to this event. It will help me make my livin’. I would like to go with you to the show, but I must look out for Ma Bette and myself. I’m sorry I did not give you much notice, but I struggled to tell you.”

  “You don’t ever need to struggle to tell me nothin’, Miss Dora.” He broke into a wide bright grin. “Yo granmammy an me gon have us a good ol’ time. Now, I bettuh git my lesson or Aunt Sibby be mean as a snake, I ain’t there to pick her up.”

  Eudora could not catch her breath. Dear Lord, please help me. When I get to askin’, you know I’m serious. That morning, the sky still dark, she had already started working on her hair, scenting the cooking oil to grease it with tea rose water. She had left her hair plaited in thick sections for three days to get it to look wavy, and coated it nightly to make it shine, all the while praying that the sea fog would not envelop the city on this most important day. Each strand bristled as if terrified. Dora was always trying to improve herself, but no effort was ever good enough. Embarrassed by both sides—the mothuh’s, the phantom fathuh’s—she was as wracked by doubt as she was stoked with determination. They’s all gonna be high, high-toned. God the Fathuh sent me these trials to prepare me for His Kingdom.

  Dora made herself respectable with meticulous attention to detail. Collar buttoned, hands gloved. Hat, purse, posture. She had decorated her old straw sunbonnet with wildflowers that Win had brought her from his farm. A perfectly symmetrical bouquet of pansies, poppies, bluebells, and lilies tied to a wreath of sea grass arched across the front brim. She wore it tilted forward to accommodate the rather large folds of hair, which she had swept into an asymmetrical sculpture. Saucer on a teacup. She suddenly regretted the flurry of imagination. How stupid!

  She was beside herself. A woman living without a father, husband, or male relative. This was black Charleston’s cream of the crop and its café au lait. A woman who made clothes for a living. No
education, no money. The thinnest grasp on respectability. My pride, their shame, their pride, mine. She thirsted for air, then stopped breathing altogether. Sitting on the banister beside the reception table was a small brown paper bag. The torn edges of paper fluttered and buzzed in the breeze. Brown Society? That’s what it is? She bristled at the prospect of her flesh tone being compared to a paper bag. Her chest constricted with pain, her breath shallow. The last stair. Dora stepped up, lowered her gaze, and steeled herself before looking up.

  The young men at the reception table froze in wonder. She had no concept of her beauty or its impact. There is something wrong, I did not pass, I did not pass, this doggone hat has too many flowers . . . Her eyes startled everyone. “I am a guest of Miranda Marivale, Miss Dora May.” She stood with her back perfectly straight as the young gentleman rifled through the list and found her name handwritten on the bottom. “Ah yes, of course,” he chirped and held the bag up to her face. She almost fainted.

  “Bon-bon?”

  “Put that away, John Lake,” the elder Mrs. Marivale interceded.

  “Madame, if I must man the table, I am entitled to some nourishment.”

  “At least let me get you a dish.”

  “I prefer the bag. That way I can share with whom I wish.” He smiled at Dora. Roswell Jr. bumped her bustle with his plump torso as he reached over her and swiped one of the small candies. “So nice of you to offer, John Lake.” Roswell took another. “But my cousin is not interested in any of your bon-bons.”

  The elder Mrs. Marivale rescued her and whisked her into the house. “I can see why Roswell’s son has kept you to himself. My dear, you are simply beautiful! Never put any anything on your face!”

  It was a three-storied mansion, each room larger than the last. The walls were oddly covered with mural paintings of near naked cherubim and women embracing, draped in flowing swatches of cloth, frolicking in dense amber foliage. “My nephew’s. He studied in Paris.” Mrs. Marivale had the demeanor of one accustomed to privilege. Her gracious, jeweled hands waved about in small swirls as she maneuvered Dora through the vestibule crowd. “We’ll be discussing the latest missive from the hand of Ida B. Wells, a colored female journalist out of Alabama. Quite something, a first for us, a woman writer. That hat is splendid!” Her fine strands of silver hair swept into a chignon, her rounded shoulders consumed in a lace cravat, Mrs. Constance Marivale looked whiter and richer than any of the Bonneaus. “The christening gown was a work of art. You must meet my nephew. He is artistic, too. Oh, there’s the assemblyman, excuse me, dear.”