“What you got there?” Tarabelle asked, after we had walked nearly a quarter of a mile in silence.
“Mama sent me to get a dress for Laura.”
“She got money for something like that?”
“She sent me to steal it, Tara.”
“Well, how come it’s in a bag?” she asked.
Thinking fast, I told the first lie I thought believable.There was no way I could tell her about the midwife. “Jeff let me have the money,” I said.
“You gon’ tell Mama that?” she asked. I shook my head.
“Then you better get it out that bag.”
I hadn’t thought of that.When we reached the top of Fife Street, I removed the dress from the bag, and tucked the bag into some hedge bushes.Tarabelle watched and made little grunting sounds like, “uh, uh, uh,” which made me itch with embarrassment.
“I can’t figure out how you s’pose to be so smart when you so stupid,” she said.
She had saved me from making a mistake, so I kept silent and let her gloat.We turned onto Penyon Road and saw our mother’s car parked in the field.Tarabelle slowed her pace.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What you’ll do for me if I tell you how you can work and go to school at the same time?”
I studied her face, couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious. “Almost anything,” I answered, and meant it.
She grunted again. “I’ll have to think on it.”
“Tell me, Tara, how I can do that?” I asked.
“Well, Miss Arlisa say there’s these Whitmans live on Belcher Road in North Ridge. They looking for a girl to work on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Asked me if I knew anybody.”
We walked on in silence as I mentally calculated the number of days I would have to miss from school. I could get Mr. Pace to talk to Mr.Hewitt for me, and I could stay after school to catch up on anything I missed. I didn’t have the job yet, but I felt that God was smiling down on me, and I was elated.
The house was quiet when we entered. I did not know if my mother had crossed the Georgia state line, but she seemed calm, and she was satisfied with the dress I had gotten.To me, the house and the whole world seemed peaceful. The girls fell asleep almost as soon as they were done with supper, Wallace was his normal self and gave no indication that either of us had been to Selman Street, and when Mama told Tarabelle to get ready to make a run, there was no complaining from my sister.Tarabelle merely nodded.
“I’m seventeen,” she announced, much the way one would announce the time.“Today is August twenty-eighth, and I’m seventeen.”
A short time later a car stopped down on the road and I watched my mother and sister leave the house, then I stretched out on my pallet and stared at the ceiling, concentrating on ways to keep my world as peaceful as it was right now.Tomorrow I would find the Whitmans’ house in North Ridge. I would be mature and charming, and they would hire me on the spot, then Mama would have nothing in the world to complain about.
thirty
Veatrice Whitman was the personification of a cracker in every sense of the word. I found her sitting on the front porch of the worst house in all of North Ridge. The house had once been white with green shutters, but the paint was peeling, and the shutters were dangling. She was surrounded by a dozen red clay pots and a heap of wet earth. Her bare feet and her arms, up to the elbows, were coated with mud. There were smudges of muck on the pink sundress she wore. Her long, blond hair was wet from the recent rain and was plastered to her face and the back of her neck. She appeared to be close to my mother’s age.
I approached her cautiously. “Good morning, ma’am. Are you Mrs.Whitman?” I asked.
“I’m Miss Whitman,” she drawled. “Could you hand me that spade out there by the rose bush?”
Foolishly, I had worn my best dress. It was now soaked from the downpour. I supposed I appeared to be in desperate need of work. I stepped around holes that had been dug in the yard, picked up the spade, and carried it to the porch.
“It’s best to get the dirt when it’s raining,” Miss Whitman said. “That way you ain’t got to water it so much.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. I don’t know why I agreed with that, but it seemed the proper thing to do, and I was trying to be charming. “Miss Whitman, I hear you’re looking to hire a girl.”
“I guess that’s right,” she said, packing mud into one of the pots, and glancing up at me.“Actually, I don’t think we need nobody, but Bakker thinks we do, and it’s his money. I been taking care of him all his life and now he thinks I need a rest. Can you beat that? You’d think I was an old woman the way he talks. I’m only thirty-two.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stood, and opened the door with a muddy hand.“Come on, let me show you the house. Bakker just bought it. It ain’t much better than the one we moved out of, but Bakker said he had to get closer to town, and he’s gonna fix it up right pretty. Said he wasn’t gonna spend the rest of his life out on a farm.” She laughed girlishly. “I coulda stayed, but he wanted me to come. So here I am.”
The mud on Miss Whitman’s feet would have made prints had the carpet not been black already from an accumulation of embedded grime.The front room was in a shambles. Lime-green curtains had been tacked over the windows in a haphazard fashion. Clothes were strewn over the couch and chairs. An ashtray, heaped with cigarette butts, stood near the edge of a coffee table which had sustained numerous burns. The house smelled of rot, and as I drew closer to Miss Whitman, I noticed she gave off a faint odor that smelled much like Mr. Frank’s dog Squat on a bad day.
On the kitchen floor were broken bottles, empty cans and boxes, and a pot of floating mold. Dirty dishes were stacked on the table and in the sink, and there was not a dishrack or cloth in sight.
“Well, this is it,” Miss Whitman said, spreading her arms in a grandiose manner, and I was sure she was pulling my leg.“There’s the two bedrooms back there, and the bathroom, and then there’s that little room right next to mine.We can’t quite figure what to do with it, yet.”
Appalled, and trying hard not to show it, I stared at the mess in the kitchen.“Miss Whitman, how long has it been since you’ve had a girl?” I asked.
“Oh, honey, we ain’t never had a girl before.We don’t really need one now. Bakker is just trying to be like everybody else, that’s all. He got this house for a little of nothing, and now he wants to do things right proper. He told me to hire myself a nigger to get this place in shape and to keep it that way.”
“No disrespect, Miss Whitman, but can you afford a girl?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t intend to pay nobody, honey,” she answered. “Bakker’s gonna take care of all that. He says I’m to offer three dollars a day, and not a penny more.And Bakker says two days a week is plenty. He wants you on Wednesday when he ain’t here, and on Saturday when he is.” She giggled again.“You can start right here in the kitchen. I would do it myself, but I’m up to my elbows in my flowers.”
“Today isn’t Wednesday or Saturday,” I told her, because I had the impression she didn’t know which day of the week it was.
“No, I guess it isn’t,” she said, “but I’ll pay you for today, anyway, and we won’t say a word to Bakker.”
“Is Bakker your husband?”
“Oh, no, honey. Bakker is my little brother. He got him a job down at the courthouse. He’s gonna be a lawyer real soon now.”
I stepped over to the sink and contemplated the task before me. What would you do if you worked all day for a man, and he didn’t pay you? Hambone had asked that question months ago, and at the time it had not applied to me. Now it might. It would take hours just to put the kitchen in order, and I hadn’t even glanced inside the bedrooms.
“Pay me first, and I’ll do it,” I said, in my first act of blatant insolence.
She cocked her head to one side and a frown gouged the space between her brows. Then she stepped into the front room. I was sure she was showing me out so I followed her. She stopped at th
e couch and searched through a pile of clothes until she found a white cotton shirt.
“Tear yourself a dish rag from this,” she said, tossing the shirt to me.“Bakker won’t miss it. He’ll be able to buy new shirts now. He’s gonna be a lawyer.” She paused, and our eyes met. “He likes to scare niggers. I won’t let him scare you, though.”
I stood holding the shirt while she made her way down a short hallway to one of the back rooms.When she returned, she stepped past me, placed three dollars on the cluttered kitchen table, then said, “I trusted you enough to let you in my house. I don’t know you, but sometimes you have to trust people.”
She brushed past me again and proceeded toward the front porch where she sat on the floor and entertained herself with clay pots and mud.This was my first job, and I had not started it with maturity and charm as I had intended. I didn’t feel bad, though, because I did not trust Miss Whitman. Something was wrong with her, although I wasn’t qualified to say what it was.
I removed the money from the table and tucked it inside my sock, then I ripped the shirt—really ripped it good—until I had a strip of cloth small enough to work with. As I tackled the dirty dishes, I thought of apologizing to Miss Whitman, but I was sure she would never understand.
thirty - one
My mother’s reaction to my job was wide-eyed disbelief. “What the hell we gon’ do wit’ six dollars a week?” she asked. “That ain’t nothing, Tangy Mae. I hear them Griggs, who own the furniture store in town, is looking to hire a girl. I’m gon’ take you over there.”
“They already hired Becky James, ”Wallace informed her.
“How you know?” Mama asked.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Well, I can’t go on what you heard. I’m gon’ go see for myself. And while I’m gone, Wallace, I want you to clean that outhouse. Damn thing smelling up the whole town, and you ain’t done nothing wit’ it since some time last year.You oughta know you can’t just leave it be in this kinda heat.”
Wallace and I exchanged glances.We remembered Mama, just yesterday, commenting on the decent job Wallace had done, and Wallace had accepted the compliment without mentioning it was really I who had done all of the scrubbing. It seemed Mama was preoccupied or forgetful. She barely gave me enough time to comb my hair before rushing me toward the front door, stating that we had to get to East Grove quick before somebody else got the job. Although her car was in plain view, she walked me away from the house as though she had forgotten she could drive.
As we walked, Mama tried several times to engage me in conversation, but I didn’t feel much like talking. I was wondering why I could not keep my job with the Whitmans, why we could not compromise.Mama finally gave up on trying to get me to talk, and fell into a monologue about her days working for the Munfords.
“No, it wadn’t so bad at all when I think about it,” she said. “They was pretty nice to me. Miss Arlisa gave me over half them blankets we still using to this day. Expensive things. When I first started working for ’em, she wadn’t fat and she would give me dresses I could wear.And, of course, there was the things I just took on my own. It wadn’t like stealing. I mean, if I was there working for ’em, she wouldna begrudged me a cup or two of coffee, so I just didn’t drink it there, instead I took it home wit’me. It ain’t bad when the missus is gone all day and you got the house to yo’self. There was a time when Miss Arlisa stayed home all day. I remember how tired she used to get from doing nothing. That’s when they get mean and start finding things for you to do ’cause they ain’t got nothing to do themself.”
Mama laughed.“I don’t know what it woulda been like if they’d had children. Tarabelle gon’ have her hands full. You know, we oughta drop by there when we get done at the Griggs.”
It was early morning, but already it was hot and humid. Beads of sweat rolled down my neck and formed on my back and in my armpits while my mother strolled along, seemingly oblivious to the heat. Dark clouds, too heavy and sluggish to float, hung over Triacy County as far as the eye could see. I knew days like this, and we were in for a good storm. It made me think of Jeff Stallings.
We turned onto Oglesbee Street and saw Miss Janie Jay hard at work in one of her flowerbeds. When she noticed us, she leaned against her gate and watched our approach.
“Tangy Quinn, you come early to church Sunday morning,” she said as we passed her. “We got two new songs you need to learn, and they ain’t easy songs. Brother Freddie wants you to sing lead in one of them. How is it you got that nice voice and can’t ever make it to choir practice?”
“I’ll come early, Miss Janie,” I called, keeping pace with Mama and noticing that the two women had not acknowledged each other.
We crossed the bridge from Stump Town into East Grove, like stepping out of darkness into light.The houses on this side of the bridge were enormous. It was hard to imagine a single family taking up so much space. It was only my third time in East Grove, and my first opportunity to admire the landscape.Assortments of flowers grew in imaginative beds bordering manicured lawns. In one yard a star of white rock held a cushiony mound of colorful chrysanthemums.Across the street from that was a stone walkway lined with zinnias and marigolds. Even with the threatening clouds darkening the earth, East Grove was a kaleidoscope of colors.
Mama came to a halt in front of a two-story red-brick house where the lawn was enclosed by a U-shaped row of neatly trimmed hedges. “I think this is it,” she said, and started for the house. I trailed her up the driveway, past a parked car, and around to the back door.There was no porch, only three steps leading up to a cement stoop. I waited on the ground beside the stoop while Mama knocked on the door.
A young male voice greeted Mama through the screen. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Morning, ”Mama began, “I’m Rozelle Quinn, and this here is my daughter, Tangy Mae.” She beckoned for me to join her on the stoop. “We hear the Griggses is looking to hire a girl, and Tangy Mae is right good at cleaning.”
Almost immediately there was a change in the young man’s demeanor. “You’re a nigger?” he asked, then yelled back into the house, “Kirk! Dave!” He turned once more to face my mother, and said, “Every five minutes another bunch of you niggers come knocking on this door.What do you think we are?”
Without warning, he shoved open the screen door. The frame of the door caught Mama on one side of her face. She staggered back and sat heavily on the top step, and I saw a crimson teardrop appear at the outer corner of one beautiful gray eye. When I glanced back toward the screen, I saw that the young man had been joined by two others.Their presence did not deter me from what I knew I had to do. I yanked at the screen door. Pain shot through my sprained finger.The youngest Griggs boy attempted to hold the door closed, but he had no grip. The door opened, and I was on him, releasing fourteen years of pent up rage.
For a moment the other two let me get away with it—too startled, I guessed, by the unexpected—then they shoved my prey toward me.“Get her, Donnie,” they urged, but Donnie proved to be more talk than action. He was trying desperately to get away from me. I gave up clawing at his face and began to pound the fist of my uninjured hand against his head.That was when the other two came to his defense and began to strike at me. But their blows were without force as the enclosed area of the doorway hindered them. Behind them, I could hear Becky James shouting, “Stop it! Stop it!”
I backed from the doorway and moved down the stoop, then went to stand in the yard beside my mother. Becky was busy trying to calm and restrain the three young men. The one I had attacked looked to be about my age, the other two were older.
“Can’t y’all see she just a child?” Becky asked.
“They’re niggers,” one of the young men said, “and they’ve got three seconds to get out of our yard.”
“They ain’t niggers, Kirk Griggs,” Becky protested. “They human beings just like you.”
Kirk Griggs shoved Becky’s arm. Color rose in his cheeks, and he balled hi
s fists.“I think my daddy would agree that I don’t have to take this kind of sass from no nigger wench,” he retorted.
“And I’m sho’ my mama would agree that I ain’t gotta take it from no puny little white boy,” Becky said.“I’ll just get my things, and you can tell yo’ daddy to find him somebody else—if he can.”
Becky disappeared into the house, then emerged seconds later with her pocketbook swinging from her hand. She was Harvey’s age, had entered school and dropped out with Harvey. She stepped past the three young men, then turned back to say, “Y’all can finish cooking, and cleaning that house—if you want.Y’all old enough to do something besides sitting around watching me work.”
Becky moved toward the driveway. I started to follow, but stopped when I felt my mother tug slightly at the sleeve of my blouse. Stealthily, Mama eased her feet from her shoes, and turned her head in my direction. Something in her eyes told me to get ready.
The three Griggs boys had moved down from the stoop and were now standing in the yard. The oldest one, Kirk, shouted, “Now!”They rushed toward us. Kirk went for Mama, Dave went after Becky, and the one named Donnie came straight at me. I could tell from the expression on his face that he wished I would disappear so that he would not have to further humiliate himself. I almost laughed, but instead, I sidestepped his charge and slammed my fist into his back. He went sprawling across the lawn. I followed after him, climbed on top, and held him immobile with my weight while I plucked at his flesh once more with my nails. He cried out, bucked several times, and finally freed himself. He did the right thing after that. He ran for the safety of the house.
Becky was using her pocketbook against Dave. The boy was blubbering and trying to get away, but Becky held onto his arm and kept striking him across his head with a pocketbook that had to have been loaded with more than lipstick and a handkerchief. There was a heavy sound to the blows that landed on Dave Griggs.