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by Toni Morrison

  Frank smiled. “My time?”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know. It won’t happen again. Promise.” Frank enclosed her in his arms.

  Things went back to normal. He worked at a car wash in the afternoons, she at Wang’s weekdays and doing alterations on Saturdays. They did less and less socializing, but Lily didn’t miss it. The occasional movie was enough until they sat through He Ran All the Way. Afterward Frank spent part of the night clenching his fist in silence. There were no more movies.

  Lily’s sights were set elsewhere. Little by little she was being singled out for her sewing skills. Twice she had made lace for a bridal veil and, after embroidering a linen tablecloth at the request of a well-to-do customer, her reputation grew. Receiving multiple special orders, she made up her mind to have her own place no matter what and open a dressmaking shop in it, perhaps becoming a costume designer someday. After all, she had professional experience in the theater.

  As Frank promised, there was no other public explosion. Still. The multiple times when she came home to find him idle again, just sitting on the sofa staring at the rug, were unnerving. She tried; she really tried. But every bit of housework—however minor—was hers: his clothes scattered on the floor, food-encrusted dishes in the sink, ketchup bottles left open, beard hair in the drain, waterlogged towels bunched on bathroom tiles. Lily could go on and on. And did. Complaints grew into one-sided arguments, since he wouldn’t engage.

  “Where were you?”

  “Just out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Down the street.”

  Bar? Barbershop? Pool hall. He certainly wasn’t sitting in the park.

  “Frank, could you rinse the milk bottles before you put them on the stoop?”

  “Sorry. I’ll do it now.”

  “Too late. I’ve done it already. You know, I can’t do everything.”

  “Nobody can.”

  “But you can do something, can’t you?”

  “Lily, please. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “What I want? This place is ours.”

  The fog of displeasure surrounding Lily thickened. Her resentment was justified by his clear indifference, along with his combination of need and irresponsibility. Their bed work, once so downright good to a young woman who had known no other, became a duty. On that snowy day when he asked to borrow all that money to take care of his sick sister in Georgia, Lily’s disgust fought with relief and lost. She picked up the dog tags he’d left on the bathroom sink and hid them away in a drawer next to her bankbook. Now the apartment was all hers to clean properly, put things where they belonged, and wake up knowing they’d not been moved or smashed to pieces. The loneliness she felt before Frank walked her home from Wang’s cleaners began to dissolve and in its place a shiver of freedom, of earned solitude, of choosing the wall she wanted to break through, minus the burden of shouldering a tilted man. Unobstructed and undistracted, she could get serious and develop a plan to match her ambition and succeed. That was what her parents had taught her and what she had promised them: To choose, they insisted, and not ever be moved. Let no insult or slight knock her off her ground. Or, as her father was fond of misquoting, “Gather up your loins, daughter. You named Lillian Florence Jones after my mother. A tougher lady never lived. Find your talent and drive it.”

  The afternoon Frank left, Lily moved to the front window, startled to see heavy snowflakes powdering the street. She decided to shop right away in case the weather became an impediment. Once outside, she spotted a leather change purse on the sidewalk. Opening it she saw it was full of coins—mostly quarters and fifty-cent pieces. Immediately she wondered if anybody was watching her. Did the curtains across the street shift a little? The passengers in the car rolling by—did they see? Lily closed the purse and placed it on the porch post. When she returned with a shopping bag full of emergency food and supplies the purse was still there, though covered in a fluff of snow. Lily didn’t look around. Casually she scooped it up and dropped it into the groceries. Later, spread out on the side of the bed where Frank had slept, the coins, cold and bright, seemed a perfectly fair trade. In Frank Money’s empty space real money glittered. Who could mistake a sign that clear? Not Lillian Florence Jones.

  SEVEN

  Lotus, Georgia, is the worst place in the world, worse than any battlefield. At least on the field there is a goal, excitement, daring, and some chance of winning along with many chances of losing. Death is a sure thing but life is just as certain. Problem is you can’t know in advance.

  In Lotus you did know in advance since there was no future, just long stretches of killing time. There was no goal other than breathing, nothing to win and, save for somebody else’s quiet death, nothing to survive or worth surviving for. If not for my two friends I would have suffocated by the time I was twelve. They, along with my little sister, kept the indifference of parents and the hatefulness of grandparents an afterthought. Nobody in Lotus knew anything or wanted to learn anything. It sure didn’t look like anyplace you’d want to be. Maybe a hundred or so people living in some fifty spread-out rickety houses. Nothing to do but mindless work in fields you didn’t own, couldn’t own, and wouldn’t own if you had any other choice. My family was content or maybe just hopeless living that way. I understand. Having been run out of one town, any other that offered safety and the peace of sleeping through the night and not waking up with a rifle in your face was more than enough. But it was much less than enough for me. You never lived there so you don’t know what it was like. Any kid who had a mind would lose it. Was I supposed to be happy with a little quick sex without love every now and then? Maybe some accidental or planned mischief? Could marbles, fishing, baseball, and shooting rabbits be reasons to get out of bed in the morning? You know it wasn’t.

  Mike, Stuff, and me couldn’t wait to get out and away, far away.

  Thank the Lord for the army.

  I don’t miss anything about that place except the stars.

  Only my sister in trouble could force me to even think about going in that direction.

  Don’t paint me as some enthusiastic hero.

  I had to go but I dreaded it.

  EIGHT

  Jackie’s ironing was flawless. Her floor scrubbing was not as good, but Lenore kept her on because her skill with plackets, shirt cuffs, collars, and yokes could not be surpassed. It was a delight to see those small hands lift the heavy iron effortlessly, a pleasure to note how easily she manipulated the wood stove’s flame. How adept she was at sensing how hot the metal, the difference between its scorch and its perfect temperature. She was twelve, with that combination of raucous child’s play and adult execution of chores. You could see her in the road blowing bubblegum and handling a paddleball at the same time, or hanging upside down from an oak tree branch. Ten minutes later she might be scaling fish or plucking hens like a professional. Lenore blamed herself for the poor quality of Jackie’s mopping. The head of the mop was made up of a bundle of rags, not the absorbent rope of better ones. She pondered telling her to scrub on her knees but chose not to observe that thin little girl body bent down on all fours. Salem had been asked repeatedly to get a new mop, to hitch a ride with Mr. Haywood to Jeffrey and buy the supplies they needed. His excuse: “You know how to drive. Go yourself,” was one of many.

  Lenore sighed and tried not to compare Salem with her first husband. My, my, what a sweet man, she thought. Not just caring, energetic and a good Christian, but a moneymaker too. He owned a gasoline station right where the main road split off into a country road, the ideal spot to need a tank refill. Sweet man. Awful, awful, that he was shot to death by someone who wanted or envied his gas station. The note left on his chest said “Get the hell out. Now.” It happened during the deepest part of the Depression and the sheriff had more important things on his mind. Searching the county for a common shooting was not one of them. He took the note and said he’d look into it. If he did, he didn’t say what he found. F
ortunately, her husband had savings, insurance, and a piece of abandoned property belonging to his cousin in Lotus, Georgia. Frightened that whoever killed her husband might come after her, she sold the house, packed her car with all it could hold and moved from Heartsville, Alabama, to Lotus. Her fear dwindled over time, but not enough to be comfortable living alone. So marrying a Lotus widower named Salem Money solved that problem for a while anyway. Looking for someone to help her fix the house, Lenore spoke to the pastor at God’s Congregation church. He gave her one or two names, but hinted that Salem Money would have the time and the skill. It was true, and since Salem was one of the few unmarried men around, it seemed natural that they would join forces. They drove all the way to Mount Haven, Lenore at the wheel, for a marriage license that the clerk refused to issue because they did not have birth certificates. Or so she said. The arbitrariness of that denial, however, did not stop them. They took vows at God’s Congregation.

  Just as Lenore began to feel safe and comfortable so far from Alabama, a passel of Salem’s relatives—ragged and run out of their home—arrived: his son Luther, the wife, Ida, another son, Frank, a grandson, also Frank, and a howling newborn baby girl.

  It was impossible. All she and Salem had done to fix up the house was for nothing. She had to plan ahead to use the outhouse; there was no privacy at all. Waking up early for a leisurely breakfast, as was her habit, she had to step over the sleeping or nursing or snoring bodies scattered through her house. She adjusted and had her breakfast when the men left and Ida took the baby to the fields with her. But it was the infant’s night crying that infuriated her most. When Ida asked Lenore if she would care for the baby because she could no longer see to her in the field, Lenore thought she would lose her mind. She could hardly refuse, but agreed mainly because the four-year-old brother was clearly the real mother to the infant.

  Those three years were a trial even though the homeless family was grateful, doing whatever she wished and never complaining. They were allowed to keep all of their wages because when they had saved enough they could rent their own place and leave hers. Tight quarters, inconvenience, extra chores, an increasingly indifferent husband—her haven was destroyed. The cloud of her displeasure at being so put-upon found a place to float: around the heads of the boy and girl. It was they who paid, although Lenore believed she was merely a strict step-grandmother, not a cruel one.

  The girl was hopeless and had to be corrected every minute. The circumstances of her birth did not bode well. There was probably a medical word for her awkwardness, for a memory so short even a switching could not help her remember to close the chicken coop at night, or not to spill food on her clothes every single day. “You got two dresses. Two! You expect me to wash one of them up after every meal?” Only the hatred in the eyes of her brother kept Lenore from slapping her. He was always protecting her, soothing her as though she were his pet kitten.

  Finally the family moved into their own house. Peace and order reigned. Years passed, children grew and left, parents sickened and died, crops failed, storms knocked down homes and churches, but Lotus held on. Lenore also, until she began to feel dizzy too often. That’s when she persuaded Jackie’s mother to let the girl do certain chores for her. Her only hesitation was Jackie’s dog, the girl’s constant minder. A black and brown Doberman, it never left Jackie’s side. Even when the girl was asleep or inside any house in the neighborhood, the Doberman lay its head between its paws right outside the door. Never mind, thought Lenore, as long as the dog remained in the yard or on her porch. She needed someone to do the chores that required sustained standing. Also from Jackie she could glean bits of news about what was going on in the village.

  She learned that the city boy Cee had run off with had stolen Lenore’s car and left her in less than a month. That she was too ashamed to come back home. Figures, thought Lenore. Everything she ever surmised about that girl was true. Even getting married legitimately was beyond her. Lenore had had to insist on some formality, some record, otherwise the couple would have just another lax “living together” arrangement. Having no obligations, left one of them free to steal a Ford and the other to deny responsibility.

  Jackie also described the condition of two families that had lost sons in Korea. One was the Durhams, Michael’s folks. Lenore remembered him as a nasty piece of work and close friends with Frank. And another boy named Abraham, son of Maylene and Howard Stone, the one they called “Stuff,” was also killed. Frank alone of the trio survived. He, so the chatter went, was never coming back to Lotus. The reaction of the Durhams and the Stones to the deaths of their sons was appropriate, but you would have thought they were waiting for the bodies of saints to be sent home. Didn’t they know or remember how all three of those boys angled for invitations to that hairdresser’s house? Talk about loose. Talk about disgrace. Mrs. K., they called her. Uppity didn’t do her justice. When Reverend Alsop went to see her and cautioned her not to entertain local teenagers, she threw a cup of hot coffee on his shirt. A few grandmothers had encouraged the Reverend to speak to her, but the fathers didn’t care about Mrs. K.’s services, nor did the mothers. Teenagers had to learn somewhere and a local widow who didn’t want their husbands was more of a boon than a sin. Besides, their own daughters were safer that way. Mrs. K. did not solicit or charge. Apparently she occasionally satisfied herself (and teenage boys) when her appetite sharpened. Besides, nobody styled hair better. Lenore would not go across the road to say “Good morning,” let alone sit in the abomination of her kitchen.

  All this she told Jackie, and although the girl’s eyes glazed over, she didn’t argue or contradict Lenore as Salem consistently did.

  She was a profoundly unhappy woman. And, although she had married to avoid being by herself, disdain of others kept her solitary if not completely alone. What soothed her was a fairly fat savings account, owning property, and having one, actually two, of the few automobiles in the neighborhood. Jackie was as much company as she wanted. Besides a good listener and great worker, the girl was worth much more than the quarter Lenore paid her each day.

  And then it stopped.

  Mr. Haywood said somebody had thrown two puppies out of the bed of a truck right before his eyes. He braked, picked up the one that had not had its neck broken, a female, and brought her to Lotus for the children he gave comic books and candy to. Although a few were delighted and took care of the puppy, others teased it. Jackie, however, adored the dog, feeding and protecting her and teaching her tricks. No wonder she immediately latched on to Jackie, who loved her most. She named the dog Bobby.

  Bobby didn’t normally eat chickens. She preferred pigeons; their bones were sweeter. And she didn’t hunt for food; she merely ate whatever meal was given her or that she came across. So the pullet that pecked for worms around Lenore’s porch steps was a clear invitation. The stick that Lenore used to beat Bobby off the pullet’s carcass was the same one she used to keep herself upright.

  Jackie heard the yelps and let the iron burn its shape on a pillowcase in order to dash out of the house and rescue Bobby. Neither one returned to Lenore’s house.

  Without help or a supportive husband, Lenore was as alone as she had been after her first husband died, as she had been before marrying Salem. It was too late to curry friendship with neighboring women, who she had made sure knew their level and hers. Pleading with Jackie’s mother was humiliating as well as fruitless since the answer was “Sorry.” Now she had to be content with the company of the person she prized most of all—herself. Perhaps it was that partnership between Lenore and Lenore that caused the minor stroke she suffered on a sweltering night in July. Salem found her kneeling beside the bed and ran to Mr. Haywood’s house. He drove her to the hospital in Mount Haven. There, after a long, perilous wait in the corridor, she finally received treatment that curtailed further damage. Her speech was slurred but she was ambulatory—if carefully so. Salem saw to her basic needs, but was relieved to learn he could not understand a word she spoke. Or so he
said.

  It was a testimony to the goodwill of churchgoing and God-fearing neighboring women that they brought her plates of food, swept the floors, washed her linen, and would have bathed her too, except her pride and their sensitivity forbade it. They knew that the woman they were helping despised them all, so they didn’t even have to say out loud what they understood to be true: that the Lord Works in Mysterious Ways His Wonders to Perform.

  NINE

  Korea.

  You can’t imagine it because you weren’t there. You can’t describe the bleak landscape because you never saw it. First let me tell you about cold. I mean cold. More than freezing, Korea cold hurts, clings like a kind of glue you can’t peel off.

  Battle is scary, yeah, but it’s alive. Orders, gut-quickening, covering buddies, killing—clear, no deep thinking needed. Waiting is the hard part. Hours and hours pass while you are doing whatever you can to cut through the cold, flat days. Worst of all is solitary guard duty. How many times can you take off your gloves to see if your fingernails are going black or check your Browning? Your eyes and ears are trained to see or hear movement. Is that sound the Mongolians? They are way worse than the North Koreans. The Mongols never quit; never stop. When you think they are dead they turn over and shoot you in the groin. Even if you’re wrong and they’re as dead as a dopehead’s eyes it’s worth the waste of ammo to make sure.

  There I was, hour after hour, leaning on a makeshift wall. Nothing to see but a quiet village far below, its thatched roofs mimicking the naked hills beyond, a tight cluster of frozen bamboo sticking up through snow at my left. That’s where we dumped our garbage. I stayed alert as best I could, listening, watching for any sign of sloe eyes or padded hats. Most of the time nothing moved. But one afternoon I heard a thin crackling in the bamboo stands. A single something was moving. I knew it wasn’t the enemy—they never came in ones—so I figured it was a tiger. Word was they roamed up in the hills, but nobody had seen one. Then I saw the bamboo part, low to the ground. A dog, maybe? No. It was a child’s hand sticking out and patting the ground. I remember smiling. Reminded me of Cee and me trying to steal peaches off the ground under Miss Robinson’s tree, sneaking, crawling, being as quiet as we could so she wouldn’t see us and grab a belt. I didn’t even try to run the girl off that first time, so she came back almost every day, pushing through bamboo to scavenge our trash. I saw her face only once. Mostly I just watched her hand moving between the stalks to paw garbage. Each time she came it was as welcome as watching a bird feed her young or a hen scratching, scratching dirt for the worm she knew for sure was buried there.