Tomorrow's Bread

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Tomorrow's Bread Page 11

by Anna Jean Mayhew


  “Younger Tilley put the fear of God into me when I was a child.”

  “He told me about a register. From what he said I gather it had information about the burial sites, but I haven’t been able to find it.”

  “Something identifying the unmarked graves? That would be verification.”

  “Yes, but it’s most likely lost.” He could still hear Reverend Tilley’s words, “De register’s got everything . . . In de cellar, back of de coal bin.”

  “Why would it have been hidden?”

  “Habit. Before emancipation slaves weren’t supposed to read and write. Literacy was forbidden and punishable. I’ve speculated that the register might have linked black families to whites, here in Mecklenburg County. Such things wouldn’t be well received, as I’m sure you can understand.”

  A siren sounded, got louder, horn blasting at an intersection near the church.

  “Someone’s got trouble,” she said.

  “Sirens always make me think that.”

  She waited until it faded. “The gravestones are a treasure. It’s a shame there aren’t more.” She shifted in the chair. “I’ve walked the cemetery.”

  When had she done that? “During my first year after taking over St. Tim’s I came upon a lot of papers, did my best to deal with them.” He pointed to a door. “What used to be a nursery is now a library.” He stood. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  He took a key ring from the top drawer of his desk and unlocked the door. They entered a cramped room filled floor to ceiling with books. “There,” he said, pointing to three boxes on one of the bottom shelves.

  Georgeanne knelt gracefully, touched a box made of wooden slats. She was lithe; he envied that. The overhead light showed strands of silver in her hair.

  She stood, brushed her skirt where it had touched the floor. “Would you let me go through some of these papers?”

  “Be happy for another pair of eyes.”

  “May I take the box labeled 1880 to 1910?”

  “Help yourself.”

  She bent, pulled the small crate from the shelf, looked at a faded sticker. “Oranges?”

  “The original cardboard boxes were falling apart, so I transferred things to sturdier containers. Fruit crates I get from Stone’s—do you remember Ben and Hildie?”

  “Of course. Stone’s Grocery, an institution.” She balanced the box on her hip. “You sorted everything?”

  “Yes, went through the records, sorted them by dates.”

  “Thank you for trusting me with this.” She carried the crate back to his office, opened her pocketbook, closed it. “Sorry, I was about to light up. I am hooked on nicotine. Never mind. What I’d love to do is go with you to the cemetery. See what we can find out. Could we go now?”

  “Yes.” He liked the sound of “we.”

  They went down to the kitchen at the back of the sanctuary. She put the box of papers on a counter and stopped outside the back door, looked up at the trees, walked a few feet away from him. “Downwind of you,” she said as she lit a cigarette, clicking her lighter shut and dropping it into her purse. “My apologies.” She waved away the smoke, pointed at the manse. “You live there?”

  “Yes, with Noah, my nephew. Do you remember my brother, Oscar?”

  She shook her head. “I remember you had a brother, but he was out of school by the time I got there.”

  “Out after tenth grade, truth be known; never was much for books and lessons, has been on the street most of his life. He got married when he was forty-three and I hoped that would settle him, but his wife died having Noah. Oscar’s in prison now, out in six months if he behaves himself.”

  “How long has Noah been with you?”

  “Just since April this time. He’s thirteen, a good boy, easy to live with. And he’s family. Didn’t know how much I missed that until he moved in.”

  At the cemetery gate she stopped, nudged the end of the cigarette until the glowing ember fell to the grass. She stamped it out and flicked the remainder of the butt with a finger. Slivers of tobacco drifted down. She twisted the empty paper of the depleted butt and dropped it into her half-full pack of Salems.

  “Field stripping,” he said.

  “Yes, my husband learned it in the war.”

  Married. Why no ring?

  She preceded him through the gate. He noticed again how slight she was, but she felt solid beside him in her determination to help.

  He saw the cemetery as she must have seen it. Run-down, most of the graves ill-kept, weeds choking those near the back where the crumbling brick wall had been replaced by a fence. The graveyard appeared to suffer from a general lack of care, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The more recent plots, those with headstones, had flowers, were well maintained.

  “I can see that families take care of the sites of their relatives. Of course, the unmarked graves aren’t tended to.”

  He felt defensive. “Once or twice a year the congregation does a general tidying up, but it doesn’t take long for weeds to take over.”

  “Yes,” she touched his arm, “I didn’t mean to criticize.” She walked toward the back, stopped at one depression marked by rocks at head and foot. “Given the number of stones, I’d guess there’s more than one body buried here.”

  “I believe so.” He stood beside her, next to the fence. “Are you in practice or do you teach?”

  “Both. I teach a course in the School of Law at North Carolina College of Durham, and I’m also with a firm.”

  “What brought you back home?”

  “Eddy wrote me about the urban renewal, asked if I’d look into the legal aspects.” She walked to another grave, bent to examine the faint inscription on a tilting marker. “As you may know, our father died last month. I’m helping Eddy with his estate.”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “I’ve got four weeks’ leave.” She looked up at him. “I’m startled to have such strong feelings about Brooklyn. It’s like this cemetery, half well maintained, half not.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “According to the planning commission, it’s over seventy percent blight.”

  She stood. “Someone knows how to fudge numbers.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Retta Lawrence got to be six foot tall, with hands and feet bigger than most men. Everything about her is so fair she must burn easy. Her hair’s the color of oatmeal, more wrinkly than curly and thick as a mop; gets out of the nets the S&W makes us wear.

  When the dishwasher breaks down, which isn’t often, thank the Lord, and we have to do them by hand, the two of us stand together at the metal sinks, her washing, me rinsing and drying. Her hands get bright pink in the hot water, and I ask, “Why don’t you wear gloves? They’re specially for washing dishes.”

  “They keep me from feeling if the dishes are clean.” She washes another plate.

  “You gon be chapped.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  Retta’s friendlier to me than any other white person at the S&W besides Mr. Griffin, any other white person in the world, for that matter. We don’t generally visit much, but one afternoon she follows me outside on a break, settling on a wood crate. She gets a cigarette lit, puffs a bit. “I’m going out to Lake Wylie next week.”

  I take a sip of my Coke, wondering why she’s telling me this.

  “How old’s Hawk?” The question comes out of nowhere.

  “Was eight in October.”

  She takes a deep drag, lets it out slow. “Becky turns nine in January. Can Hawk read?”

  “Some.”

  “Becky’s always bringing books home. She reads to me now. Used to be the other way around.”

  We quiet for a bit, her smoking, me thinking. She say, “You and Hawk want to go out to the lake with us?”

  I don’t answer her right away.

  “Loraylee?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “My cousin has a place on Lake Wylie. He told me I could go out there
and bring friends. We could swim, fish.”

  “I can’t swim.”

  A crash in the kitchen echoes up the dumbwaiter shaft.

  “Uh-oh. I’m glad we’re not down there,” Retta say. “You ever gone fishing?”

  “Once with Uncle Ray.”

  “We could go on our day off. There’s a little cabin. My cousin Bobby and his brother hauled in sand, made a beach, put in a dock.”

  “You saying it’d be okay for me and Hawk, being there with you and Becky?”

  She stares at me with her blue eyes behind her thick glasses. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

  I watch a garbage truck backing up in the alley. How can anybody drive backward in something that big? “You’re from up north. You don’t know how it is here.”

  “The cabin’s private property, two or three acres. Nobody’d see us.” She drops her cigarette, smashes it under her shoe, then picks up the butt and tosses it in a trashcan. “We can take a picnic, beer and Cokes, have fun.”

  * * *

  Retta and I make our plans to go out to the lake on our next Monday off, and I wait till Sunday night to tell Bibi and Uncle Ray. Bibi won’t remember much of anything I tell her late in the day, and I don’t want to give Uncle Ray time to object. After I clean up from supper, I go to the living room where Bibi is settled in her chair, knitting needles clicking. For a long time she’s been making a sweater for Hawk, and if it started out as a sweater for a four-year-old, she’ll need to find another boy. Uncle Ray’s on the floor, fiddling with the TV again.

  I sit on the sofa. “I’m taking Hawk on a picnic tomorrow with Retta, my friend girl from work.”

  “What’s that?” Bibi looks up.

  “We going on a picnic tomorrow.”

  “Retta you say?” Uncle Ray ask. He’s behind the TV, the top of his head visible, curly white hair fading in the middle where he’s going bald. When’s he going to give up on that TV?

  “Yeah, Retta Lawrence. You’ve heard me talk about her. Started at the S&W a year after I did.”

  Bibi pulls out a few stitches, then gets to knitting again, lifting the yarn over the top of the needles, rocking a bit as she works. “How you getting there?”

  “Retta’s got a car.”

  Uncle Ray stands up. “And where y’all going?”

  “You heard of Lake Wylie?”

  “Been fishing out there.” He sits in his chair. “Whereabouts? It’s a big lake.”

  “Retta’s cousin has a cabin. She’s got a daughter, Becky, about Hawk’s age, who’s going with us.”

  Bibi rocks and knits. Uncle Ray stares out the screen door.

  “We going”—I stand up—“tomorrow.”

  “Huh,” say Bibi.

  * * *

  Monday morning, nine o’clock, Retta pulls up in front of the house in her Ford. The rust bucket, she calls it, always adding that it runs good. Uncle Ray hollers back to my bedroom, “She’s here. Your friend girl.”

  “Tell her to come on in.”

  Then I’m wondering if Bibi put her knitting away and did Uncle Ray leave his tools lying on the floor by the TV? Is the morning paper spread out on the sofa? Where’s Hawk?

  Bibi stops at my door. “Somebody out front, Raylee.”

  “It’s Retta, from work. Go meet her. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

  “She white?”

  “Uh-huh. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me. Might be for you.” She goes.

  “Mama?” Hawk whines from the bathroom, “No more toothpaste.”

  “In the medicine cabinet. Hurry, now.”

  He’s been excited since he woke, talking about going on a picnic, and asking can he take his bike Uncle Ray got him. “No place to ride it,” I tell him. “Take your ball. You and Becky can play with it.”

  “Girls can’t play ball.”

  “Girls can do anything boys can. Or more.”

  “Huh.” He sounds like Bibi.

  When he comes out of the bathroom, I give him a long look.

  “My shirt the right way?” He twists to look over his shoulder.

  “Yep, label in the back.” He’s got on shorts and a T-shirt, socks and sandals, buckled up and all. His hair slicked back, wet. When it dries it’ll be in a tangle of curls, auburn, like his daddy’s. “Get a paper bag from the pantry, and stick your blue jean shorts in it, for if we want to go in the lake. I’ll bring towels.”

  “Is the lake like Little Sugar?”

  “Bigger.”

  “Bigger and bigger?”

  “Yep. Go on, now, Retta’s here.”

  He takes off running. When I get to the living room, Retta’s sitting on the sofa talking with Bibi. “Yes, I work at the S&W with Loraylee.”

  Bibi looks at me. “Where you say y’all going?”

  “Out to Lake Wylie. On a picnic. I told you last night.”

  I walk over to her chair, kiss her cheek. “We going now, Bibi. Back later on.”

  “About eight this evening, is that okay?” Retta ask.

  Hawk comes running in, carrying a grocery bag. “Got my jean shorts!”

  “Good. Where’s Becky?” I say to Retta.

  “Outside with your uncle Ray. He’s showing her the henhouse.”

  Through the screen door I see Uncle Ray and a little girl coming around the house from the backyard, holding hands. She’s not much taller than Hawk, skinny like her mother, but with straight black hair and brown eyes. Makes me wonder about her daddy. First thing she say to me, “I like your chickens.” Her voice is quiet, shy.

  “Do you like eggs?” I ask.

  “Yes, scrambled. And sandwiches.”

  Uncle Ray ask Retta, “Where y’all going on the lake, exactly?”

  Why’s he being so nosy?

  “My cousin’s place is over the state line, near the marina.”

  Uncle Ray seems to think on this. “Y’all be careful.”

  Then I know what he’s thinking about, and I reckon Retta does, too. Yeah, be careful.

  We get everything loaded in the car, the children in the back, Retta apologizing, “It’s a junk heap, like I said, no A/C and a bad muffler, but it runs great.”

  “Never been in a car with A/C anyway.”

  As we pull away, I wonder is Dooby Franklin watching out his window, and does he think I’m getting uppity, going off with a white girl?

  Retta gets us over to Tryon and heads south. “There’s fishing poles my cousin says we can use, but we have to stop for bait. I need gas anyway.”

  “Bait?”

  “Yeah, Bobby says get worms. If we were going out in the boat, we’d get minnows, but we’ll fish from the dock.”

  “Worms?” Hawk laughs. “We getting worms.”

  Becky say, “So we can fish.”

  Hawk bounces on the back seat, excited, talking nonstop with Becky, who answers him in her quiet way.

  When we get to Highway 49, Retta pulls into an Esso station with a sign by the pumps, WORMS. MINNERS. LURES. LUNCH. ASK IN DOORS. A man comes up to her window. “Gas ’er up? Check your oil?”

  “Just gas, please, and we’ll come in for some worms.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looks at me, glances in the back at Hawk and Becky, doesn’t say anything.

  While the man’s filling the tank, Hawk say, “I need to pee, Mama.”

  “Me too,” say Becky.

  Retta ask, “Will you take them?” She points to a sign to the restrooms. “Soon as I pay, I’ll drive around there.”

  A sign on the door to one bathroom say WHITE MEN but the “White” has a slash of orange paint across it and beneath that, BROKE printed large. The other door has WHITE WOMEN on it. The whole thing is slashed out with orange paint, and beside it is written ANY BODY.

  When we get back in the car, Hawk say to Becky, “Your hair’s shiny.”

  She laughs. “Yours is curly.”

  We bump down a dirt road off the highway, the car rattling, making me wonder what’s keep
ing it together. Retta turns onto another rutted road and there it is, the cabin, the sandy beach, sun bouncing on the water. Hawk yells, “The lake!” He and Becky scramble out of the car as soon as it stops. The cabin is a shabby-looking thing between the driveway and the water. When we go into it to change into our swimsuits, I see it’s one big room with a curtained-off section that passes as a bathroom. That does come in handy, though.

  The rest of that June day stays in my mind. Warm breezes, the kids running along the shore, tossing rocks into the water. Me wearing a bathing suit borrowed from Retta, tight on me. Hawk shy seeing me in it. Him and me going into the water a bit—neither of us can swim, so the lake is both fun and scary. Retta and me fishing, not catching anything worth keeping, but having fun trying. After a while we lie on the dock, her cigarette smoke drifting in the breeze, the sound of motorboats out on the lake, Becky and Hawk singing the “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” song when they come on a web.

  “You been to the ocean?” I ask Retta.

  “Sure, grew up near it in New Jersey.”

  “I’m thinking I’m gon go see it.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later I call Auntie Violet. She lives in Atlantic Beach, in South Carolina, and is happy for me and Hawk to come stay in her place. All we have to do is get there. Our very first trip together, far from home.

  Mr. Griffin puts my dates on the vacation calendar in his office. “Sure wish we could go off together, you and me and Hawk.”

  “Yeah, me too. Maybe someday. Someday when things change.”

  Last thing Uncle Ray say to me when we get into a taxi at home: “Call me when you get there. You don’t call, we’re going to worry.”

  At eight-thirty in the morning on a bright June Sunday, Hawk and me get out of the taxi at the Trailways station, where we board a bus that’ll take us to the beach. It’s got more colored on it than white, so I feel easy about the trip. We settle into our seats, him by the window, up on his knees, looking out. “The ocean is bigger than the lake,” he say. “Miss Madison told me. It’s the biggest water there is.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. In pictures of it, you can’t see across to the other side.”

 

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