Saving Savannah

by Tonya Bolden

  Savannah joined Mother in tears.

  “Why did they do this? What could the Pinchbacks have—?”

  Mother settled her on the davenport. “I must telephone your father.”

  Savannah was in the vestibule when he turned into the walkway. She flung the door open, ran out, sobbed anew. “It was horrible! Absolutely horrible! Blood all over him!”

  Father had made the fifteen-minute walk in ten.

  No sooner than they were inside, the telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it.” In a few fast strides Father was beside the hallway table where the telephone sat.

  Savannah and Mother huddled by his side.

  He lifted the receiver from the switch hook. “Riddle residence … Hello, Calvin … They’re fine … Good Lord!”

  Father winced.

  “What time was this? … Uh-huh … I agree … Who else? … Here is good.”

  He looked at Mother, raised his left hand with fingers splayed.

  “Savannah, dear, please help me prepare some light refreshments?”

  “Right,” Savannah heard Father say before he hung up.

  Savannah laid squares of cheese on soda crackers, sliced bread, spread potted meat. All with trembling hands and so glad for something to do.

  Father entered the kitchen, headed for the back door.

  “Where are you going?” Savannah practically shrieked, on pause from placing her makings on a tray.

  Mother covered a pot of eggs with water, placed the pot on the stove, turned on the burner.

  “Oscar and I will bury the dog and board up the front door.”

  “Is that safe? What if more white men come—”

  “Lightning never strikes the same place twice, pumpkin.”

  “They will be all right,” said Mother with Father long gone. “They will be all right.”

  It sounded less an assurance, more a prayer.

  Mother was putting on a brave face, Savannah knew. Her voice too calm, her movements stiff, not fluid. And she had seen Mother’s hands shaking when putting those eggs into a white enamelware pot.

  Now Mother was cutting up celery and carrots. “Bring me two celery trays and a large relish dish. The sawtooth ones, please.”

  And Mother seemed hard-pressed to look her in the eye. Was she trying to shield her from the fright in her own? Was she afraid of questions that might arise?

  First came Calvin Chase and John Lewis. Then Hannibal Bash and Waylon Jones, finally Yolande’s father.

  Savannah took jackets and hats, ushered them into the living room, where Mother had laid out food and drink.

  After the small talk died down Father slid the living room doors closed.

  “Come,” said Mother, removing her apron and signaling Savannah to remove hers. “We are going next door.”

  Yolande was still in her living room bay window.

  Frozen.

  SAME SPOON-BACK CHAISE

  “Girls, why don’t you go up to Yolande’s room,” urged Mrs. Holloway, leading Yolande from their living room.

  She looked, moved like a zombie.

  Once the girls were up in her room, Yolande threw herself onto her bed, curled up into a ball.

  As Savannah moved near—

  “Close the door!”

  Savannah was on the edge of Yolande’s bed a good five minutes before Yolande said a word.

  “I overheard Mother on the telephone. Mrs. Lee, I think. Then she called Mrs. Sanderson.”

  “About the Pinchbacks?”

  Yolande nodded, burst into tears. “Communists,” she whispered.

  Savannah frowned. “But—” The Pinchbacks were quiet, orderly, upstanding. “Are you sure?”

  Yolande nodded again. “Only recently though.” Yolande wiped her eyes, began to rock. “Remember that nephew they lost in the war?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not killed in battle like we were told. A white officer shot him in the back because he refused to answer to … an ugly word … The Pinchbacks couldn’t forgive the army, America for that.”

  Yolande’s face was contorted; she was practically writhing in pain. “What if …”

  “What if what?”

  “What if we had been in their house for a piano lesson when those men came?”

  “It’s been years since we had piano lessons.”

  “Well, what if, like that time Mrs. Pinchback was sick and—and—Mother had us take over a casserole. What if we had been there, Savannah!”

  Savannah rubbed Yolande’s shoulder. “But we weren’t there.”

  “What if the government finds out she was our piano teacher?—that we spent time in their home!”

  Seeing Yolande in such a state, Savannah became increasingly worried about her friend. More so when Yolande faced the wall, thrust a thumb into her mouth.

  I thought she had given that up years ago.

  Yolande’s near-paralyzing fright reeled Savannah back to the raid.

  Bloodied Mr. Pinchback.

  His manhandled wife.

  Bang!

  “You can’t let it take you, Yolande! You can’t let it take you! The world isn’t coming to an end! Think instead about what you, what I, what we can do to make it better.”

  As Savannah struggled to come up with some gesture, some better words of comfort, it dawned on her that it had been a very long time since she had been in Yolande’s bedroom.

  Same ivory bedroom suite as hers—chiffonier, dresser, cane panel bed, wardrobe, dressing table with triptych mirror.

  Same Cinderella desk and matching desk chair.

  Same spoon-back chaise.

  Only difference in their rooms was that, instead of yellow, Yolande’s mother had opted for pink when it came to wallpaper and upholstery.

  And the dollhouse.

  Savannah rose, stepped over to the far wall. “I can’t believe you still have this.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” whimpered Yolande.

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with it at all.” Savannah really wasn’t being judgmental. She was truly shocked.

  She had gotten rid of her dollhouse years ago, had packed it up and taken it down to Mother’s giveaway corner of the basement.

  And not only did Yolande still have hers …

  Savannah remembered shifting things around in her dollhouse—moving the dining room’s tiny vase of flowers from the sideboard to the table, rearranging tables, chairs, the sofa in the parlor.

  Yolande’s dollhouse was exactly as it had always been.

  Pink silk divan still against the back wall.

  Still before the window, the jardiniere overflowing with moss and pink roses.

  Chairs, tables—everything—exactly where Yolande had placed them all those years ago. Peering closer still, Savannah saw that everything—every stick of furniture, every ornament, every tiny piece of china—was spotless. Not a speck of dust. Mirrors above mantels gleamed.

  A twinge of guilt, a pang, a stab.

  How harsh, cruel she had been.

  You’re a worm, ridiculous, pathetic!

  Yes, Yolande was shallow, but there was more to it than that. She was …

  Yolande was not her, never would be. And that was not a crime.

  To each his own.

  Yolande stirred, began to rock again. “Please, tell me you got rid of that Messenger,” she whispered.

  “I did,” replied Savannah. “I did.”

  Yolande began to weep again.

  “It’s all over now, Yolande. You really have nothing to fear.”

  Weeping welled into sobbing. Yolande banged the wall. “Life is not supposed to be like this! At first just a few bombs, then more and more, and now the Pinchbacks …”

  “True, Yolande. The world is not as it ought to be.”

  “Not for us! These kinds of things don’t happen to people like us! We’re supposed to be safe! What if the bombs come here?!”

  Is anyone, anywhere safe?

  “What if old man B
oudinot is a socialist or a Red? What if they come for him next? What if they think everyone on our block is un-American?”

  Savannah started to tell Yolande that such talk was silly, but then what did she know? These were savage, unpredictable days.

  She looked out Yolande’s window, wondered in what part of the yard behind that Tudor-like townhouse Father and Mr. Holloway buried Sebastian. She prayed to God that Yolande had heard wrong. That it was all a mistake. A colossal mistake. And that Marvin and Mildred Pinchback would soon be back in their home.

  “Or what if old man Boudinot is a spy?” whimpered Yolande.

  Savannah whipped around, saw Yolande sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

  “One of our teachers is,” Yolande whispered.

  SCRAMBLED EGGS AND TOAST

  Yolande was grateful when Savannah insisted that they walk to, from school together again.

  All the way there the day after the Pinchbacks were dragged from their home, Yolande walked with her head down, stomach in knots, queasy. If only her mother hadn’t forced her to eat some of the scrambled eggs on her plate and take a few bites of toast.

  At Dunbar Yolande was overwhelmed, at times felt paralyzed by all the whispers.

  Edna Fitzhugh said that Latin teacher Mr. Groves had been arrested. So had one of the home economics teachers, Flemmie Castell.

  Theophilus Graham said three teachers at Armstrong were arrested. “Around midnight, dragged out in pajamas and nightgowns.”

  Yolande couldn’t concentrate, focus during classes. Between one class and another she hurried to a bathroom, almost didn’t make it to the sink before the scrambled eggs and toast came up.

  AS IT OUGHT TO BE

  When Savannah found Yolande balled up and sobbing in a bathroom stall, she didn’t know what to do, felt useless, helpless.

  “Come, Yolande, let me take you down to Miss Ames,” she finally said. “She can see if you’re running a fever, maybe give you an aspirin, or set up a cot and let you take a nap.”

  Yolande shook her head. “No nurse. No nobody. I just want—”

  “Want what?”

  “It’s all so horrible! Things are supposed to be better now. Everything is falling apart. Everything is going wrong.”

  There has never been a time when there wasn’t misery in the world somewhere.

  Yolande stamped her foot. “I just want things normal!”

  “Want me to ask the principal to call your mother?”

  Savannah could see that Yolande was trying to compose herself.

  “No.”

  “Think you can make it through the school day?”

  Yolande nodded. “I’ll try.”

  Savannah was proud of Yolande for making it through. “What do you say to Board’s?” she asked as they stepped through Dunbar’s outer doors.

  Yolande shook her head. “No. I just want to go home.”

  During a silent walk, something Yolande said kept ringing in Savannah’s head.

  I just want things normal!

  For them normal was a nice home, plenty to eat, the latest clothes, Highland Beach, money to spare for sundaes and photoplays.

  For alley dwellers, normal was a hovel for a home, soot and filth, getting by with chamber pots, kerosene lamps, and candles, fending off rats.

  For Lloyd’s friend Spencer, normal was toiling away at the Navy Yard with an improperly healed back.

  By the time the girls reached home, the words of Hubert H. Harrison were once again crowding out other thoughts.

  The world, as it ought to be …

  EVIL UNLOOSED

  There was soon more reason to weep and fear.

  Negro veteran, Negro woman strung up outside Pickens, Mississippi.38

  Near Dublin, Georgia,39 a Negro man snatched from police custody, tied with his back to a tree, then “shot to pieces.” This after he supposedly fessed up to assaulting a white girl.

  Negro man, a former soldier, burned alive near El Dorado, Arkansas.40

  Near Eatonton, Georgia,41 a Negro lodge hall, two schools, five churches made ashes.

  And yet, after so much evil unloosed …

  On Decoration Day, the day after a total eclipse42 of the sun—six minutes, newspapers predicted, but invisible to DC eyes—Father, like Oscar Holloway, like old man Boudinot, like other men on the block, hung an American flag outside their home. The only house without one was the Pinchbacks’ with its still boarded-up front door.

  Three days later Savannah thought herself in a nightmare.

  Clap of thunder?

  Cannon boom?

  Sky raining glass?

  She sat bolt upright, blinked, blinked again in the darkness.

  Father burst into her room, flashlight in hand. “Savannah, come!”

  “What’s happening?”

  The white light was blinding.

  “Just come!”

  The next thing she knew, Father had her by the arm and was practically dragging her from her bedroom.

  Mother on the landing. Two flashlights in hand. Shucking her robe, wrapping it around Savannah, then kicking off her slippers. “You take these.”

  Dogs howled, sirens wailed.

  When they reached the door to the basement, a terrified Savannah was practically screaming, “What’s wrong, what’s happening?!”

  SUNSHINE KRISPY CRACKERS TOO

  No lark sparrow trills. No flycatcher whistles. No blue jay whirs and whines. No birdsong at all.

  Curtains, drapes of every house—as far she could see from her bedroom balcony, the living room window, the parlor—drawn tight.

  God had gone away.

  Following a solemn, mostly silent breakfast of hominy, sausage, and eggs, Father had headed out, but not before making a number of telephone calls.

  “Do be careful,” said Savannah.

  “And please don’t be out long,” added Mother.

  Father gently pinched their noses. “No worrying.”

  Savannah busied herself in the living room. Dusting, tidying, rearranging the brass-cased clock, the bust of Frederick Douglass, the stack of miniature books on the fireplace mantel.

  The telephone rang.

  She tensed.

  “I’ll get it!” She hurried to the hallway.

  “The Riddle residence …” Savannah lit up, clamped her hand over the receiver. “Mother! It’s Charlie!”

  Back to the call.

  “Charlie … We don’t know … Father has gone to … What!? … Was anyone—… Oh, how dreadful!” Hand clamped over the receiver again, Savannah cried out, “Mother! A bomb went off in New York City too!”

  From the sound of her footfalls, Mother couldn’t get there fast enough.

  “Charlie, are you all right? … Judge who? … Where? … How far is that from where you live? … You stay close to home today … When he returns I’ll have him call you.”

  Yolande, Savannah thought as Mother hung up the phone. “Mother, I’m going next door.”

  Mrs. Holloway answered.

  “I just thought I’d stop by and see how Yolande is doing.”

  Mrs. Holloway stepped out of the house. “She is not doing well at all,” she whispered.

  “May I see her?”

  “Not now, dear. I’ve given her something to help her sleep.”

  A long two hours later, back in her home, perched in her living room’s bay window, Savannah sent up a sigh of relief. There was Father, at last, coming up the walkway heavy-laden with bulging brown paper bags.

  “Charlie called. A bomb went off in New York City last night,” said Savannah, relieving Father of a bag.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes. It was blocks and blocks away.”

  Mother prepared another pot of coffee. Savannah began unpacking the food.

  Armour corned beef.

  Seacrest sardines.

  Del Monte white asparagus, spinach, tomatoes.

  Victory baked beans.

  Bordens’s condensed milk.


  Campbell’s chicken soup.

  Campbell’s tomato soup

  Campbell’s oxtail soup.

  Sunshine Krispy crackers too.

  Father stood at the kitchen window, hands in trouser pockets, stretching his neck, his back.

  “Pumpkin, just leave it all on the counter for now,” he said. “Might be best if we store some of it in the basement.”

  Savannah had rocks in her stomach as she waited for Father to hurry up and tell them what he’d found out. Was the bombing anywhere near his office? Anyone dead? Wounded? Had it—or them—been made to look like a package from Gimbel Brothers?

  But Savannah stifled herself, knowing that with Father there was always an order to things.

  So she just watched Mother watch the coffeepot percolate.

  Watched Father take a seat at the kitchen table.

  Watched Father motion her to do likewise.

  Watched Mother fill one cup, another cup.

  Heard Father say, “Savannah, would you like a cup?”

  “Really?” Savannah was exhilarated.

  “I think you are old enough,” replied Father.

  Savannah was also terrified. If they were letting her have coffee, things must be very bad.

  “Home of Attorney General Palmer,” said Father after his first sip.

  “Where’s that?” asked Savannah.

  “Over in Kalorama. R Street.”

  “Is he—?”

  “Not a scratch, they say. Family’s fine too. Assistant Secretary of the Navy Roosevelt and his wife were just arriving home—they live across the street from the Palmers—and they are unharmed too.” Father took another sip.

  “Front of Palmer’s house is near demolished. Some homes nearby, windows shattered, doors blown in.” Father rested his cup in its saucer. “Only the bomber died. Blown to butcher’s meat.43 Theory is he tripped going up the walkway.” Father swallowed. “Anarchist.”

  Mother was letting her coffee go cold.

  As was Savannah. “How do they know he was an anarchist?”

  “Leaflets strewn all over signed ‘The Anarchist Fighters.’ ”