by Lisa De Jong
My mama used to tell me that if I let all those little black girls play with my hair all the time, I’d turn into one. Don’t let them touch you too much, she’d say, or it’ll wear off on you!
It backfired on her, because I never minded that thought one bit.
Black folks intrigue me. If I was black, then I could be done with the pink foam rollers. I could sing like Sister Bessie. I heard her at a funeral once and the next Sunday I asked if we could go visit the church where Sister Bessie sings.
“That would not be appropriate, Caroline,” my mother sniffed.
To me, not appropriate is not wearing a slip under a white skirt, but I didn’t say this.
My family is not racist. Really.
“We don’t have anything against black people,” my parents say.
I rolled my eyes at my mom for saying that once and got my mouth popped.
“I ain’t got nothin’ agin niggers,” my grandpaw says. “They’s good people, I got lots of nigger friends.”
The n-word is his favorite word. This has always really bugged me about him.
“They need to be with their kind; we need to be with our kind.”
Well, that settles it then.
****
The only time my mom seems proud of me is when we’re out in public. When we’re at the store, someone will inevitably stop her to say hello. She’s the teller at Tulma First Bank on Pope and Third Street, so everyone feels like they know her.
“Such a pretty little thing,” they say, sometimes reaching out to touch my hair or pat my cheek.
My deep down shyness rears up and I try not to stiffen. My skin gives me away, turning a mottled red on my neck and cheeks. My mother practically falls over with the big head every time I’m paid a compliment.
She smiles her pageant smile and says, “Thank you,” and then, “What do you say, Caroline Josephine?”
Sometimes I’m even swept up in her beauty when she gives me that smile. If it would only pop out at home—I might be more inclined to believe in it. She will never let me forget she was Miss Tennessee. Or that her waist was only 22 inches when she got married. Or that every man in the county wanted to date her. I do think she’s beautiful, but I’d like to think it on my own without her ever lovin’ constant reminders. And just for once, I’d like for something besides beauty to matter to her, especially my beauty.
When I’m feeling a mite bit rebellious, I think dumb thoughts like:
I wish my teeth would all fall out. Then what would Mama say…
Maybe when she’s telling me to quit eating because I’ll get chubby one day, I’ll just stare at her and shove all the food in my mouth. At every meal. Until I do get chubby and then she’ll be so mortified.
If I didn’t wash my hair for two weeks, she wouldn’t puff up with pride every time someone stopped us on the street to compliment me. It would sure save time at the grocery store.
I’m afraid my mama doesn’t bring out the best in me. And I must be a real wimp because I just bite my tongue and do whatever she says. Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Whatever you say, Mama.
Because that’s what good girls do.
****
Tulma has a population of 6,579. We did have 6,583 until Mr. Jefferson, Jocelyn Sanders, Berlin Smith, and baby Edna passed away. It’s a river town with one bridge leading the way in and out. Tulma Elementary, Tulma Middle School, and Tulma High are all connected with each other, sitting in a row on Main Street. It’s the most impressive structure we’ve got in town, which is kinda sad when you think about it.
Today in gym, we’re learning to waltz. I love to dance but feel nervous at the thought of having to pick a boy partner. There’s only one boy I want to dance with. Ever. My hands start to sweat.
I look over and catch his eye. Isaiah. Isaiah Washington. He walks over.
“Hi, Caroline. Do you have a partner yet?”
“No, do you?” I try to act nonchalant.
“I do now,” he takes my hand, “if it’s okay with you.”
I smile my answer.
As all the other boys in class cut up with their partners, rolling their eyes at how juvenile it is to dance with a girl of all things, Isaiah and I dance the waltz like we were born doing this very thing.
Isaiah has mesmerizing eyes, flecks of gold in green. His hair has soft, short curls. His skin is smooth and clear and the color of milk chocolate. He is the most beautiful person I have ever seen.
He smiles at me. “What are you thinking right now, Caroline Josephine Carson?”
“I’m thinking...I hope we don’t get a lot of homework tonight.”
His eyes crinkle. He knows I’m lying.
My heart returns to normal as I walk back to my class. The dance ended way too soon.
****
Isaiah and I had a class together last year. He’s a year ahead of me, but we’ve shared some of the same classes. We became friends while working on a project together in Miss Spain’s history class. While we were supposed to talk, study, and basically breathe everything pyramid-related, we were getting to know each other. Isaiah was a straight A student, possibly the smartest kid in school. I admired that. Any awkwardness flew out with the chickens when he cracked a silly joke about elephants in the refrigerator. He was smart and funny. I was in love.
Once our project was completed, I didn’t get to talk to him much, but I’d catch him watching me. Whenever our eyes met, he’d give me that smile of his that seemed like I was the only girl in the world. I thought I might be imagining it, but a month later, he passed a note to me in gym that said:
Caroline, your smile is better than my mama’s chocolate pie, which is one of my favorite things.
I like you.
If you don’t like me the same way, just ignore this... I’ll understand.
If you do, can I call you tonight?
I sent a note back with my phone number. He smiled when he read it and tucked it into his jeans’ pocket. As soon as I walked in the door that afternoon, the phone was ringing. I ran to answer it and we talked for an hour.
And the next day and the next. Nothing was different at school. We didn’t talk, didn’t sit by each other, didn’t do anything to draw attention to ourselves, but in the afternoons, I began walking home from school and so did he. He had always taken his bike to school, but we realized that after everyone else in the group got to their houses, we had fifteen minutes to walk together, just the two of us.
Isaiah was romantic from the very beginning. He knew I liked wildflowers, so he picked them for me as we walked. He wrote poems for me like this one, which I still have in a little box he gave me for Valentine’s Day…
Someday…
I will hold your hand
Dance in the sand
With our favorite band.
Someday…
I will steal a kiss
Little miss,
It will be bliss.
Someday…
I will shout that you’re mine,
Caroline…
Till the end of time.
Someday.
Since that first day he called, he has been my favorite person and I’ve been his.
I still feel empty every day when I turn to go to my house and leave Isaiah for the day. Sometimes I see his mother standing in the doorway of their tiny ramshackle house. He never invites me in, but he waves until I’m out of sight.
“Bye, Miss Caroline,” his mother calls.
She always has a smile for me, but never asks if I want to stay awhile. I always wish she would, but know better than to ask. Today Sadie is wearing a handkerchief around her head and has a bowl in her hand, stirring, as Isaiah goes in the house. Maybe if I rush home, I can talk to him a little longer before my parents get there.
****
We live on the outskirts of town, just a mile or so past Isaiah’s house, but the scenery changes dramatically as soon as I turn the corner. Fields of fruit grow on one side of the road and a pasture for the Talbo
ts’ horses stretches out on the other side. Our house is a little rambler on the far corner of the Talbot’s field. On the edge of town lie beautiful green mountains and we are nestled in the first valley.
Mama says we would be well off if Daddy wouldn’t drink away our money. Daddy says we’d be well off if she’d stuck to pageants and to just shut up. It never goes too far because Mama does bring home the money. She has had her job for fifteen years and even though she’s constantly remembering the good ole days when she didn’t have to do anything but look pretty, I think she actually likes her job. She would never admit it, but I assume she does since she’s there every waking minute. Even Saturdays.
When Daddy is having a good bout, he works construction in Tulma and the neighboring towns. Once he made it a year without taking a drink, but eventually he gave in and went back to the bottle. This time has been three months of solid drinking, and I’m beginning to think the daddy I used to know is gone.
When I was little, Daddy would tell me stories, not just little nursery rhymes, but long, detailed stories that he would add to each night. Clovis the Bunny was one of my favorites and if I was sick, or had a bad dream, or just couldn’t sleep, Daddy would come in and tell me the adventures Clovis had been in that day. Nothing could make me laugh like the thought of Clovis hanging from our curtains or Clovis scaring the postman by talking like an old lady.
I can see my house just a football field ahead. I try to remember all the nice things about my daddy in the time it takes to get to the door. If I think nice things about him, it will stick. He will remember to be strong and will come home sober and happy.
When I finally reach the door, I’m sweating like my Aunt Josephine, who always has wet marks under her armpits. Josh is so happy to see me; he does a little dance around my feet. This is the one time of day that I’m happy to be home. Just me and my dog.
I step in the shower and wash quickly with cold water and get out just in time to hear the phone ringing. Isaiah knows the exact time to call. I run to the phone and we talk for an hour and a half today. I stretch it out until I hear my mom’s car turning in the driveway.
I’ve been preparing supper as I talk to Isaiah. The cornbread is ready to come out of the oven, the black-eyed peas are simmering on the stove, and the pork chops are all ready.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I whisper to Isaiah.
“Sweet dreams, Caroline,” he whispers because I’m whispering.
“Sweet dreams back.”
This is our hanging-up ritual. I know I won’t get a chance to talk to him again for the night. I hang up quickly before my mom can catch me on the phone with him. We’re very careful to not get caught. She would never approve of me loving a black boy.
Chapter 2
Friends & Enemies
Daddy didn’t come home last night and Mama is spittin’ mad. She’s already up when I come out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. There are no pancakes on the table, in case you were wondering.
Mama is pacing the floor, muttering to herself, while Josh tries to keep up with her fast strides. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but there are a few four-letter words flying around that she has always instructed me to never dream of saying, on account of it not being ladylike and all.
I get done with the chores a good ten minutes earlier than usual. I don’t want to stick around any longer than necessary. I shock Miss Greener—she’s used to me running down the road while she holds the bus for me.
Clara Mae invites me to come over to her house the next day and I tell her I have to check with my mother. Lord knows, I don’t need to rile her up any more than she already is.
I barely see Isaiah today. In gym, we take a break from the waltz and are divided into teams for dodge ball. I was hoping to have a little chat with Isaiah, but instead I’m running for my life to avoid the ball. He’s on my team, so we’re in close proximity, but neither of us speaks to the other. It’s hard to not stare at him, but I try to save all my looks for our walk home.
****
My grandma, Nellie, surprises me by picking me up from school. I wish I could let Isaiah know that I’m not walking home with him, but you don’t make Nellie wait around. She’s in an extra hustle-bustle mood.
“Your mama said you need some new clothes,” she says when I get in the car. She drives a black ‘57 Chevrolet Bel-Air with a white hardtop. My grandpa washes it every Saturday. Nellie says Paw loves it more than he loves her, and I’d say it’s not too far from the truth. They might be neck and neck.
We drive to the fabric store and she lets me pick out material for three dresses, six blouses, and three skirts. She absolutely will not let me pick out material for pants. If I’m gonna do such a heathen thing like wear pants, I’m gonna have to get them on my own dime, she says. She gripes about the fashions all the way home from the store.
“That girl in there was wearin’ her pants so tight, I could see her religion!” she huffs.
My grandma is an exceptional seamstress. Even though I would like to wear pants sometimes, she makes such beautiful dresses that I can’t feel bad about it. Clara Mae says she’d give anything to wear a dress like my white poplin one with the blue glass buttons. Now that I’ll finally have something else to wear, I can give it to her.
When we get to her house, I help carry in the fabric and go to the back bedroom to get measured. I’ve grown two and a half inches since the last time we did this. I’m taller than anyone in my class, but didn’t realize I had grown so much in the last few months. Isaiah must be growing right along with me, because he’s still taller than me by a couple inches.
I blush as Nellie says, “Girl, we need to get you a new bra yesterday!” I’ve noticed that things are progressing quite rapidly there, but haven’t known exactly what to do about it. I don’t tell Nellie about wrapping a small tablecloth around my chest until Mama takes me to get a new bra. She would ask why I don’t just tell my mother mine is way too small now, but I can’t explain how that would humiliate me to no end.
Thankfully, in third grade, Jody told me everything about “my visiting aunt Dottie,” so I knew what to expect when that came a while ago. Jody failed second and third grade and was extremely proud to know something that none of us knew. I didn’t believe her at first, but she was telling it straight. I never told Mama when I got it and she has never asked.
I sit by Nellie and cut the material while she threads the machine. She has her own handmade patterns that she pins onto the material. She lets me sew all the easy seams while she takes a turn at cutting. We’ve done this many times, since as far back as I can remember. I think I could probably do it myself, but it’s more fun with her.
My Nellie is tall and very skinny. She hunches over the machine like a spindly match. When I hug her, I can feel her bones jutting out, but she’s still nice to hug. Her white hair sits atop her head, invoking thoughts of an imposing schoolmarm. She has always insisted I call her Nellie. When I think about it, I’m not really certain why she doesn’t like Grandma and think I will ask her why.
“Nellie, why have you never wanted me to call you Grandma?”
She stops cutting and has a pin in her mouth when she answers, “Child, do I look old enough to be a grandma?”
“Well, yes,” I say. My, aren’t we brave today.
Her eyes narrow and for a minute I am very afraid. You just never know what will set off Nellie. Another minute creeps by and then she throws her head back and lets out a loud guffaw. Nellie can laugh like nobody’s business.
Relieved, I laugh too.
Grandpaw wanders back to our room and asks, “What’s all the commotion back here?” When he says here, it sounds like heah.
“Hi, Grandpaw, how are ya?” I get up to hug his thick middle.
He hugs me tight, patting my head and says, “Hey, Little Caroline, how you?”
And then, “Have I told you about the nigger who went into the five and dime?”
Honestly, it has not eve
n been one minute. Here we go.
“Yes, Grandpaw, you have…” I roll my eyes as he repeats the punch line for probably the millionth time. I’ve given up trying to get him to stop talking like this. He doesn’t need me to laugh because he’s already laughing so hard. Nellie is laughing right alongside him.
****
Six hours later and I have half of a new wardrobe. We whipped up the skirts, four of the blouses and got a good start on the dresses. I must admit that my new clothes are exquisite. I thank Nellie as we’re driving home.
“Oh, glad to do it, Honey. Lord knows you deserve a little something pretty.”
When we pull up to the house, the lights are off. Mama’s car is not in the driveway. Daddy’s truck isn’t either.
“Where do you suppose everyone is?” Nellie asks. “It’s late.”
“Oh, they’ll probably be home before too long. Mama sometimes works late during the week.” I don’t mention Daddy’s lack of attendance last night.
“Well, do you want to stay with us tonight? I don’t like leaving you out here all by yourself,” she says as she stifles a yawn.
“No, I’ll be fine. I’m just going to bed.”
“Well, if you’re sure…” she pauses, then seems satisfied with my answer.
“Goodnight, Grandma,” I whisper that last part and she swats my backside as I get out of the car.
I hear Mama come in around midnight. I’ve dozed off and on, but can’t help but worry about her. I’m relieved when I finally hear the door latch and her heels clacking softly in the living room. She has been working so hard lately. Last week, she came in late three nights and was dragging around the rest of the week. Before I drift off to sleep, I think that her boss, Mr. Anderson, is so cruel to take a mother away from her daughter like he has all these years.