Mama Hattie's Girl

by Lois Lenski

  “Them bedroom and dining-room suites cost me $379,” she said in a low voice. “I paid it all in one year.” She looked down at her knotted hands in her lap. Then she said: “I was able to work then. I went out every day to work regular … I had my white folks then. I worked for Miz Arnold for ten years …”

  “I jest know you can pay it!” Lula Bell’s voice was so cheerful and confident that Mama Hattie smiled.

  “Well, if I can’t keep the payments up, he’ll just have to come and take the washer away,” she said.

  “We’ll keep it, Mama Hattie,” said Lula Bell. “Don’t you worry none.”

  “I git scared, I got so many other bills to pay,” said the old woman. “$7 a month on the kerosene stove, $2 on the radio, 35¢ a week on each of my insurance policies, and now doctor bills and medicine too … and we got to have food to eat and clothes to wear.”

  “But you can do more washings with the machine,” said the girl.

  “If Imogene’ll let me,” sighed Mama Hattie.

  As expected, Imogene was very angry when she saw the electric washer. She scolded and scolded. She made Mama Hattie and Lula Bell feel like two guilty culprits who had committed a crime.

  “I don’t want you to take in washing,” she said. “That’s a shameful way of making a living. All the white women go to the launderettes now. They can sit and read funny papers while the machines wash their clothes. Nobody’s payin’ money to colored women to wash any more. We’ve got to find more dignified ways of making a living.”

  Old Hattie tried to explain. “I can’t go out cookin’ now,” she said. “For years I had me some good white folks to work for. I cooked for Miz Arnold and the best people in town. Anybody will tell you—they could put their dependence on me. But I’m too old now—I can’t walk twenty blocks to a job mornin’ and evenin’ the way I did when I was young.”

  “Cooking!” cried Imogene. “That’s as bad as taking in washing. We must stop doing menial work. White people will never respect us if we don’t get into more dignified jobs and show we are worthy of them.”

  “There’s nothin’ wrong about workin’ with your hands,” said Mama Hattie. “I’ve washed clothes all my life. I could do it at home and keep an eye on my children. I got along purty well, even after your daddy died. I raised a nice family of fine children.”

  “Times have changed, Mama,” said Imogene patiently. “We do things different now. If you want to get ahead, you have to have education.”

  “I took in washin’ to put you through High School,” said Mama Hattie. “I cooked for Miz Arnold by day, and washed clothes at night, to pay $3 a week board for you. I made all my children go to school, even when I needed ’em at home. I wanted ’em to learn somethin’. I only went to the Third Grade myself. All I got was enough Arithmetic in my head to keep people from cheatin’ me. I know what it comes to when I buy somethin’, and how much change I oughta git …

  “Yes,” the older woman went on, “times has changed. All my life I had to tote water for washin’. I’d take one bucket in each hand and one on my head to save time—and I’d spill nary a drop. Now I jest turn on the tap. I used to heat my old sadiron on a bucket full of burning charcoal, then purty soon we had a kerosene stove. After that I saved up and got an electric iron. Now they got them laundry-ettes to take the food out of a pore woman’s mouth … to take all her independence away …”

  “There are other ways of making a living,” said Imogene stubbornly. “There’s office work, factory work, dressmaking, hostess work …”

  “I’m old and sick,” said her mother. “I can’t do them things.”

  But Imogene was not done scolding.

  “How often must I tell you not to buy things on the installment plan?” she went on. “You know you pay three times over for it. Those salesmen who come around to the door are sharks, trying to get our hard-earned cash. They got to protect themselves in case we can’t make the payments. So they jack the price up. You can buy it lots cheaper at the store.”

  “I can’t git to the store,” said Mama Hattie. “It’s too far to walk.”

  Lula Bell stood beside her grandmother’s chair, with her arm around her shoulder. She listened to the argument, and she knew her mother was right. But her grandmother was right too. How could they both be right? She could not side with either one.

  “We got enough bills to pay now,” said Imogene, “without adding more. Joe and I want to get ahead and save a little—but you’re always trying to hold us down.”

  “Joe?” Mama Hattie looked up and spoke sharply. “Precious lot he’s doin’. He ain’t helpin’ none that I kin see.”

  “Joe was doin’ well up in Jersey,” said Imogene. “Tain’t his fault the factory went out on strike for six weeks.”

  Mama Hattie knew there was no use complaining about Joe to Imogene. All her spirit left her, and she spoke now in a soft pleading tone.

  “You’ll help me make the payments on the washer, won’t you, chile? You can spare me $5 a month, can’t you?”

  “I’ll go tell that salesman to come and take it back!” snapped Imogene. “He came around here and sold it to you when my back was turned. He knew you were so soft and easy, he could put it over on you. He’s the same one who sold you that expensive kerosene stove! $157—only $10 down! Bah! I’ll phone him to come and take that washer back.”

  “No, you won’t, Imogene,” said her mother firmly. “I’ll pay for it myself. It’s all I got. It’s all I can do now. I can’t rub clothes on the rubbin’ board on account of the rheumatism in my hands, but I kin turn on the juice. You oughta be happy—I won’t use the iron washpot outdoors no more. You was ashamed o’ that. That washin’ machine is stayin’ here. It’ll bring us good luck!”

  “Stop being superstitious, Mama,” said Imogene. “We got to make our luck.”

  The next morning when Imogene left, Mama Hattie said with a sly smile, “Lula Bell and I may not be here when you git back tonight.”

  “Where you going?” asked Imogene. “All round the town begging for people’s washings to do?”

  “No ma’m,” said Mama Hattie proudly. “Miz Arnold’s done sent hers already. She never forgits me. I still got my white folks who looks out for me.”

  “‘Your white folks who looks out for you!’” Imogene laughed. “Mama—you’re still living in the days of slavery!”

  Mama Hattie quickly changed the subject. There were some things that Imogene would never understand at all.

  “The Rose of Sharon Church is havin’ a fish fry out at Gray Moss Bayou,” she said. “The preacher’s invited Lula Bell and me to go along in his car.”

  Lula Bell began to dance up and down. “A fish fry! A fish fry!”

  Imogene looked at her mother. “You feelin’ well enough to go to doings like that?”

  “I’ll ride in Brother Williams’ car,” said Mama Hattie, smiling. “I’ll set down on a bench in the grove and watch the young folks work. I’ll eat all the fish I can hold. No hard work about that!”

  “See you don’t make fools of yourselves,” said Imogene without looking back. Her high heels made a click-click tattoo as she moved rapidly up the paved brick street and turned a corner.

  Lula Bell loved to go places. She and Mama Hattie spent most of the day getting ready. Mama Hattie fixed a big dish of baked beans and another of potato salad to take along. She combed Lula Bell’s hair and platted it neatly. She tied a red ribbon bow on top of her head. She told her to put on her red silk dress, the one Aunty Ruth had sent her for Easter.

  “Good thing I found my red shoe, Mama Hattie,” said Lula Bell.

  “Ain’t you said it don’t fit you good, baby?”

  “Yas’m,” said Lula Bell, “but I’ll make it fit today. I’ll pull the strap tight till I git it buckled. I’ll wear it to the fish fry, even if it kills me!”

  Brother Williams and his wife called promptly at four o’clock, stopping their car by the front curb. Brother Williams was tall and
thin and Sister Eula was short and fat. They honked the horn loudly. Mama Hattie and Lula Bell hurried out, bearing the two covered dishes in their hands.

  The preacher’s horn brought all the children running. “Can we go too? Can we go too?” they cried. But Brother Williams spoke sternly and sent them home. Lula Bell sat proudly beside her grandmother on the back seat. She held her head high as they started down the street, turned a corner and drove out into the country.

  It was cool in the grove by the bayou, where the live oak trees were covered with drooping Spanish moss. Long tables were laid in an open spot beside the winding stream. Men and women were working, getting ready. A large boiler full of hot fat stood over a glowing fire. Young boys pushed wood underneath to keep the fire going.

  Aunty Velma Henshaw stirred up a batch of hushpuppies in a five-gallon kettle. She poured sour mik into a waterground cornmeal mixture. She sprinkled it with chopped onions and stirred the batter vigorously. Meanwhile, several young people were “mealing the mullet” at a side table—dipping each piece of fish into cornmeal, and piling the pieces up in a huge pile.

  Soon the frying began. Brother Wiley, a small but energetic man, took charge. A large oblong wire rack with long handles like a basket and shallow sides was filled with fish and dipped into the sizzling boiler of fat. The appetizing odor of frying fish filled the air. When the fish were nicely browned, the rack was lifted, and Brother Wiley took each piece out carefully with a long-handled fork. Aunty Velma dropped spoonfuls of hushpuppy batter into the fat to brown.

  Meanwhile the people kept coming. The church women had spread the covered dishes and other food out on the long tables. Twenty pies were cut into sixths, thirty cakes were cut into wedges, and spoons were placed in all the dishes so people could help themselves. Paper plates and napkins were piled at one end. A procession started down the line cafeteria-style.

  “Come on, Mama Hattie, I’m starved to death!” cried Lula Bell. “Let’s git us something to eat.”

  Lula Bell could not remember when she had seen so much food before. Her empty stomach ached with hunger. She piled her plate high, putting on something of everything. Mama Hattie did the same. Mama Hattie was happier than she had been for weeks. She seemed to know everybody. She laughed and joked as she walked along.

  “I’m gonna stop eatin’ next month and reduce,” she called over to Aunty Velma, who was mixing up another batch of hush-puppies. “I weigh 225—that’s too much. I’d like to git down to 180 if I kin.”

  Aunty Velma laughed heartily. “Have yourself a good feed first then, Sister Hattie. Tain’t no fun starvin’ yourself.”

  “I don’t never want to starve,” Miss Hattie replied. “I made my children promise not to starve me when I’m dyin’. And I don’t want jest soups neither. I wants pork and greens—solid food—to die on.”

  Everybody laughed—even the preacher.

  “Oh, Mama Hattie!” cried Lula Bell, staring at the food on her grandmother’s plate. “It’s all got salt in it.”

  “Salt? Shore it’s got salt!” laughed Mama Hattie. “That’s so I kin enjoy it!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Bad Luck

  The electric washer was a big help. Lula Bell went around to Mama Hattie’s old customers and several of them began to bring their washings in. Mama Hattie was happy because she had work to do and it brought in a little income. She did three, often four washings in a week. She saved the money to make the monthly payments.

  Then one day, she heard a noise back of the house. Out in the yard under the clothes line, she found a dead mocking bird. She saw James Henry Thorpe scooting away with his BB gun. She held the bird in her hand and looked at it. Then she buried it tenderly. It had sung for her in the mulberry tree day after day. She knew that killing a mocking bird meant bad luck and it worried her. She hoped something terrible would not happen, but she had never known the sign to fail. She said nothing to Imogene. Imogene would only laugh at her for believing in signs.

  Lula Bell went down to the bayou fishing with the other children that evening and came back late. The fish were not biting, so she had none to bring home. She set the fishing-pole against the house and went in. She felt a little ashamed, for she had hoped to bring a mess for supper and some extra to sell.

  “Where you at, Mama Hattie?” she called.

  Her grandmother was not sitting on the porch. The radio was quiet and the house seemed empty. In the kitchen, a big washing was half done. Washed clothes lay in the basket, ready to hang out. It was almost supper time. Where had Mama Hattie gone?

  Suddenly the girl heard a moaning sound coming from her grandmother’s bedroom. She went in and was surprised to find Mama Hattie in bed.

  “You sick?” she asked.

  “No, girl—I had a accident,” said the old woman. “The ’lectric wringer … well, my hand went clean through it. Guess I was pushin’ the clothes through too hard—my hand and arm went through too. But I remembered what the man said. I threw up the handle with the other hand, to disconnect it …”

  “What then?” asked Lula Bell, open-mouthed.

  “Oh Lordy, how it hurt when I got it out—clean up to my shoulder and neck,” Mama Hattie went on. “I thought my whole arm was comin’ off. Nobody was here, so I hobbled over to the preacher’s and Sister Eula rubbed it with alcohol. I stayed there on her bed till the pain eased a little. Then she come home with me and put me to bed here. Oh Lordy, how it hurts!”

  Lula Bell stared. “What can I do? Can I rub it?”

  “No, honey, I got to grin and bear it,” said Mama Hattie. “The Lord will give me strength. There’s Miz Arnold’s clothes—she depends on me. Can you hang ’em out on the line—them clothes in the basket?”

  “Yas’m,” said Lula Bell. “I sure can.”

  “But don’t you go near that blessed wringer!”

  “I won’t, Mama Hattie.”

  Imogene was shocked and grieved when she came home and heard what had happened. Then her grief turned to anger.

  “I told you not to buy that washer,” she cried. “‘Good Luck!’—huh! I knew it would bring bad luck on us.”

  “It wasn’t the washer,” said Mama Hattie in a low voice. “It was that little dead mockin’ bird.”

  Mama Hattie stayed in bed. She had taken cold and it settled in her bronchial tubes. The next day she could not talk above a whisper. She did not want to get up. Imogene had the doctor come for a visit. He said there was danger of pneumonia. Imogene asked her sister Irene to come over and stay awhile.

  “I’ll come,” said Irene, “but I got to bring the kids.”

  Irene Trimble and her husband, Vernon, lived across town and had four small children. She had to bring them along, as they were too little to stay alone. They were Dora, six, Dean, five, Diane, four, and Debby, three. Vern Trimble picked oranges during the winter and did hauling and trucking in off seasons. He made a comfortable living for his family.

  Irene was plump, motherly and good-natured. She looked more like Old Hattie than any other of her daughters. She tried to nurse her sick mother, while her unruly children overran the house. They kept the place in an uproar, and made everything untidy. They were never quiet except when asleep.

  “Watch them kids, Lula Bell!” Aunty Irene kept saying.

  Lula Bell got tired of watching them. At first she thought they were cute, then they made her life miserable. They tore up her tricycle. It was true she had outgrown it, but it made her cross to see the wheels and handlebars off. The little children punched in the eyes of her dolls. Even though she had left off playing with dolls, it made her mad. They found Imogene’s lipstick and marked red streaks over the walls and furniture. They emptied Imogene’s bureau drawers and scattered the contents over the floor. Lula Bell got blamed for it. She found a switch and used it daily. The children screamed when they saw her coming.

  One day Mama Hattie seemed better and asked to get up. She walked slowly into the front room. She wore her dark blue robe and h
er purple bedroom slippers. She sat down in the platform rocker by the window. Dean had thrown a block of wood through the window pane, so Irene tacked a newspaper over the hole, to prevent a draft. Old Hattie’s face was ashy, and her eyes had a look of sickness in them. Her short uncombed hair stood out stiffly.

  “You want I should plat your hair, Mama Hattie?” asked Lula Bell.

  “Sure, honey,” said her grandmother. “Aunty Irene, she too busy.”

  Irene had brought the ironing board into the front room and had attached the cord of the electric iron to the fixture that hung from the center of the ceiling. On the settee along the wall was a mountain of unironed clothes, some dry, some sprinkled. Irene came in from the kitchen.

  “Run over to Miss Lena’s girl, and git a can of chicken soup for your grandma,” she said.

  Lula Bell put down her comb and ran out.

  “Diane and Debby’s both sick,” Irene went on, starting to iron. “I put ’em both back to bed. They been vomitin’ ever since they got up.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Mama Hattie listlessly. She began to cough, and the coughing led to wheezing.

  “That cough don’t sound good to me,” said Irene. “Your heart don’t beat strong enough—that’s why you can’t git your breath, Mama.”

  “That doctor give me somethin’ to make it beat stronger,” said her mother. “I had to sit up in bed all night. Couldn’t breathe layin’ down. Seems like I’m gittin’ my asthma back again.”

  Lula Bell ran in with the can of soup. She started to plat her grandmother’s hair again. Irene turned her iron off and took the can to the kitchen. “You’ll feel better if you eat a little somethin’, Mama.” In a minute she called out: “Lu-Bell, this here’s vegetable-beef. I done tole you to git chicken noodle. Run and take this back.”

  “I ain’t hungry,” said Mama Hattie.