‘‘That’s a funny-looking word,’’ I said, pointing to the cover.
‘‘The Eclectic First Reader,’’ Katie read. ‘‘I don’t know what eclectic means either,’’ she said with a little laugh, ‘‘but, here, I’ll find you something to read. I bet you can read just fine.’’
She turned the pages, looking at one lesson after another, then stopped.
‘‘Here’s one,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll start. ‘Come, let us go into thick shade,’ ’’ she began. ‘‘ ‘It is noonday, and the summer sun beats hot upon our heads. The shade is pleasant and cool. The branches meet above our heads and shut out the sun like a green curtain.’ ’’
She stopped and pointed to where she was.
‘‘Now you keep going, Mayme,’’ she said, putting the book in front of me.
‘‘Okay, I’ll try,’’ I said. ‘‘ ‘The . . . grass is . . . soft to . . . our feet,’ ’’ I began slowly, ‘‘ ‘and the clear—’ ’’
I hesitated. ‘‘What’s that next word?’’
‘‘Brook,’’ said Katie.
‘‘ ‘—and the clear brook . . . washes . . . the r-r-oot . . . washes the roots of the trees.’ ’’
‘‘I knew you could do it,’’ said Katie. ‘‘That was very good. Keep going, and I’ll read along with you to make it easier.’’
‘‘ ‘The cattle can lie down to sleep in the cool shade,’ ’’ we read out loud together, ‘‘ ‘but we can do better. We can raise our voices to heaven. We can praise the great God who made us.’ ’’
As we read, Katie waited a moment to let me try each word alone, then said it to help me along. Pretty soon, as I got more comfortable with it, I felt like I was reading it myself even though she was saying it with me. She was a natural-born teacher.
We finished the little story together.
‘‘ ‘He made the warm sun and the cool shade,’ ’’ we read, ‘‘ ‘the trees that grow upwards, and the brooks that run along. The plants and trees are made to give fruit to man. All that live get life from God. He made the poor man, as well as the rich man. He made the dark man, as well as the fair man. He made the fool, as well as the wise man. All that move on the land are His, and so all that fly in the air, and all that swim in the sea. The ox and the worm are both the work of His hand. In Him, they live and move. He it is that doth give food to all of them, and when He says the word, they all must die.’ ’’ I couldn’t help smiling when we set the book down.
‘‘Thank you, Miss Katie,’’ I said. ‘‘That was fun. It got easier with you helping me.’’
‘‘And every little bit you read will make it easier and more fun,’’ she said. ‘‘So let’s go through the book, and you read every story and learn the words at the end. See, the next story is called ‘The Lame Dog,’ ’’ she said. ‘‘You try to read it by yourself first a time or two, then when you are ready, we will read it together. We’ll do a new one every morning and evening.’’
————
Late one afternoon I was milking the cows by myself. Katie must have been off doing something else. As I milked, without realizing it, I started squeezing in rhythm, humming a tune, and after a while I was singing softly to the time and the sound of the milk spraying out into the bucket.
Singing is what black folks do when they work. The men sang in the fields hoeing cotton and picking corn. Everybody, even the children, had to pick the corn when it was ripe, from sunup till sundown, and I remember the sounds of the singing clear as yesterday. The women sang when they washed the clothes. And us young’uns sang when we worked and played. Singing’s just what black folks did. It made the work go by a heap easier.
As I was milking away, all at once I realized Katie had come up behind me. I looked around and stopped.
‘‘What was that you were singing, Mayme?’’ she asked.
‘‘A song we used to sing.’’
‘‘Sing it again,’’ she said, sitting down on another stool.
I started milking again, got the rhythm of my squeezing going like before, and then started singing along with it.
‘‘Hit’s a gittin’ mighty late, w’en de Guinny-hins
squall,
En you better dance now, ef you gwineter dance a tall.
Fer by dis time ter-morrer night you can’t hardly crawl,
Kaze you’ll hatter take de hoe ag’in en likewise de
maul—
Don’t you hear dat bay colt a kickin’ in his stall?
Stop yo’ humpin’ up yo’ sho’lders—Dat’ll never do!
Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!
Hit takes a heap er scrougin’, Fer ter git you throo—
Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!’’
I looked over at Katie, and she was smiling and tapping her foot.
‘‘There’s another verse,’’ I told her.
‘‘Oh, keep singing,’’ she said. So I continued, then she joined me on, ‘‘Hop light, ladies, Oh, Miss Loo!’’ We laughed and laughed.
Katie got off the stool, then brought it over, sat down and started to milk the next cow. I watched her pull the pail underneath and just get to milking away. She didn’t seem to mind a bit like she had that first day.
————
I worked on my lessons like Katie had said, reading one new story every morning and another at night.
I’d work my own way through them slowly once, sounding out the words I didn’t know, and then a second time. Katie would sit down with me, and we’d read it aloud together. Within just a few days of practicing, I was reading a lot better than before, though the stories got harder real quick. Sometimes I would do two in a day, sometimes three. I especially liked the one called ‘‘The Snow Dog and Boy.’’
Within about a week I was through with the stories in the first reader, and Katie excitedly brought me the next, called The Eclectic Second Reader. I saw right off that the printing was smaller. The book was thicker too.
‘‘This looks harder,’’ I said. I didn’t see how I would ever get through it.
‘‘Just try it,’’ said Katie, looking at the first story, then turning the page. ‘‘Here, read Lesson Two.’’ She handed me the book.
‘‘I don’t even know that first word,’’ I said.
‘‘It’s ‘James,’ ’’ said Katie.
‘‘All right . . . ‘James,’ ’’ I read, ‘‘ ‘it is now mormor . . . ning. Morning. The sun is just peep . . . peeping over the hills in the east. Get up, my boy, for the sun has just . . . risen.’ ’’
‘‘There, you see,’’ Katie smiled, ‘‘you can read it fine. Just keep going with one or two stories a day, and we’ll keep reading them aloud together. You’re doing real well, Mayme.’’
As I read more in the second reader, Katie was showing me some of her favorite books too, and I began to spend time in front of the bookshelf, pulling out volumes and looking at some of them myself. She told me about biographies of famous people written by Peter Parley—she especially liked the one about George Washington—and the silly book of funny drawings and verses called the Book of Nonsense. She was also real fond of some fairy tales by a man named Hans Christian Andersen.
‘‘Sometimes those fairy tales come alive in my mind,’’ she said, ‘‘when I’m at my secret place in the woods.’’ Then she stopped and got a funny look on her face.
‘‘What secret place?’’ I asked.
‘‘I’ve never told anybody about it,’’ she said slowly, ‘‘not even my mother. It’s a place I found in the woods.’’
‘‘Can I see it?’’ I asked. Katie promised to show it to me sometime soon.
KATIE ’S POEMS
23
ICAME UPSTAIRS WITH AN ARMLOAD OF CLEAN clothes from the line outside. Katie had insisted that I wear some of her mother’s dresses. At first I wouldn’t hear of it, but finally I realized the rags I was wearing were eventually going to fall right off me. So I made her pick out two of the plainest ones, and I had one to wear when I
washed the other.
Anyway, I was carrying a load up the stairs and came upon Katie in her room, bent over her writing desk.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ I asked from the doorway.
‘‘Writing a poem.’’
‘‘A poem . . . you really write poems?’’
‘‘Yes. This is my poem book. I haven’t written one since . . . you know, before everything that happened.’’
‘‘What does it say?’’ I put the clothes on the bed and sat down.
‘‘It’s a little embarrassing to let someone else read your poems,’’ she said, her cheeks pink.
‘‘Please show me, Miss Katie. I’ve never thought up a poem in my life.’’
‘‘All right. But promise you won’t laugh.’’
‘‘I would never laugh, Miss Katie. If you thought of it all by yourself, that makes it special.’’
‘‘Okay, then—here it is. It’s called, ‘Mama’s Gone.’
‘‘When morning comes, the voices of the birds still ring.
They think it’s the same as before.
But I’ve got no song to sing.
I’m quiet, and cold to the core.
My music has turned to dismay.
Mama’s gone away.
Outside my window, everything looks drab and odd.
There’s nothing to do but cry.
What makes bad things happen, God?
Can you tell me why?
What once was joy is only gray.
Mama’s gone away.’’
Tears came to my eyes. ‘‘That’s beautiful, Miss Katie, even though it’s sad,’’ I said. ‘‘It’s kinda like a song. I’m sorry about your mama, but I think your poem is real nice. I never knew anybody that could make something like that up out of their own head.’’
‘‘You make up stories, Mayme. I’ve never made up a story. And black folks make up poems and turn them into songs.’’
‘‘Yeah, I reckon. But that seems different than this. Will you read me another?’’
‘‘Yes, if you want. Here’s one I wrote at my . . . well, you know, my special place in the woods.’’
I nodded.
‘‘Sometimes when I used to go there, I’d think of poems. Here’s what I wrote.’’
She turned a couple of pages, then took a breath and started to read.
‘‘There’s little Miss Rabbit, Mrs. Robin, and grand big
Mr. Deer.
They all come to drink.
They don’t mind if I’m here,
because they know I’m their chum.
Mrs. Robin sings. Mr. Deer tiptoes through the grass.
Miss Rabbit scampers along.
But Mr. Raccoon is shy.
He doesn’t think I belong
in this place where the animals come.
People and animals ought to be friends. We have the
same home. We share this earth.
There shouldn’t be fear.
God gave all creatures birth,
so friends is what we ought to become.’’
‘‘That’s right fine, Miss Katie. What’s that one called?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I haven’t given it a name yet.’’
‘‘Do deer and rabbits really come and drink when you are there?’’
‘‘Yes. But I only saw Mr. Raccoon once, and he never came back. I’m sad that he’s afraid of me. That’s why I wrote the poem.’’
It made me want to see her secret place even more.
MRS. HAMMOND
24
MAYME . . . MAYME, THERE’S A WAGON COMing!’’ shouted Katie, running from the house.
I was near the barn mixing up some grain and water to make slop for the pigs to eat.
‘‘How close?’’ I asked, dropping the bucket. We both headed back to the house at a run.
‘‘I heard it and saw the dust from the road toward town,’’ she panted. ‘‘It’s just coming through the field and will be here any minute.’’
‘‘Who is it?’’
‘‘I couldn’t see. It’s from the wrong direction to be Mr. Thurston again.’’
‘‘I’ll go inside,’’ I told her. ‘‘You’ll have to talk to them again, like last time.’’
‘‘But—’’
‘‘I don’t know what you’ll say, Miss Katie,’’ I interrupted her. ‘‘You’ll have to see who it is and what they want.’’
I tore off my muddy boots and ran inside.
As I hurried upstairs, Katie stationed herself by the front door. I could hear the clatter and jingling and snorting of horses pulling a buckboard even before the bedroom door slammed shut behind me. I crouched down and peeked over the edge of the window.
It looked like a woman was driving a team of two horses. The three dogs were running and barking around the wagon. Even from up where I was hiding, the expression on her face made me a little nervous. She looked like the kind of woman who had a perpetual scowl on her face, the type of person who made a habit of butting into other people’s business. I doubted she’d be inclined to let sleeping dogs lie, pardon the expression since the dogs sure weren’t sleeping right then.
I heard Katie open the door and walk out onto the porch.
‘‘Hello, Miss Kathleen,’’ the woman said. ‘‘Where’s your mama?’’
‘‘She’s not here, Mrs. Hammond.’’
‘‘Where is she?’’
‘‘She’s . . . away, ma’am, uh, on business.’’
‘‘What kind of business?’’
I could hear suspicion in the lady’s voice so thick you could’ve cut it.
‘‘I’m not sure, Mrs. Hammond.’’
‘‘Well . . . hmm—I guess it can’t be helped,’’ said the lady, climbing down from the buggy. ‘‘Call your dogs off ,’’ she said with some irritation. ‘‘I do declare—’’
And I heard Katie calming down the three dogs and calling them away from the lady. I peeked over the windowsill again and almost chuckled to see them standing around Katie like they were protecting her.
‘‘Might as well deliver your mail, then,’’ she said, handing over a bundle.
‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ said Katie, standing firmly in place as she took the letters.
‘‘It’s been piling up at the post office,’’ Mrs. Hammond said. ‘‘That’s when I realized I hadn’t seen your mama for longer than usual. The mail’s been collecting since that day you came to pick it up and said your mama was busy with the slaves. Do you remember?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’
‘‘I started wondering if something might be wrong, not seeing her in all this time. So I thought I would bring it out and find out for myself. Is there anything wrong, Kathleen?’’
‘‘Uh . . .’’ began Katie in a hesitant voice.
One of the dogs started growling in its throat, and Mrs. Hammond stepped backward as did I from my window.
‘‘Why hasn’t your mama been to town to collect her mail?’’ she asked, glaring down at the dog. ‘‘And aren’t you even going to invite me inside for a glass of water?’’ Mrs. Hammond went on. ‘‘Gracious, child, where’s your manners? What’s wrong with you today?’’
‘‘I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re welcome to a glass of water.’’
Mrs. Hammond was already on her way inside with or without an invitation. I tiptoed toward the door in case I could hear more of the conversation drifting up the stairway.
Katie had followed Mrs. Hammond into the kitchen.
‘‘Where’s Beulah?’’ I heard the woman ask.
‘‘I don’t know, ma’am,’’ answered Katie.
A humph of dissatisfaction sounded. I heard the clacking of the kitchen pump followed by running water.
‘‘Well, tell your mama to come and see me,’’ Mrs. Hammond said after a short time. ‘‘I don’t like the sound of her being so busy she can’t even come to town to pick up her mail, especially when she hasn’t made a payment on her account at the store for th
ree months. You tell her I don’t mind carrying her along when times get lean, but I’ve got a business to run too. And there’s a note in that stack of mail from Mr. Taylor. When he heard I was coming out to Rosewood, he asked me to tell your mother that he wants to talk to her about her loan that’s due in two months. Can you remember that, Kathleen?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Katie said meekly.
‘‘Well, I hope so.’’
She let out a sigh, then I heard footsteps moving toward the door. ‘‘Goodness, child, I thought you’d have grown up more by this time. You must be a grief to your poor mother sometimes.’’
The door shut.
I hurried back to the window and was relieved to see the buckboard disappearing along the road the way it had come.
THE SECRETARY AGAIN
25
WHEN I GOT DOWNSTAIRS, KATIE WAS STILL standing in the kitchen, not exactly trembling from the encounter, but almost.
I saw the mound of mail sitting on the kitchen table. Without thinking, I went over and absently started thumbing through the stack. There were some advertisements for farming equipment and seeds and that kind of thing, a magazine, a rolled-up newspaper, and two or three letters, and—
All of a sudden I realized what I was doing. I froze, then jerked my hand away.
Katie must have seen the motion and it brought her back to herself.
‘‘What’s wrong, Mayme?’’ she asked.
‘‘Nothing, I was just forgetting myself, that’s all,’’ I said. ‘‘Sometimes I got to remind myself that this ain’t my house. Not that I ever really forget, but you know what I mean, and I got no right to be prying into other folks’ affairs. I’m sorry, Miss Katie.’’
‘‘You’ve got as much right as me, Mayme. There’s nobody here but you and me, so who else is going to look at the mail?’’
She moved to the table and picked up the stack of papers and things. ‘‘I guess I’ll go put this on Mama’s desk,’’ she said.
I followed her upstairs. She glanced through the pieces like I had.
‘‘Any of those things from anyone you know?’’ I said.
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ she replied. ‘‘I don’t recognize any of the names.’’
Angels Watching Over Me (Shenandoah Sisters Book #1) Page 12