Junior cleared his throat. “These girls waitin’ for us to fix their car. I said you’d give them somethin’ to eat.”
“Sho, sho, I ain’t inhospitable.” Mister Mallard folded his paper and laid it by the chair, revealing the rest of his body, which was just as thin and bony as his face. He lifted himself onto his feet and beckoned them into the kitchen but stopped Judith at the door. “You a white gal, ain’t you?”
“Yessuh. I shore am.”
“Why you travelin’ with this colored gal, here?”
“We sisters,” said Judith before Cassie could say anything. “We got the same daddy.”
Mister Mallard fixed his pink eyes on Cassie. “That true?”
“Yessuh,” Cassie said reluctantly and waited for Judith to bring up their being progeny and so on, but to Cassie’s surprise, Judith showed more sense.
“Seen that,” said Mister Mallard, like this was just what he’d expected her to say. “All that mixin’. I seen plenty of that.”
He poured coffee for them from a battered metal pot, scrambled them some eggs, fried a ham slice, and put a big biscuit on each of their already loaded plates. Cassie thought his arms would snap, but he ignored her when she offered to help.
“Hope you ain’t mind eatin’ breakfast so late in the day,” he said when they were settled at the kitchen table. “That’s all I cook since my wife done passed. If not for my boys, I’d be eatin’ ham’n’ eggs three times a day. Taste all right?”
The two of them nodded, mouths full.
“That’s good.” Mister Mallard set his frame down at the third chair at the table and pulled the kitchen curtain aside. “You gals see the back of that garage?”
“Yessuh,” said Cassie, around her biscuit.
“What you see in the back of that garage?”
“They got themselves a window lookin’ out the back,” said Judith. It was so big and clean, Cassie could see the road on the other side.
“Window lookin’ out the front make perfect sense. You got to see who pullin’ into your lot. Who pays good money for a window in the back, where all you kin see is you own house? I’ll tell you who—a man who’s too sure that there’s gone be money comin’ in tomorrow, the next day, the next month. That’s two men too sure that the white folks gone to keep bringin’ in they cars to a coupla colored mechanics.”
“They only do work for white folks?” said Cassie.
Mister Mallard made a dismissive motion. “Sho, they got colored folks comin’ in, but half them cain’t pay and half they cars ain’t fixable.”
“But if the colored folks cain’t pay and they cars ain’t fixable, who else they gonna get for work ’sides white folks?” said Judith. “Less’n you got some other kind of folk round here.”
Mister Mallard scowled. “We got other kinda folk round here. They start out humble, that’s for sho. They family’s been here since slavery times. Then they pick theyselves up and get a little money, and then they gone. Once they gone, they ain’t never come back, not them, not they chillun, not they chillun’s chillun.”
“You mean colored folks?” said Judith. “They make some money and move someplace better? There ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.” She nudged Cassie. “That what we’re doin’.”
“Oh,” said Mister Mallard, sitting up in his chair, “there ain’t nothin wrong with that, if that was what we talkin’ ’bout, but that ain’t what we talking ’bout.” He leaned over the table with fierce urgency. “We talkin’ ’bout the future of colored folks. And ’scuse me, lil white miss, if I starts talkin’ in a way you don’t understand.” He turned to Cassie. “Now your white daddy ain’t somethin’ you planned on, but now you got to be thinkin’, If I so light now, if I git me a light-skinned man, maybe my chillun be light ’nuff to pass for white. You ever think ’bout that, girl?”
“My grandmother thought ’bout it,” said Cassie. “That all she ever thought ’bout.”
“Well now, here the part she ain’t thought ’bout,” said Mister Mallard. “She ain’t thought ’bout things like knowin’ the difference tween a damn yam an’ a damn sweet potato. Like standin’ up in church shakin’ yo hands up to the sky. She ain’t thinkin’ ’bout things colored folks do that white folks don’t cuz we coloreds and we come from some place there ain’t no whitefolks.” He pointed toward the garage. “Them boys jus’ come back from a funeral. They tell you that?”
“No, suh,” said Cassie.
Mister Mallard leaned over his elbows on the table, his frightening emaciation filling the space. “This mornin’ they buried a man a hunnert and twenty-five years old. He born into slavery by a woman straight from Africa. He growed up in slavery but kep’ his Africa in him. Not just cuz he black as tar—he was frightful black—but cuz he ’membered what his mama taught him ’bout Africa.” He gave Cassie a hard look. “Your mama teach you ennythin’ ’bout Africa?”
“No, suh.”
“You think she know ennythin’ ’bout Africa?” Cassie shook her head, and he said, “How ’bout her mama? Her mama ’fore that?” Mister Mallard eyed Judith. “You know where your folks come from, lil white gal?”
“Mississippi, suh.”
“I mean ’fore that.”
“Been there as long as I know, suh.”
“You there ’fore the injuns?”
“Far as I know, suh,” said Judith, and Mister Mallard made a phfft through his teeth.
“See now?” he said to Cassie. “Ain’t no white folk in Mississippi ’fore the injuns, but white folks done put that fact outta they minds. It don’t fit in with how they see theyselfs. Colored folks doin’ the same thin’ now. They gits whiter, and they fergits everthin’ ’bout they past. One day they ain’t gone to be no past, jus’ folks behavin’ like today the only day that ever was.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” said Cassie.
“Girl,” said Mister Mallard, “you shut your mouth.” He reached for her plate. “You done?” She wasn’t, but he took it anyway and then snatched Judith’s. “Now set yourself down in t’other room whilst I wash up.”
“You mighta insulted him,” Judith said in a whisper as they stood in the parlor.
“I was sayin’ what I thought. He was sayin’ what he thought.”
“Ol’ folks ain’t innerested in what you have to say. Like your granny. You ever have enny real kinda conversation with her?”
Back in the kitchen, Mister Mallard banged pots and ran water and didn’t seem like he was going to come out. Judith glanced around the jammed little parlor and squeezed between a pair of ladderback chairs to look at the framed black-and-white photos lined up on top of the upright piano. “Here them two boys when they was little.”
Cassie made her way over to see. One photo was of Junior and Charlie with Mister and Mrs. Mallard when the boys were three or four. Mister Mallard was younger looking but as thin as ever. The black and white of the photo picked up the highlights of his face and deepened the shadows until he looked positively skull-like. Mrs. Mallard was a dark, pretty woman with high, round cheeks and fetching eyes. The boys looked just like her—thankfully, Cassie thought. The other photos were from baseball teams Junior and Charlie had played on.
“Lookit how cute.” Judith pointed to a row of serious-looking little colored boys in striped shirts and pants. “I cain’t see which ones is them in this’n. But see here in this high school picture?” Junior and Charlie were off to the left, distinctly identical and noticeably lighter than any of the other young men. “How kin they be dark as the dickens when they was little and turn out so light in high school?” Judith raised an eyebrow at Cassie. “I never noticed y’all get lighter.”
“It’s just a bad picture,” said Cassie, but there was really no arguing it. The most recent photo showed Junior and Charlie grinning in front of the gleaming white garage, arms over each other’s shoulders, lighter-skinned than they were in any of the other photos. A banner stretched over the office door behind them which read,
GRAND OPENING!!
“When you think that was took?” Judith said and answered her own question. “Not too long ago. See? The trees’re all leafed out like summer.”
The brightness of the white paint should have made their darkness even darker, but it didn’t. It obviously didn’t.
“It’s just a bad picture,” said Cassie again. “It’s jus’ how they look in front of that white garage.”
The front door opened, and Charlie came in. “Turns out you threw a rod,” he said. “Means we got to order some parts, an’ that means we ain’t gone be able to fix it till tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” said Judith. “We got to be in Virginia in less than a week!”
“Don’t see how you’d get there even if that trap runnin’ smooth,” said Charlie. Judith started to object, but Charlie said, “You need somewhere to spend the night, and it ain’t proper for y’all in a house fulla men. We gone take you to the minister, the Reverend Glade. His wife’ll fix you up.” Charlie sniffed the air, which was still heavy with the smells of their late, short breakfast. “Daddy feed you?”
“Yessuh,” said Cassie.
“He let you finish eatin’?” Cassie looked down at the plain brown carpet, and Judith twisted her fingers together. “I ’pologize,” Charlie said. “Daddy got some real set ideas. You think you havin’ a discussion. He think you dead wrong. I cain’t tell you how many dinner plates I had yanked out from under my nose. Mama wouldn’t put up with it.” He opened the door. “Come on. We’ll drive y’all down to the church.”
The church was at the other end of town, which, in Heron-Neck, would have put it on the wrong side of the tracks. But the railroad didn’t seem to pass through Porterville or anywhere near it, even though Ovid Beale had shown them the speck of the town in relation to the tracks. Cassie tried to shake Ovid Beale and his wrongheaded directions out of her thoughts and study the town passing by. The houses were modest, well-kept, and most had a car in the driveway. Back home on Negro Street, Lil Ma would point out the places where people paid rent to landlords and how those places were always more run-down than the places people owned for themselves. In Porterville, Cassie saw no renters. She also saw no white people.
“At the church,” said Junior, who was driving, “there’s a wake goin’ on for Mister Legabee. That’s the fella we done buried this mornin’.”
“The man who’s a hunnert and twenny-five years old?” said Judith. “The fella borned into slave-ry?”
“That’s right,” said Charlie.
“If you don’ mind, I’ll stay here in this nice ol’ car.” Judith ran her hands over the smooth leather upholstery. “I ain’t impolite enough to make a big disruption.”
“You’ll be welcome,” said Junior. “Both of you’ll be welcome. There’ll be plenty white folks.”
“Mister Legabee was a respected man. His family been here a long time,” said Charlie.
“He gave advice,” said Junior.
“Good advice,” said Charlie. “He’d help you find the right direction for your life.”
“Like a preacher?” said Cassie. “Or minister?”
“Like an elder,” said Junior.
It would have been hard for Mister Legabee to be anything but an elder at a hundred and twenty-five, Cassie thought.
Junior had to park way down the street because the dirt lot behind the church was full. They ended up walking half a mile only to be the last of the latecomers.
Junior pulled the basement door of the church open for them. Inside, the room was filled with mourners and with the aromas of home cooking. People sat in groups in folding chairs. Others chatted at tables piled with casseroles and hot dishes. Among all shades of darker folk, the crowd was salted with white faces.
“Let me introduce you to the Reverend Glade,” Junior said. “Then you can help yourselves.”
The Reverend Glade was a light-skinned colored man in the middle of the crowd, shaking hands heartily with a well-dressed white man. He shook Junior’s and Charlie’s hands too.
“Your father didn’t come,” said Reverend Glade.
“I hope you weren’t expecting him,” said Charlie.
“I’m glad to see him once in a month of Sundays.” The Reverend Glade smiled at Cassie and Judith.
Charlie introduced them to the Reverend Glade and told him they’d been directed to Porterville by a man in Hilltop.
“Back in Mississippi?” said Reverend Glade. “Did you meet Mister Beale?”
“Mister Ovid Beale told us you were just down the road,” said Cassie. “But we didn’t find you until South Carolina.”
“Maybe you were using an old map.” The Reverend Glade clasped his hands in front of him. “Where’re y’all headed?”
Judith took a breath to answer, but Cassie laid a hand on her arm. “Judith’s on her way to becomin’ a big singin’ star in New York City, but our car broke down.”
“We fixin’ it,” said Junior, adding that Judith and Cassie needed a place to stay for the night.
“Let me find my wife and tell her.” The Reverend Glade clapped Junior on the shoulder. “You young ladies help yourselves to the food. The Mallard boys can introduce you to the widow Legabee so you can pay your respects.” This last the Reverend Glade directed to Cassie, excluding Judith, but Judith didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care. Judith lost no time finding a plate and filling it with fried chicken, potato salad, collards with bacon, and a delicious-looking piece of apple pie. Cassie tried to take less than Judith but found herself just as hungry after their interrupted breakfast. She and Judith sat together at the end of one long table and dug in, starting with the pie.
“We ain’t never gonna get to Virginia,” Judith said. “They’re gonna fix that ol’ trap, an’ it’s gonna break down again, just outside Remington.”
Cassie thought Judith was probably right but kept forking in the collard greens with bacon. “Maybe they’ll sell us a car that’s more reliable.”
Judith took another bite of the pie. “You think they got somethin’ faster?”
“Anything would be faster.”
“You think they got somethin’ that’ll get us to Virginia in less’n six days?”
“All we can do is ask.”
Judith straightened up to look for Charlie. A colored woman came around, offering squares of corn bread on a platter. Judith declined the offer, and the colored woman moved on. “I’m so sick of corn bread,” said Judith. “When I’m famous I ain’t never eatin’ corn bread agin’. I be drinkin’ champagne and eatin’ ka-vee-yar.”
An elderly colored lady scooping black-eyed peas from a floral bowl moved closer to them. “Honey, you know what caviar is?”
Judith wiped her mouth. “Somethin’ famous folks eat, so I hear, ma’am.”
“It’s fish eggs,” said the woman. “They scrape ’em out of a kind of carp.”
“I might’ve got the name wrong,” said Judith.
“Tiny little black eggs,” said the woman. “Like pinheads, floatin’ round in salty oil.”
“You had ’em before?” said Judith.
“Oh yes,” said the woman, “and champagne too.” She took a neat square of corn bread from the next platter and put it beside the peas on her plate. “Caviar is an acquired taste, honey, let me tell you.” She disappeared into the crowd.
“You think she famous somewhere?” Judith said.
“I think she playin’ with you.”
Just as they were thinking about a second helping of everything, Charlie Mallard came over. “Come on, now,” he said before Judith could start asking him about a new car. “Let me introduce you to the widow Legabee.”
He led them to the far end of the crowded basement hall, where there was a stage with a red velvet curtain. People of all shades and ages stood on one side of the stage, chatting in low tones, dressed in solemn black, waiting to go behind it. The women wore fantastic hats. The men wore shoes so shiny they reflected the red drape of the curtain.
“That where the widow is?” said Judith to Charlie, and he nodded. “Why she back there?”
“Just the way her family does things. Her daughter’s there too, and her grandson.”
“This like Miz Tabitha’s estate sale back in Heron-Neck,” said Judith. “When she passed, the whole county showed up. She a white woman. But she run a store and she sell to ever’body, so all kinds of folks came down. Course,” she added, “they didn’t mingle so.”
The Reverend Glade waved at them from the other side of the stage and came over with a trim, light-skinned colored woman in a demure black dress. “Here they are,” he said. He took Judith by the elbow. “This is my wife, Mrs. Glade, our choir director. She’s very interested in your singing career.”
Judith, happy to go into detail, allowed herself to be guided away by Mrs. Glade. Charlie caught Cassie’s shoulder.
“You should meet the widow,” he said.
A mass of people were waiting in line to speak to the widow. “Ain’t all these people first?”
“You’re a visitor,” said Charlie. “She’ll see you ahead of them.”
“I never even met her husband,” said Cassie.
“Still,” said Charlie. “You should pay your respects.”
Cassie didn’t understand this. She hadn’t paid her respects to Tabitha Bromley, and she’d seen Miz Tabitha once a week for her entire life. She followed Charlie around to the side of the stage and behind the red curtain. A heavyset colored man sat in a folding chair, straight-backed, like a soldier. He wore a patterned brown-and-white cape and a hat made of the same fabric. It wasn’t a normal hat—it had no brim and came up straight from the sides of his head, like something military, except for the colors. He nodded to Charlie and gestured to the darker, back part of the stage.
Cassie had expected the stage to be crowded behind the curtain, but she and Charlie were the only ones. A table was covered with candles and plates of food, as though people had left their dinners as offerings, but neither the widow nor her family were eating. They were sitting together on a big armchair. The two women were black as black could be—frightful black, Mister Mallard would have said—and so squeezed together that the younger woman was practically sitting on her mother’s lap, and the baby, a boy, black as coal, sat on top of the two of them. If not for the arms on the chair, they might’ve fallen off onto the floor.
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