They ate supper in silence: lima beans, oxtails, and corn bread. The kitchen was warm and damp because the walls, windows, and curtains were sweating. The cold blue evening air outside looked like water.
“It raaaained forty days! An’ it rained forty nights!” Amerigo heard the reverend declare. “Didn’t it rain? Didn’t you hear it? Listen! L-i-s-t-e-n! Have mersey, Je-sus!”
The next time it’ll be by fire! he thought.
“Sister Bill’s movin’ out south,” Viola was saying. “An’ Allie’s done gone! They got a house with a yard an’ grass an’ ever’thin’.”
“On Park, ain’ it?” Rutherford asked, biting into a fresh slice of corn bread.
“Yeah, Sixteenth Street. I sure don’t blame ’um none — for gittin’ out a this alley! With all these drunken low-lifers an’ —” She lowered her voice and shot a glance at the toilet door, “dopers an’ hustlers an’ ever’thin’ else you kin take the time to name. Looks like we gonna be the last ones to leave away from down here.”
“You gotta have money to live out south,” Rutherford replied. “Them niggahs movin’ out south! Payin’ all they sal’ry out in rent an’ can’t even eat! I see ’um. Big shots! Drivin’ around in Cad’llacs an’ gotta sleep in ’um at night. Unh-huh! We all right here. Ninety percent a them jokers is on relief. What’s that? Owe the man for every stick a furniture they own. Lot of ’um don’ even own the clothes on they back. At least we got enough to eat. An’ we ain’ on no relief. An’ the stuff that we have got that we gittin’ on time is almost paid for — that is if you ain’ already gone downtown an’ bought somethin’ else.”
“Ol’ lady Crippa’s talkin’ ’bout raisin’ the rent.”
“Raisin’ what rent!”
“This rent! I told ’er ’bout ’er promisin’ to paper these walls. Ain’ been papered in three years, I said. Look!” throwing a wide-eyed glance at the walls, causing Rutherford and him to do likewise. “Just look! It’s all yellow an’ stained from sweatin’ so much. It’s a wonder we all ain’ got pneumonia in this damp gas heat!”
“That ol’ woman don’t never fix nothin’,” added Rutherford irritably. “That old porch about to fall down. An’ all she kin do is to figure out ways to squeeze more money out a somebody. For cryin’ out loud! Well — we ain’ payin’ nothin’! Not a cryin’ dime more! An’-an’ if she don’ paper this dump, we’ll clear out a this rat trap! You tell ’er that!”
“Why don’t you tell ’er! Always tellin’ me to tell somebody somethin’. I done told ’er already. She just laughs. She don’ believe it. We been fools for so long now, she can’t git it in ’er head that we’d just up an’ move! I think that old woman’d drop dead if we ever left here!”
“She’ll just have to go to hell then, ’cause I’ll tell ’er! Tell ’er in a minute! Just wait till the next time she starts some a that raisin’-the-rent-money crap! I’ll tell ’er to her teeth!”
The telephone rang.
“Go an’ answer the phone, son,” said Rutherford.
“The Jones residence … hello?… hello?…”
“Who was it?” Rutherford asked, as he entered the kitchen.
“They hung up.”
Rutherford shot a cutting glance at Viola. She looked into her plate. There followed a long tense silence that lasted for two minutes.
The telephone rang.
“I’ll git it!” Rutherford declared, almost knocking his chair down, springing from the table.
“Hello? Aw — hi, Allie Mae. Eh … uh … I don’ know.”
He stole a glance at Viola. She smiled a barely perceptible smile — with her eyes only.
“I don’ know,” Rutherford was saying. “Here — I’ll let you talk to Viola. S’long. All right. Yeah. Yeah — Unh-huh. Okay o-o-o-kay … well … Yeah? Well, take it easy. I’ll give ’er to you.…”
Viola went to the phone. Rutherford took his seat at the table and stared fixedly into Amerigo’s eyes. He studied his empty plate.
“Well, take it easy,” Rutherford was saying. Dressed and ready to go, he stood before the kitchen door. Viola was taking her straightening combs out of the cabinet drawer. Amerigo was drying the dishes.
He’s going to the barbershop, he thought. To old man Moore’s … Bra Mo … Queen Moore — some more — anymore … down on Twelfth Street.
“An’ that old man kin go!” he heard Rutherford exclaim. “When he wants to. Catch ’im when he ain’ all juiced up an’ he’ll cut you a head a hair that won’t don’t. Scissors an’ comb. None a that sugar-bowl jive with clippers. Beveled down, Jackson!”
“I have to git mine all cut off,” Amerigo thought with not a little resentment. “An’ down on the avenue instead a out on Twelfth Street.”
“Well, girl, I’m gonna leave it with you,” Rutherford was saying. “After I git my hair cut, I think I’ll drift down on Eighteenth Street an’ try to see if I kin run into ol’ T. C. or Willard an’ some a the boys. I ain’ got but about a foot an’ a half, so I’ll be home early — unless one a the cats opens up a keg a nails!”
“Okay,” said Viola blandly. “Don’ do nothin’ I wouldn’ do!”
“Bye, son,” said Rutherford.
“Bye.”
He watched him leave with admiration, and thought: He’s the best-looking man in the w-h-o-l-e w-o-r-l-d! Embarrassed, he let his glance fall into the soapy water. Brilliant clusters of rainbow-colored soap bubbles floated upon its surface like little jeweled islands that broke up and disappeared — or multiplied! — when he wiggled his fingers.
Suddenly he was singing: “I’d work for you,” as Rutherford’s footfall faded upon the stair: “slave for you … I’d be a beggar or a maaaaaid for you! If that ain’ love … it’ll have to do … until the real thing comes along!” He closed his eyes. “I’d gladly move … the earth for you, to prove my love, dear, an’ it’s wo-orth for you —”
“If that ain’ love!” cried Viola, joining him.
He opened his eyes. She stood in front of the gas stove fastening her apron, her head thrown back: “It’ll have to do. Now gimme some harmony, there. You take the tenor an’ I’ll take the alto.” He smiled at his mother, and they did the thing together:
“Until — the — r-e-a-l thing — comesa — loooooong!”
They grinned at each other with satisfaction.
“Wait! Wait a minute!” she cried, suddenly raising her hand as a sign for him to pay attention. Her eyes flashed, her lips expanded and her teeth sparkled.
Like pearls. Ain’ nobody in the whole world got no teeth no prettier’n hers!
“Wait a minute!” she was saying, and he waited within the aura of excitement that was now poised upon the fingertips of her extended right hand.
Snap! went the finger. “I got it! Some think … the world was made for fun an’ folly — an’ so do I! Eh … let me see … how does the rest of it go? Boy — you shoulda heard your daddy an’ me sing that! We was in the seventh grade. In Miss Phoenix’s class. He was first tenor an’ I was alto. I led the whole section!”
“I hope they’ll still be singin’ it when I git in the seventh grade,” he exclaimed, but Viola didn’t hear, she was still searching for the lost words to the song.
“Aw — it’ll come back,” she said. “I kin just hear it so plain! Ain’ that funny?” Her expression gradually grew calm and thoughtful. “Then there was ‘The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi.’ Your daddy usta love that, too.”
“How did it go?”
Viola lifted her head toward the ceiling and began:
“The girl-of-my-dreams-is-the-sweetest-girl-of-all — the girls I know. Eeeeech co-eeeed — like a rain-bow trail, lost — in the afterglow. The blue of ’er eyes — an’ the gold of ’er hair — like a haze in the western s-k-y! An’ the moonlight beeeeams!… on the girl of my dreams, the sweetheart — of — Sig-ma — Chi!”
He gazed wondrously upon his mother’s face.
“I kin sing ’um down to the bricks when I
want to.…” Viola was saying. Then she looked curiously at the straightening comb in her left hand and exclaimed: “That gal’s late agin!”
“Who?”
He perceived a cool fluid sensation on the backs of his hands. The water’s cold.
“Allie Mae! That gal don’ know what time means! You just watch, she’ll come traipsin’ in here all out a breath: Aaaaaw, girl, you know, I just couldn’ git away! Momma this an’ momma that — an’ Doris the other!” Laughter followed this speech, accentuated by the immaculate sparkle of a solitary gold tooth.
“That’s the style,” he thought.
There was a knock at the door.
“Sssssh!” she whispered, “here she comes! Watch what I tell you!” She moved swiftly to the front room, paused in front of the door, and assumed a casual air, while he watched from the kitchen with a broad smile of anticipation upon his face.
Viola opened the door.
“Allie? Is that you!”
“Aw, girl, I just couldn’ git away! Oh! — I’m winded!”
“Tee! hee! hee!” he shrieked from the kitchen door.
“Come on, girl!” said Viola laughingly, shooting a glance at him, “I thought you wasn’ never comin’!”
“At the last minute Momma come draggin’ in half dead an’ I had to cook supper, a course. An’ then Doris! That gal’s gonna be the death a me yet!”
The two women advanced slowly through the middle room, gradually picking up the glow of the kitchen light, Viola taller and more imposing. Miss Allie Mae was real little and cute, just like a little girl! But she isn’t prettier than Mom … even if she is lighter.
A wave of uneasiness disturbed the smile upon his face as the two figures emerged from the depths of the middle room. They were right upon him, and suddenly Miss Allie Mae’s bright pretty smile had caused him to knock the saucepan off the drainboard: Boom!
“Oh!” Miss Allie Mae exclaimed, looking anxiously after the sound. “G-i-r-l!” turning to Viola, “I’m a nervous wreck! Hi, babe!”
“Hi.” He dropped his eyes.
“That Doris,” said Miss Allie Mae, “honey — come home with a face as long as Eighteenth Street!”
“What was the matter?” Viola asked, taking her hat and coat in the middle room, returning with Rutherford’s house shoes. “Here, put these on an’ take a load off your feet.”
“Thanks, girl. Oooooo-whee! Rutherford’s shoes are c-o-l-d! But they sure feel good!”
“What’s the beef with Doris, honey?”
“Yeah, girl — that little miss got to have a ballet dress! Kin you beat that! Here I am, slavin’ like a dog, takin’ all this crap off the white folks an’ these no-good men, tryin’ to feed ’er an’ keep ’er clean an’ decent — an’ she gotta have a ballet dress! Where-am-I-gonna-git-the-money? I asked ’er. An’ she started cryin’ the blues. Mary Ann an’ Cosima an’ them’s gittin’ ballet dresses an’ shoes an’ things! An’ then I told ’er: But you can’t have ever’thin’ just ’cause ever’body else’s gittin ’um.”
“Ain’ that the truth!”
“Your momma ain’ rich! I told ’er. Your daddy’s good lookin’ enough, but he ain’ givin’ you a cryin’ dime! I’m all by myself — an’ gotta help Momma, too! Mary Ann ain’ got no daddy, neither, she said. Smart as a little devil when she wants somethin’, girl! An’ that’s the truth, too!”
“Who’s Mary Ann?” Viola asked, placing a little powder box full of shiny black hairpins on the table.
“Ain’ I give you the low-down yet?”
“Naw, girl, what’s the low-down?” Viola arranged her straightening combs on the shelf of the stove. Then she started removing the pins from Miss Allie Mae’s hair. Meanwhile Amerigo waited for the low-down on Mary Ann.
“Clean that dishpan good, Amerigo,” said Viola, shoving the chair in front of the kitchen table. Miss Allie Mae sat down and wriggled her body into a comfortable position. Viola immediately set to work.
“Now — what’s the low-down, girl?”
“Aw! I almost forgot. Well — Mary Ann is my neighbor’s daughter. Big shots, child! ’Course, they ain’ rich or nothin’. Prob’ly ain’ got no more’n me. But they sa-ci-ety folks, honey. You know, always havin’ teas an’ piana recitals an’ things. Last year I think she was the president of the committee takin’ up funds for the N.A.A.C.P.”
“Unh-huh.”
“Well — anyway, girl, ’er name — it’s the momma I been talkin’ ’bout, now — ’er name is Agnes Martin. Divorced, girl! Three boys an’ a girl. Mary Ann’s the youngest. I think she must be ’bout Amerigo’s age. An’ strict! She don’ take no stuff off ’um little darkies. Watches Mary Ann like a hawk an’ makes the boys — big as they are! — walk the chalk line, I’m tellin’ you!”
“Where’s ’er ol’ man?”
“I don’ know. They been divorced a long time, it seems like. Ain’ that just like a man! — to walk off an leave a woman with four children! But he seems to take pretty good care of ’um, though. They got a nice house. It ain’ no castle in Spain! But the roof don’ leak, an’ it’s painted nice, an’ it’s got a nice little yard in front with a lot a pretty flowers an’ bushes an’ ever’thin’. Anyway, like I was sayin’ — she makes ’um walk the chalk line, honey. All of ’um’s nice an’ mannerly an’ clean as a pin! One of ’um’s fixin’ to graduate from high school. Hear he’s goin’ to college to study bein’ a ’lectrical engineer — or somethin’ like that, girl. I don’ know how you say all that, but you know what I mean.”
“Naw!”
“Yeah, girl. High-class folks! Kinda stuck up, though, honey.”
“Yeah?”
“An’ when we moved out there, an’ Doris started at the new school, they started dancin’ classes. An’ you know Doris, she takes after her daddy, she just loves to dance! If she didn’ dance so much she could maybe git somethin’ in her head. I’m gonna have a time with her in a few years. Wild, honey — already! Got a boy-friend!”
“Ain’ that somethin’!”
“Yeah, girl! Well, anyway, she had to have ever’thin’ the rest of ’um had. An’ you know they took the cutest ones first an’ picked over the rest. A course, the white-lookin’ ones, an’ them that had good hair didn’ have no trouble. Doris’s hair might be a little nappy, but she ain’ black! An’ she’s got good legs, too! Took that after ’er momma. Besides, Mary Ann’s darker ’n Doris.”
“Color ain’ ever’thin’!” Viola said with a bitter smile. “An’ dancin’s dancin’ — whether you’re light or dark. As for legs, all you need is two! That’s all Clara Bow’s got.”
“You tellin’ me, girl! Well — anyway, they didn’t wanna take ’er in at first.”
“Ain’ that a shame!”
“An’ now they havin’ that recital that the Gammy Bamma saror’ty’s sponsorin’ an’ they so biggidy they can’t see straight! But I went up an’ told ’um: Doris kin dance as good as any of ’um — even better! Even if she has got nappy hair!”
“What did they say?”
“They couldn’ say nothin’. When she gits fixed up, I told ’um, she looks just as good as the rest of ’um. They let ’er in, too!”
“You did just right!” said Viola, sweeping the big white comb upward from the nape of Miss Allie Mae’s neck. “But who is this Cosima?”
“Ho! ho!” he laughed. “I ain’ never heard a no name like that!”
“Looks like you ain’ never heard a the sayin’ that children should be seen an’ not heard when grown-ups are talkin’, neither!”
“Aw, Mom.”
“She’s the daughter of J. J. Thornton. You know, the one with the photography shop on Eighteenth Street. Tall, thin, with real good hair. Looks like a whitie. The photography shop is on the second floor an’ the momma — she looks white, too —’s got a fun’ral parlor on the ground floor. Ain’t you seen that fun’ral parlor there with all them ferns an’ things in the windows?”
“Aw yeah! Now I
know where you mean. Don’ never see nobody in there, though. Does she ever git any business?”
“I don’ know. I don’ think she does the embalmin’ herself. I think she gits G. G. Hopkins or A. J. Akers to do it for ’er. Anyway, Cosima’s ’er daughter.”
Cosima. He stared at the flowered pattern on the wallpaper that had turned yellow because of the gas heat. COSIMA. This time the word echoed within the warm volumes of familiar feeling and assumed animate form in his mind, along with the name of Grandma Sarah whom he could not remember. He tried to ferret her image from the faded flowers, but was distracted by the silent question: how can you see somebody that you’ve never seen? Like Grandpa Will and Grandma Sarah? — faces flooded his mind — and Old Lady and …
“You gittin’ through, there, boy?” Viola asked. He was staring at Miss Allie Mae with his mouth open. “You in a trance or somethin’?”
“Yes’m.” He finished drying the dishpan and started to hang it on the nail beside the sink.
“Just leave it there, boy! I told you I’m gonna use that dishpan in a minute!”
“Aw, I forgot.”
“She’s a cute little thing.…” Miss Allie Mae was saying.
“Who?” Viola asked.
“Cosima.”
“Aw yeah. I was so busy keepin’ a eye on this dreamer here, I almost forgot what we was talkin’ ’bout. She is, is she?”
“An’ smart as a whip to boot. Kin play the piana like nobody’s business — already, child! Read music better’n most grown-ups. Pretty brown hair, reachin’ down ’er back. Oh, she’s their little pride an’ joy!”
“Kin she dance, too?”
“I don’ know. I think she’s gonna play for ’um. Well, girl, you kin just imagine how glad I was to come home — after workin’ hard all day — an’ hear all this mess!”
“Unnnnnh-huh!”
Viola began to knead Miss Allie Mae’s scalp with her fingers.
Meanwhile he took a seat opposite them and watched Miss Allie Mae’s little bosom heave slightly as her head swayed under the persuasion of Viola’s fingers.
“What’s bal-lay?” he asked.
Such Sweet Thunder Page 30