The Uncertain Season

by Ann Howard Creel

  I could tell from the way Ira Price greeted me that I was not what he had expected, either. There was first a sense of surprise and then a touch of wariness about his eyes, as if I had taken him aback. Did he have any idea I had been forced into this duty?

  After the introductions, I said, “I do apologize for my tardiness.”

  “There’s no need, I assure you,” he said in a voice that was low, soft, and kind. “I hadn’t noticed the time. Besides, I’m so pleased you’ve decided to assist me.”

  So much for Larke’s warnings and Mother’s revenge.

  But then he said, “There’s much work to be done here, as you soon shall see. Later I’ll show you about.” He fussed around the small dusty room that held a scratched desk stacked with papers, and against the walls, crates stacked with firewood, sacks of flour, sugar, cornmeal, and fruit. A place of confinement, with dark, dusty wood, curtains made of mattress ticking, and a water-stained rug of an indeterminate hue. Ira Price seemed nervous in my presence and yet comfortable in the space, and I detected no hint of apology for the conditions. He could easily have obtained cleaning services from those around him, but apparently he hadn’t requested such help.

  “I have been given some direction from your mother,” he said. “Of course we shall want you to avoid the blocks north of Avenue E.”

  I knew the area he meant, the so-called District, with its disrespectable saloons, boardinghouses, gambling halls, and brothels, where once I’d clip-clopped by in our carriage with my friends for fun. “I understand.”

  “And you are to find some deserving whites who need your help. Not Negroes.”

  “Of course.”

  He looked up with a baffled expression on his face. “And why would you agree so easily?”

  “I agree to most everything my mother tells me, Reverend Price.”

  He appeared to blanch at that, and I felt myself momentarily dismissed. “I see.”

  “Is that your mission as well? To help the poor whites?”

  He glanced up. “Why no, I don’t believe our Savior makes distinctions based on skin color.”

  So he believed in equality among the races. “Aren’t there altruistic needs where you come from, Reverend?”

  “There are. But I didn’t find them as grave as they are here, Miss Hilliard. I go where the greatest need exists.”

  He acted as if suddenly remembering other things to do or something else he’d set aside and forgotten.

  “For now, would you take a letter, please? I need to respond to an offer of support from the First Baptist Church, and then . . .” He gestured to the crates that littered the floor. “We can begin to distribute this food.”

  “I’m at your service, Reverend. And where might I find paper, ink, and pen?”

  He opened a drawer and pointed to the supplies, then removed his glasses, and with his large square-shaped hands, hair on his knuckles, he wiped each lens using a cloth. I then had my first clear glimpse of his eyes, which were soft around the edges and green, a dusky opaque green, like pond water.

  He replaced the spectacles back on his face, wrapping the earpieces around each ear, and then he began to dictate a formal letter, using business-mannered proper English, but his sentences were filled with kindness and sentiment, true appreciation for the offers he’d been given. Obviously the Reverend believed in his work, but he lacked the usual pomposity of a zealot. In his letters, he claimed no private pathway to God.

  After I penned his letters, we took a walk down the alleys. Along the passageways were various small, unpainted one-story houses, stables, sheds, two-story up and downs, and on corners, some tiny businesses. The people were mostly Negroes, with a smattering of white families here and there.

  As we walked, I smelled raw sewage. Every inch of my skin became hypersensitive, taut, and overstretched. I walked cautiously, hesitantly, not the graceful flowing vision I’d always been told I was. I felt a strong sense of pity for those around me but also for myself.

  The Reverend didn’t seem to notice the smells or the change in me, or at least he didn’t let on that he noticed. He kept close by my side, and I wondered if my mother had warned him to make sure nothing happened to me, or if he was staying close of his own accord. No matter the reason, I appreciated that he seemed to have at least some awareness about just how difficult this was for me.

  He handed out food with soothing words, greeting toothless women and old consumptive men as skinny as the stray dogs running about, made jokes, and doled out gentle teasing compliments to the children, explaining to me that most of the broad-shouldered young men were away all day, working on the docks or in the cotton warehouses.

  He greeted them all, but although he did no preaching then, not all of the alley residents were receptive to him. I was surprised that pockets of people refused our charity, and others avoided us altogether.

  We came upon an old, snakeskin-faced man wearing an undershirt and suspenders. Ira introduced him to me, then said, “Charles, this is Miss Hilliard. She’s going to be assisting me.”

  He met my eyes and smiled, showing off a surprising white strap of teeth. His eyes were sparkling black beads recessed into his face. “Well. So she is. Howdy-do, pretty lady?” Then he winked.

  I didn’t move. So crass to wink at a lady, and one he didn’t know at that. I was surprised by how heavily this disrespect lay on my chest. I wondered whether to leave or not. But Ira gave a short laugh and patted the man on the back.

  Then Charles retrieved a crumpled envelope out of his pants pocket and sat on the stoop of a dwelling little better than a shack, which must have been his home.

  The man looked up at me. “I was only meaning to pay you a compliment.”

  I tried hard not to show my offense, but it didn’t take long before it simply slipped away on its own. I didn’t exactly soften, but I could see that the man meant me no disrespect, crass as he was. Instead, he seemed like a happy soul who had no knowledge of good manners.

  Ira took the letter from him. Gesturing at it, Charles said to me by way of explanation, “My grandson be learning how to read now. First one in the family. But he’s done gone until later. He’s in school, making himself good marks.”

  Ira smiled and then commented, “Soon you can ask him to read your letters.”

  “Maybe some, but not this one,” scoffed Charles.

  “And why not?” asked Ira as he opened the envelope and sat down. I remained standing.

  The old man let out a big laugh, a sound that erupted from his chest like a hacking cough. “This letter here be personal,” he said and gestured toward it again. He laughed once more, and this time it sounded almost like choking. I wondered if he was ill.

  I also wondered about his letter. Had it come from a lady friend? I didn’t ask, looking away. What could such a letter possibly contain? Ira sat down on the stoop next to the man and read the letter to him in private. I kept my distance and my eyes averted so I wouldn’t accidentally overhear.

  A boy about eight years old with chocolate-brown skin and closely cropped hair ran up to us. Charles’s face opened up like a full moon. “This here be my grandson Isiah.” The boy launched onto his grandfather’s lap and received a hug. Charles patted his head. “Isiah here, he be sharp as a nail. Gonna end up out of these alleys someday, shore is.”

  Isiah sprang out of his grandfather’s arms as quickly as he had arrived there, stood before me, and extended his hand to me in greeting. “How do, miss?” he said.

  Such nice manners and a delightful smile. After Ira introduced me, I told Isiah I was pleased to meet him, and then he ran inside the tiny house.

  “He gotta change out of them school clothes before he can go playing,” explained Charles.

  When we eventually walked away from Charles, Ira said, “I regret any embarrassment he may have caused you with that wink. He’s really a good man, Charles is. One of my favorites. A widower. He works nights at a warehouse, despite his age, so he can look after his daughter�
��s boy. Doesn’t drink.”

  I was shocked that Ira knew such details of the man’s life. Ira was not only a do-gooder, he clearly meant to make everyone his friend.

  “What happened to his daughter?”

  Ira paused and then said, “No one knows.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She disappeared.”

  I stopped walking. “How does one simply disappear?”

  “You might not be aware of it, Miss Hilliard, but people who live hard lives sometimes do just that.”

  Later we took a carriage ride to deliver the letters he had dictated to me, and then we walked to the Colored Free School. There, during the heat of the afternoon, we gathered together a large group of children and took them to the beach for wading. I was already violating my mother’s request that I spend my time among deserving whites. So be it. The Reverend didn’t mention it, either.

  The sea breeze was warm and dry for a change and smelled fresh. The children splashed and kicked in the shallows and shook their hair, their faces wide with happiness, cheeks shining and lustrous like my paintings before they dry, and foamy droplets pouring off their bodies. They played with abandon, and I envied their lack of restraint, their unselfconsciousness.

  Reverend Price and I stood together under the shade of my parasol and peered into that dazzling light reflected off the ocean. We received odd stares and looks. It was unusual to see white people and colored people out together. The Negroes were our servants and our workers, and that was all. I hadn’t thought much beyond it. Perhaps my mother intended to humiliate me by sending me to do such humble work down here, but so far it wasn’t working. Perhaps my best approach would be to enjoy it. Ira didn’t seem disturbed by the glances, and so I determined not to be, either. We counted children and watched to make certain no one ventured out too far. I was fairly sure none of these children had ever been taught to swim.

  Ira said to me, “Leisure time is good for the soul, especially a child’s.”

  I couldn’t think of a response.

  He said, “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  “Please call me Ira.”

  The Reverend was obviously determined to make this a friendly relationship, and that would certainly make my penance more bearable. “Only if you will drop ‘Miss Hilliard’ and call me Grace.”

  “Grace it is. And what a lovely name. It suits you well.”

  I glanced his way, then back to the sea and the children. We watched the mass of jumping, cavorting children, and soon the sunlight lulled me into a fatigued thoughtfulness.

  One boy was hanging back on the beach away from the others, chewing his fingers. He had dark skin, a crown of glossy hair like feathers on the wing of a raven, and enormous eyes. But I saw fear there. I remembered when Etta had been swept under. The boy was probably the same age as she had been, about ten or eleven, and perhaps he’d had a similar experience. The waves were high that day with Etta, as they were now.

  I waited to see if Ira would go to him, but he looked flushed with the heat, so I left Ira with my parasol and searched the damp sand. I found a nice piece of a white-chambered shell, broken in half to display the intricate compartments inside, and I took it to the boy.

  “Do you know what this odd thing is?”

  He had a lovely smile. “That’s a shell, ma’am.”

  I put the shell in his hand. “A shell? You must tell me what that is.”

  “It comes from out dere,” he said, pointing to the ocean. “If you finds a big one and puts it up to your ear, you can hear the ocean.”

  “Have you ever found a big one?”

  He looked down. “Nah.” It was obvious that he felt bad about not being out there with the other children. Perhaps they teased him about it.

  “You don’t like the water?”

  He shook his head. “My sister drowned.”

  A stab in my gut. I shouldn’t have asked personal questions. “I-I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t say anything else but instead seemed to be studying the sand under our feet.

  “You know what?” I said, leaning closer. “I don’t like to go in the water, either. I love to gaze out at the ocean, but it scares me to think of being surrounded by it.”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Do you want to stand with Reverend Price and me?”

  He shook his head. I left him alone for a while, but later I brought him a small piece of bleached driftwood shaped long and narrow like a shoe, with a hollowed-out center perfect for setting a candle. He clearly loved it. He curled his sandy fingers around the wood and held on tight, his eyes spilling light.

  He thanked me, and I asked his name.

  “It’s Joseph, ma’am.”

  “I’m Miss Hilliard, but if we’re to be friends, you may call me Miss Grace.”

  He beamed, and I returned to stand with Ira. I didn’t want to single out Joseph too much; the others might tease him for that, too.

  Ira said, “After they cool off, they can help us pack and deliver crates.”

  Just then a large wave crashed into the shallows, exploding the sand, and stirring up foam. The children splashed closer toward us, shouting and squealing until the water flattened out and slid away.

  I said to Ira, “You’re going to make the children work?”

  “I won’t force them, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But as you’ll soon see, they want to join in.”

  “Most are such sociable people,” I said.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  At the end of the day, he praised my work. In just one day I’d seen people with skin diseases, crippled animals, and stinking privies, and still I was standing. What had my mother thought would happen to me? Did she have any idea what she’d sent me into? Except for an occasional gawking, none of us in our social circle ever saw this side of the island. Now I had, and I hadn’t collapsed under the strain. There was a little bit of pride in that.

  “I see that you’re not undone by your first day,” Ira said. “Your face does not change when you look at those less fortunate than you. You seem to be at ease, and therefore you put others at ease. You’ll do well here, Grace.”

  “Thank you, Reverend—ah, excuse me, Ira.” I smiled for a moment. I couldn’t accept the compliment, however, even though after my mother’s harsh admonishments I was so in need of kind words. “But I have to confess that I’ve misled you. I’m sorry to say that I’m not the charitable sort.” Tears threatened again. What was wrong with me lately?

  He appeared confused.

  “I think primarily of myself. I always have.”

  A line made its way down the center of his forehead. “Then why are you here?”

  I let my breath out slowly. “It was not my doing.”

  A look of realization flashed across his face. “I see. But don’t discount your contribution nonetheless. I believe one achieves goodness by doing good things.”

  I stood still.

  “It is most important what we do in life, not necessarily how our deeds began.”

  I glanced down. It would’ve been easy to agree, but after my mother’s words to me, Jonathan’s disappointment, and with the aftermath of my actions regarding Etta still reverberating through my life, it was difficult to believe Ira’s words. But I decided to place a moratorium on my self-loathing for the time being.

  My voice softened. “You put up a powerful argument, Ira, but I’m sorry to tell you I’m not sure I agree. It seems to me that if we do good things in an effort to better our view of ourselves, then perhaps that might be the most fundamental act of selfishness.”

  “Fine point. But some very wise people believe that humans are always fundamentally selfish, so why not put that selfishness, that need for inner reward, toward causes that aid others?”

  “Perhaps it is more honest to openly accept one’s selfishness.”

  “Perhaps more honest, yes, but not as beneficial. Channeling our huma
n frailties in a way that helps others—perhaps that is the better way to embrace our humanity.”

  “We are to sacrifice our way to a loftier realm?”

  “One could put it that way.”

  I shrugged, because I couldn’t think of a reply. It was unlike me to have so little to say. My confession must have seemed pitiable to Ira. But for some reason I didn’t feel as poorly as I had earlier; I wasn’t sure why, but perhaps confession was good for the soul after all.

  He offered me his hand, shook it as he would another man’s, and said simply, “Welcome.”

  During the carriage ride home, my thoughts drifted to Jonathan. This was the summer that was supposed to bring us closer. We had corresponded with long letters throughout his academic years and then had recouped lost time in the summers. This year, as his education was only a year away from being completed, he had come home with a ring, a sapphire surrounded by diamonds, which he gave me to launch the season of our engagement. This summer should have been the best one of all. Instead, I had disappointed him with my behavior, and now we were going to lose valuable time together.

  Our formal engagement party would be held at the end of the summer, before his return to the university. The event was already being planned by both of our mothers to be the handsomest party of the season. I would be wearing a dress designed in pink satin, and the flowers would coordinate. There would be pink Killarney roses, white hyacinths, and pink azaleas. We would have an orchestra for dancing, and the food would be lavish as usual, but I ended up leaving the details and arrangements to Mother, because my life had taken a strange and altogether different turn, and I had little time to think of such things now.

  My second day of service with Ira Price began with rain. It came down as a steady drizzle and filled the air with such a wet I couldn’t find enough air to fill my lungs. Despite the rain it was still hot, and the air in the office smelled of mildewed books.

  The bad weather provided the Reverend with a good opportunity to catch up on his correspondence, and we worked inside throughout the morning hours. Again he dictated while I penned the letters, mainly notes of thanks for some kindness or donation toward the charitable work the Reverend was conducting there in Ward Five.