Almost every afternoon then, Milberry came to the beach after the luncheon dishes were done, and he had washed himself—except those afternoons when Mrs. Osborn found something else for him to do—vases to be emptied or bath tubs scoured. The children became Milberry’s friends. They adored him and he them. They called him Berry. They put their arms about him.
The grown-up white folks only spoke to him when they had some job for him to do, or when they were kidding him about being dark, and talking flat and Southern, and mispronouncing words. But the kids didn’t care how he talked. They loved his songs and his stories.
And he made up stories out of his own head just for them—po’ little crippled-up things that they were—for Berry loved them, too.
So the summer wore on. August came. In September the Home would close. But disaster overtook Milberry before then.
At the end of August a week of rain fell, and the children could not leave the porch. Then, one afternoon, the sun suddenly came out bright and warm. The sea water was blue again and the sand on the beach glistened. Miss Baxter (who by now had got the idea it was part of Milberry’s job to help her with the children) went to the kitchen and called him while he was still washing luncheon dishes.
“Berry, we’re going to take the children down to the beach. Come on and help us with the chairs as soon as you get through.”
“Yes, m’am,” said Berry.
When he came out on the porch, the kids were all excited about playing in the sun once more. Little hunchbacks jumped and cried and clapped their hands, and little paralytics laughed in their wheel chairs. And some with braces on had already hobbled out the screen door and were gathered on the walk.
“Hello, Berry,” the children called.
“Hey, Berry,” they cried to the black boy.
Berry grinned.
It was a few hundred yards to the beach. On the cement walk, you could push a couple of wheel chairs at a time to the sand’s edge. Some of the children propelled their own. Besides the nurses, today the handy-man was helping for the sun might not last long.
“Take me,” a little boy called from his wheel chair, “Berry, take me.”
“Sho, I will,” the young Negro said gently.
But when Berry started to push the chair down from the porch to the walk, the child, through excess of joy, suddenly leaned forward laughing, and suddenly lost his balance. Berry saw that he was going to fall. To try to catch the boy, the young Negro let the chair go. But quick as a wink, the child had fallen one way onto the lawn, the chair the other onto the cement walk. The back of the chair was broken, snapped off, except for the wicker. The little boy lay squalling on the ground in the grass.
Lord have mercy!
All the nurses came running, the handy-man, and Mrs. Osborn, too. Berry picked up the boy, who clung to his neck sobbing, more frightened, it seemed, than hurt.
“Po’ little chile,” Berry kept saying. “Is you hurt much? I’s so sorry.”
But the nurses were very angry, for they were responsible. And Mrs. Osborn—well, she lit out for Dr. Renfield.
The little boy still clung to Berry, and wouldn’t let the nurses take him at all. He had stopped crying when Dr. Renfield arrived, but was still sniffling. He had his arms tight around the black boy’s neck.
“Give that child to me,” Dr. Renfield said, his brown beard pointing straight at Berry, his mind visualizing irate parents and a big damage suit, and bad publicity for the Home.
But when the doctor tried to take the child, the little boy wriggled and cried and wouldn’t let go of Berry. With what strength he had in his crooked braced limbs, he kicked at the doctor.
“Give me that child!” Dr. Renfield shouted at Berry. “Bring him into my office and lay him down.” He put on his nose glasses. “You careless black rascal! And you, Miss Baxter—” the doctor shriveled her with a look. “I want to see you.”
In the clinic, it turned out that the child wasn’t really hurt, though. His legs had been, from birth, twisted and deformed. Nothing could injure them much further. And fortunately his spine wasn’t weak.
But the doctor kept saying, “Criminal carelessness! Criminal carelessness!” Mrs. Osborn kept agreeing with him, “Yes, it is! Indeed, it is!” Milberry was to blame.
The black boy felt terrible. But nobody else among the grown-ups seemed to care how he felt. They all said: What dumbness! he had let that child fall!
“Get rid of him,” Dr. Renfield said to the housekeeper, “today. The fool nigger! And deduct ten dollars for that broken chair.”
“We don’t pay him but eight,” Mrs. Osborn said.
“Well, deduct that,” said the doctor.
So, without his last week’s wages, Milberry went to Jersey City.
12
——
MOTHER AND CHILD
“AIN’T NOBODY SEEN IT,” said old lady Lucy Doves. “Ain’t nobody seen it, but the midwife and the doctor, and her husband, I reckon. They say she won’t let a soul come in the room. But it’s still living, ’cause Mollie Ransom heard it crying. And the woman from Downsville what attended the delivery says it’s as healthy a child as she ever seed, indeed she did.”
“Well, it’s a shame,” said Sister Wiggins, “it’s here. I been living in Boyd’s Center for twenty-two years, at peace with these white folks, ain’t had no trouble yet, till this child was born—now look at ’em. Just look what’s goin’ on! People acting like a pack o’ wolves.”
“Poor little brat! He ain’t been in the world a week yet,” said Mrs. Sam Jones, taking off her hat, “and done caused more trouble than all the rest of us in a life time. I was born here, and I ain’t never seen the white folks up in arms like they are today. But they don’t need to think they can walk over Sam and me—for we owns our land, it’s bought and paid for, and we sends our children to school. Thank God, this is Ohio. It ain’t Mississippi.”
“White folks is white folks, honey, South or North, North or South,” said Lucy Doves. “I’s lived both places and I know.”
“Yes, but in Mississippi they’d lynched Douglass by now.”
“Where is Douglass?” asked Mattis Crane. “You all know I don’t know much about this mess. Way back yonder on that farm where I lives, you don’t get nothing straight. Where is Douglass?”
“Douglass is here! Saw him just now out in de field doin’ his spring plowin’ when I drive down de road, as stubborn and bold-faced as he can be. We told him he ought to leave here.”
“Well, I wish he’d go on and get out,” said Sister Wiggins. “If that would help any. His brother’s got more sense than he has, even if he is a seventeen-year-old child. Clarence left here yesterday and went to Cleveland. But their ma, poor Sister Carter, she’s still trying to battle it out. She told me last night, though, she thinks she have to leave. They won’t let her have no more provisions at de general store. And they ain’t got their spring seed yet. And they can’t pay cash for ’em.”
“Don’t need to tell me! Old man Hartman’s got evil as de rest of de white folks. Didn’t he tell ma husband Saturday night he’d have to pay up every cent of his back bill, or he couldn’t take nothing out of that store. And we been trading there for years.”
“That’s their way o’ striking back at us niggers.”
“Yes, but Lord knows my husband ain’t de father o’ that child.”
“Nor mine.”
“Jim’s got too much pride to go foolin’ round any old loose white woman.”
“Child, you can’t tell about men.”
“I knowed a case once in Detroit where a nigger lived ten years with a white woman, and her husband didn’t know it. He was their chauffeur.”
“That’s all right in the city, but please don’t come bringing it out here to Boyd’s Center where they ain’t but a handful o’ us colored—and we has a hard enough time as it is.”
“You right! This sure has brought de hammer down on our heads.”
“Lawd knows we’s l
aw-biding people, ain’t harmed a soul, yet some o’ these white folks talking ’bout trying to run all de colored folks out o’ de country on account o’ Douglass.”
“They’ll never run me,” said Mrs. Sam Jones.
“Don’t say what they won’t do,” said Lucy Doves, “cause they might.”
“Howdy, Sister Jenkins.”
“Howdy!”
“Good evenin’.”
“Yes, de meetin’ due to start directly.”
“Soon as Madam President arrives. Reckon she’s having trouble gettin’ over that road from High Creek.”
“Sit down and tell us what you’s heard, Sister Jenkins.”
“About Douglass?”
“Course ’bout Douglass. What else is anybody talkin’ ’bout nowadays?”
“Well, my daughter told me Douglass’ sister say they was in love.”
“Him and that white woman?”
“Yes. Douglass’ sister say it’s been going on ’fore de woman got married.”
“Un-huh! Then why didn’t he stop foolin’ with her after she got married? Bad enough, colored boy foolin’ ’round a unmarried white woman, let alone a married one.”
“Douglass’ sister say they was in love.”
“Well, why did she marry the white man, then?”
“She’s white, ain’t she? And who wouldn’t marry a rich white man? Got his own farm, money and all, even if he were a widower with grown children gone to town. He give her everything she wanted, didn’t he?”
“Everything but the right thing.”
“Well, she must not o’ loved him, sneaking ’round meeting Douglass in de woods.”
“True.”
“But what you reckon she went on and had that colored baby for?”
“She must a thought it was the old man’s baby.”
“She don’t think so now! Mattie say when the doctor left and they brought the child in to show her, she like to went blind. It were near black as me.”
“Do tell!”
“And what did her husband say?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know.”
“He must a fainted.”
“That old white woman lives across the crick from us said he’s gonna put her out soon’s she’s able to walk.”
“Ought to put her out!”
“Maybe that’s what Douglass waitin’ for.”
“I heard he wants to take her away.”
“He better take his fool self away, ’fore these white folks get madder. Ain’t nobody heard it was a black baby till day before yesterday. Then it leaked out. And now de white folks are rarin’ to kill Douglass!”
“I sure am scared!”
“And how come they all said right away it were Douglass?”
“Honey, don’t you know? Colored folks knowed Douglass been eyeing that woman since God knows when, and she been eyeing back at him. You ought to seed ’em when they meet in de store. Course they didn’t speak no more ’n Howdy, but their eyes followed one another ’round just like dogs.”
“They was in love, I tell you. Been in love.”
“Mighty funny kind o’ love. Everybody knows can’t no good come out o’ white and colored love. Everybody knows that. And Douglass ain’t no child. He’s twenty-six years old, ain’t he? And Sister Carter sure did try to raise her three chillun right. You can’t blame her.”
“Blame that fool boy, that’s who, and that woman. Plenty colored girls in Camden he could of courted ten miles up de road. One or two right here. I got a daughter myself.”
“No, he had to go foolin’ round with a white woman.”
“Yes, a white woman.”
“They say he loved her.”
“What do Douglass say, since it happened?”
“He don’t say nothing.”
“What could he say?”
“Well, he needn’t think he’s gonna keep his young mouth shut and let de white folks take it out on us. Down yonder at de school today, my Dorabella says they talkin’ ’bout separatin’ de colored from de white and makin’ all de colored children go in a nigger room next term.”
“Ain’t nothing like that ever happened in Boyd’s Center long as I been here—these twenty-two years.”
“White folks is mad now, child, mad clean through.”
“Wonder they ain’t grabbed Douglass and lynched him.”
“It’s a wonder!”
“And him calmly out yonder plowin’ de field this afternoon.”
“He sure is brave.”
“Woman’s husband’s liable to kill him.”
“Her brother’s done said he’s gunning for him.”
“They liable to burn Negroes’ houses down.”
“Anything’s liable to happen. Lawd, I’m nervous as I can be.”
“You can’t tell about white folks.”
“I ain’t nervous. I’m scared.”
“Don’t say a word!”
“Why don’t Sister Carter make him leave here?”
“I wish I knew.”
“She told me she were nearly crazy.”
“And she can’t get Douglass to say nothin’, one way or another—if he go, or if he stay.… Howdy, Madam President.”
“Good evenin’, Madam President.”
“I done told you Douglass loves her.”
“He wants to see that white woman, once more again, that’s what he wants.”
“A white hussy!”
“He’s foolin’ with fire.”
“Poor Mis’ Carter. I’m sorry for his mother.”
“Poor Mis’ Carter.”
“Why don’t you all say poor Douglass? Poor white woman? Poor child?”
“Madam President’s startin’ de meetin’.”
“Is it boy or girl?”
“Sh-s-s-s! There’s de bell.”
“I hear it’s a boy.”
“Thank God, ain’t a girl then.”
“I hope it looks like Douglass, cause Douglass a fine-looking nigger.”
“He’s too bold, too bold.”
“Shame he’s got us all in this mess.”
“Shame, shame, shame!”
“Sh-sss-sss!”
“Yes, indeedy!”
“Sisters, can’t you hear this bell?”
“Shame!”
“Sh-sss!”
“Madam Secretary, take your chair.”
“Shame!”
“The March meeting of the Salvation Rock Ladies’ Missionary Society for the Rescue o’ the African Heathen is hereby called to order.… Sister Burns, raise a hymn.… Will you-all ladies please be quiet? What are you talking ’bout back there anyhow?”
Ring a golden bell,
“Heathens, daughter, heathens.”
Aw, ring a golden bell,
“They ain’t in Africa neither!”
Ring a golden bell for me.
Ring a golden bell,
Aw, ring a golden bell,
My Lawd’s done set me free!
I was a sinner
Lost and lone,
Till Jesus claimed me
For His own.
Ring a golden bell,
Ring a golden bell,
Aw, ring a golden bell for me.…
13
——
ONE CHRISTMAS EVE
STANDING OVER THE HOT STOVE cooking supper, the colored maid, Arcie, was very tired. Between meals today, she had cleaned the whole house for the white family she worked for, getting ready for Christmas tomorrow. Now her back ached and her head felt faint from sheer fatigue. Well, she would be off in a little while, if only the Missus and her children would come on home to dinner. They were out shopping for more things for the tree which stood all ready, tinsel-hung and lovely in the living-room, waiting for its candles to be lighted.
Arcie wished she could afford a tree for Joe. He’d never had one yet, and it’s nice to have such things when you’re little. Joe was five, going on six. Arcie, looking at the roast in the white folks’ ov
en, wondered how much she could afford to spend tonight on toys. She only got seven dollars a week, and four of that went for her room and the landlady’s daily looking after Joe while Arcie was at work.
“Lord, it’s more’n a notion raisin’ a child,” she thought.
She looked at the clock on the kitchen table. After seven. What made white folks so darned inconsiderate? Why didn’t they come on home here to supper? They knew she wanted to get off before all the stores closed. She wouldn’t have time to buy Joe nothin’ if they didn’t hurry. And her landlady probably wanting to go out and shop, too, and not be bothered with little Joe.
“Dog gone it!” Arcie said to herself. “If I just had my money, I might leave the supper on the stove for ’em. I just got to get to the stores fo’ they close.” But she hadn’t been paid for the week yet. The Missus had promised to pay her Christmas Eve, a day or so ahead of time.
Arcie heard a door slam and talking and laughter in the front of the house. She went in and saw the Missus and her kids shaking snow off their coats.
“Umm-mm! It’s swell for Christmas Eve,” one of the kids said to Arcie. “It’s snowin’ like the deuce, and mother came near driving through a stop light. Can’t hardly see for the snow. It’s swell!”
“Supper’s ready,” Arcie said. She was thinking how her shoes weren’t very good for walking in snow.
It seemed like the white folks took as long as they could to eat that evening. While Arcie was washing dishes, the Missus came out with her money.
“Arcie,” the Missus said, “I’m so sorry, but would you mind if I just gave you five dollars tonight? The children have made me run short of change, buying presents and all.”
“I’d like to have seven,” Arcie said. “I needs it.”
“Well, I just haven’t got seven,” the Missus said. “I didn’t know you’d want all your money before the end of the week, anyhow. I just haven’t got it to spare.”
Arcie took five. Coming out of the hot kitchen, she wrapped up as well as she could and hurried by the house where she roomed to get little Joe. At least he could look at the Christmas trees in the windows downtown.
The Ways of White Folks Page 13