No Crystal Stair

by Vaunda Micheaux Nelson

  TO UNCLE LONNIE AND HIS VISION

  LEWIS

  NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA

  Everybody keeps saying be satisfied with Jesus’s love, and he will give us our daily bread. I keep waiting, but we never get any bread, so I have to go out and do things for myself.

  When I asked Poppa for a bicycle, he said, “Pray, son, and the Lord will provide.”

  I prayed a whole year, but even Santa Claus didn’t bring me a bicycle.

  When I asked Poppa about it, he said, “Don’t rush the Lord. The Lord will act in due time.”

  I went to find Mother to see what she had to say. She was in the kitchen baking shortening bread and singing, “God will help if you take the first step.”

  I said, “Mother, I never heard you sing that hymn before.”

  “That’s not a hymn, son, that’s a prayer,” she explained. “You see me washing dishes, sweeping the floor, putting a patch on your daddy’s pants. When I sing that, it’s my prayer. God is helping me because I’m making an effort.”

  I went outside and walked down the road near our house thinking about what she said. There was a boy riding a bicycle. The boy got off, leaned the bicycle against a tree, and went to picking berries. I thought I’d follow Mother’s prayer and “take the first step.” I “stepped” on that bicycle and started off down the road.

  Ha! I looked back and there wasn’t nobody coming after me, so I said, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  Mother’s prayer worked.

  JOHN HENRY MICHAUX

  Lewis isn’t a bad boy. He does his part in the store. But now he’s been missing school, and I can’t do nothing with him. Some of my customers been calling him a “smart Negro,” and they’re not referring to his intelligence. He is intelligent, just headstrong. Willful.

  I’ve not always been there for my children. I spent most of my time building my business. Started off as a merchant seaman, then after I married Blanche, took to peddling fish in Newport News. We were starting a family and I needed to settle down. Near broke my back, but I managed to save enough money to open my own seafood and produce store right here on Jefferson Avenue. Had to do some dealings with white merchants that might be called compromising. Some of my cronies called me Uncle Tom for what I put up with. I got the last laugh—my own store and a bar and a restaurant too. We’re doing just fine.

  Except Lewis . . . he needs more attention than I been giving. When you got nine children, it’s not easy to keep track. One of them’s bound to stray.

  Blanche did teach Lewis his Bible. Matter of fact, without her, I wouldn’t have much religion myself. Became a Baptist because of her.

  Blanche is a good wife and I love her, but she’s got her faults. Doted on our boy Lightfoot from the day he was born with that blasted caul over his face. Said it meant he was destined to some high mission. I tell her it’s wrong for a parent to favor any child, but Blanche can’t help herself. She tries with Lewis, but he sees how she is with his brother.

  Blanche is strung tight as a banjo. Doctors say it’s a nervous condition, and dealing with the day-to-day keeping of the house takes its toll. She don’t have a whole lot of fortitude. Lord knows we have enough children, but she never got over the four we lost.

  She’s right about Lightfoot, though. He’s special, and he knows what he’s about. Lewis is searching. He has to find his way, like a sailor who drops anchor in many ports before he finds a dock that feels right, a place of belonging.

  I believe Lewis and I come from the same soil. When I’m discussing my ideas about the need for our race to be self-sufficient, his eyes never leave my face. The other day I heard him talking with other Negro boys about standing up for themselves.

  He said, “You gotta do for yourself, ’cause nobody’s gonna do for you.”

  Made me proud. The way that boy thinks, I have to remind myself he’s only nine years old.

  BLANCHE MICHAUX

  When I first met John Henry, he was a simple man, full of dreams. I loved to hear his sea stories and his plans for making something of himself.

  And he wasn’t just trying to impress me. He meant what he said. He’s a respected businessman now and a good provider. All he needed was some religion, and praise God, he finally got on board that train.

  But Henry lives at the store. Even after closing, he finds something that needs doing or he’s meeting with some highfalutin politician or such. He doesn’t have time to take me out like when we were courting. Seems like all I ever do is make babies and pick up after people.

  Mama warned me about marrying a light-skinned man with straight hair and ambition. Said people’d see me as less than him because I’m not pretty. She sure was right about that. Most days, I find myself feeling lonely.

  Thank the Lord for Lightfoot Solomon—the joy of my life. Henry expects Lightfoot’ll take over the store after he’s gone, but I keep telling Henry the Lord has bigger plans for our son, much bigger plans.

  Lewis is still just a boy, but we could school him to take over when Henry retires. He’s a sharp one, sometimes too clever for his own good. He might see the respectable path if he wasn’t so busy getting himself into trouble. Henry seems to expect me to straighten him out, but that’s a father’s job. I’ve spent many a sleepless night lying in bed thinking about Lewis, trying to figure him out. I guess it must be hard living in the shadow of an older brother who was born for greatness. Stealing may just be his way of saying, “Look at me!”

  I try. I do. But I’m tired. And sometimes I feel like the room I’m in just keeps getting smaller, so small I can hardly breathe.

  LEWIS

  When I get home today, I hear Ruthie crying like her world is ending.

  Nobody seems to be paying her any mind, so I go to Ruth’s crib to check on her. I can tell she’s been at it for a while. She’s all red in the face and stinking like she’s messed herself. I try to make her stop bawling but can’t, and Mother’s just sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window.

  “Ruth’s having a fit in there, Mother.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Mother,” I say, “Ruth . . .”

  “I hear her” is all she says. She says it real quiet like. Doesn’t even look at me.

  I run back to Ruth and pat her on the head. Whew, she smells so bad I don’t want to pick her up. But she’s screaming now and I want her to stop. I wonder where my brothers and sisters are.

  “Mother, please!”

  She doesn’t come. I’m getting a clean diaper when Poppa comes home.

  “Go on now,” he says, “I’ll do this.”

  I go outside and cover my ears until, finally, Ruthie stops crying. Then / start crying.

  BLANCHE

  I need a little quiet. Just one hour. I give Courtney some money from the tin I keep behind the sugar and have her take Julius, Norris, Margaret, Benny and Jennie to get ice cream. I tell her to take them for a walk after. A good long walk. Then I sit myself down with a nice cup of hot coffee.

  One hour is all I’m asking. One hour.

  I get fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes before Ruth starts. I know I should go to her. Her diaper likely needs changing. But I can’t make myself move.

  It won’t hurt Ruth to cry a while. Too much holding will spoil a child.

  Thank God, Lewis gets home. Lord knows where that boy’s been or what he’s been up to, but right now, I’m just glad he’s here. He can tend Ruth. One hour’s all I’m asking.

  When John Henry comes, he touches my hand with a tenderness I haven’t felt in a long time.

  “You need to rest awhile,” he says, helping me to stand. “Don’t worry about supper.”

  In my mind I’m shouting, thank you, thank you, thank you, Henry, but I
don’t think I’m saying it out loud. I’m concentrating on getting my feet to move. I’d run if I could.

  Finally, I’m in bed. It feels good to lie down. So good. Henry touches my face, then leaves me. It’s quiet. Quiet. Thank the Lord for a little quiet.

  Intake Clerk

  CENTRAL STATE HOSPITAL, PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA

  Well, we got another crier, that new patient, Blanche Michaux. Of course, the doctors are calling it “Nervous Exhaustion.” I just write down what they tell me.

  She’s exhausted, all right, nervous, too, but in the old days, back when this place was the Central Lunatic Asylum, we called it “hysteria.” Now they’re trying to be nicer so people won’t feel shamed by being here. You get reprimanded for the word “crazy,” but it seems to me that about says it.

  I do feel sorry for Mrs. Michaux, though. All them kids. Ten or eleven, I hear. She’s like that old nursery rhyme, the old woman in the shoe. I tell you, these men. They get us pregnant, then go on back to work, and we don’t see them again until dinnertime (if we’re lucky), or the next time they want some honey.

  When he brought her in, he said, “She just keeps crying or sleeping.” I wanted to say, well, mister, when was the last time you fixed her dinner or took her out dancing? That’s what I want to know. Sometimes women like her are just lonely.

  Maybe Mrs. Michaux will be one of them that snaps out of it pretty quick. Some do. A few months in here and they’re okay. Just need some rest is all. She was crying when she came in, but she kept telling her husband things to remember about taking care of the children. Must love them. Patients do better if they have a reason to get back home.

  LIGHTFOOT SOLOMON MICHAUX

  Things haven’t been the same since Mother got home from that mental institution. Poppa treats her like a child, and they say things to each other that a man and wife shouldn’t. I made the mistake of telling Poppa I think he should be more patient with her. He told me, in no uncertain terms, to mind my own business.

  All I can do is pray on it. She’s in God’s hands. And Poppa has a heavy burden to bear. He’s an important man, superior to most. Men like him need some leeway, especially from the family. He was right to chastise me.

  I don’t want conflict between us. There has been enough because of my marriage to Mary Eliza. Though he has not been disrespectful, Poppa certainly has not welcomed her with affection. I am keeping faith that time will enable him to accept her as my wife and his daughter-in-law. Mary is a formidable woman, opinionated, too, which may make winning Poppa over a challenge. He prefers a woman who is content to remain in her husband’s shadow. Lord knows, Mary can be a handful, but she is surely good for me—strong, industrious, diligent, and frugal. She will serve us well in our business and whatever the future brings.

  Lewis doesn’t help. Telling me and everyone who cares to listen that I chose Mary because of her light skin. And Poppa, for reasons I don’t understand, encourages him. There is something between Lewis and Poppa that runs deep.

  LEWIS

  I tried to make some money picking berries. That farmer man was paying two cents a quart, and the best you could pick was ten quarts a day. Twenty cents worth.

  There were about a hundred kids picking. That fat white man, with his great big hat on, set up under a willow tree with crates and boxes all around. We’d bring him a quart of berries, and he’d give us a two-cent coin. Them old-timey, two-cent copper coins are so big, when we get ten, we think we’re rich.

  Then one day last week after I picked about a half a quart of berries, I stopped and looked at this man’s place. He had corn, tomatoes, cabbage—all kinds of vegetables. He had cows, sheep, mules, horses, chickens, pigs, and I don’t know what all else. And I wondered, how did this man get all this? Picking berries? No, he got it stealing. Stealing the sweat of colored boys like me.

  So I took that half quart of berries and ate them. Then I went down to his barn. There were lots of sacks filled with corn. I tried to pick one up, but it was too heavy, so I emptied one of those croaker sacks and took it over to the pigpen. The sows had some itty-bitty babies, and I went over there and took three of them and put them in the bag. Then I went down the road to a water tank and sat there until a freight train stopped to fill up. I got on. Didn’t know where it was going, but I needed to get away with those squealers.

  Sometime down the road the train stopped and I hopped off. I tied those pigs to a tree and looked around. Down through the woods I saw a lumber mill where some colored men were hauling logs. I went down there and said to one of the men, “You want to buy a pig?”

  He said, “Pig? Where you going to get a pig?”

  I said, “I ain’t got to get the pig. Already got the pig.”

  So he comes back through the woods with me, and I sold those three pigs for $1.50 each. I made $4.50 in two hours. Now I’m in business. I’m not picking berries no more. I’m picking pigs.

  JOHN HENRY

  The judge sentenced my boy to twenty lashes for stealing a sack of peanuts. A sack of peanuts! Lewis needed to be punished, but this was harsh. The police whipped him behind the courthouse. And all I could do was stand there and watch them beat my boy.

  They expect he’ll learn from this treatment. He will, but not what they think. Lewis didn’t cry out. Only fourteen years old and didn’t cry out . . . refused to. Just glared straight ahead . . . angry. The boy is stubborn. Keeps right on taking things. I’ve been trying to reach him, send him down a better path than the one he’s on. But he’s gotten worse since Blanche came home from the hospital.

  Been stealing livestock from some of our neighbors—white ones, so it makes things worse for the boy. And that doesn’t do me—or my business—any good. I get produce from some of these folks.

  LIGHTFOOT

  Poppa makes excuses for him, but I know he is shamed by Lewis’s shenanigans. I remember back in the day when Lewis and I worked together pushing Poppa’s fish cart down Jefferson Avenue. Lewis was nine or ten, I guess. He’d yell

  Clams and Oysters worth a holler!

  Step right up and bring them dollars!

  Best in town, I couldn’t be prouder!

  If you don’t buy, I’ll say it louder!

  Then he’d start it over, louder. People would laugh but then come over and buy fish. Lewis is surely clever, and people like him.

  Now he’s nineteen years old and serving time. I pray for him. Maybe that chain gang will straighten him out.

  LEWIS

  When I got locked up, the old judge says to me, “Boy, what do you do to live?”

  I say, “I do like the white folks.”

  “And what is that?”

  I say, “Breathe. What else could you do to live?”

  He says, “You being smart, boy?”

  I say, “I don’t mean it that way. This is the way you asked it, ‘What you do to live?’ I say to live, I breathe.”

  He says, “I mean, what do you do for a living?”

  I say, “You got me locked up for what I do. The same thing white folks do.”

  He says, “What is that?”

  I say, “Steal. You came to America and stole America from the Indians. Then that was so good, you went to Africa and stole my ancestors and enslaved us.”

  The judge didn’t answer. Just sentenced me.

  LEWIS

  You can’t walk straight on a crooked line. You try, you’ll break your leg. How can you walk straight in a crooked system? Even Poppa knows that.

  He was always saying how he had more brands of whiskey than anybody ever thought of, and I found out why. One day—I wasn’t more than nine years old—Poppa sent Lightfoot and me down to the cellar to get some bottles of Old Sod and Old Henry for the bar. Poppa had twenty-three bottles with different labels on them. But there was only one barrel of whiskey down there. Just one. He put the same whiskey in the Old Sod bottle, the same whiskey in the Old Henry bottle, and the same whiskey in every other bottle. Customers would come in and say, �
�Gimme a shot of that Old Turkey this time. It’s smoother than Old Sod.” They didn’t even know the difference. Well, that taught me something. Taught me that people don’t know half the things they need to know.

  Make no mistake. Poppa works and hard. Nothing was handed to him. It’s true he had to do some kowtowing to get his business going. I remember hearing him “SIR”ing them while they were “BOY”ing him and worse behind his back. They would charge Poppa more for stock than white merchants, like he was just some dumb Negro who didn’t know. Well, he wasn’t so dumb. Poppa knew. And while they weren’t looking, Poppa became the self-sufficient black man Marcus Garvey talks about.

  A fellow told me the other day, “It don’t make no difference. Your daddy’s still working for the white man.”

  I said, “Well, maybe so, but not directly. And that’s something.”

  When I look at Poppa, I see him bent over with all kinds of ailments. I’ll never break myself up working for the white man. I’m going to use my head and stay off my knees.

  JOHN HENRY

  Been reading Marcus Garvey’s newspaper the Negro World, and I’m hopeful about what he is saying. I know his talk of separate communities for blacks isn’t popular, but maybe we need to find ourselves before we can find our true place in the white world. I needed to work with whites . . . needed to accept tradeoffs that I’m not proud of. It was that or work for somebody else . . . never build anything of my own. Our people had enough of that in slavery.

  Garvey is saying what I believed all along. We need to take pride in our race, embrace our history. We need more black institutions under black leadership. Like Tuskegee. Like my store. I’m proud of that.

  Lewis is a believer. We’re kindreds all right. Some evenings we spend hours talking about one of Garvey’s articles or sharing ideas about race. Lewis has passion. There’s hope for him.