by Scott, Jamie
I did know better. I knew better than to count on them to put my feelings before the endless list of people they thought needed them.
Within the week Eliza began her education. When she turned up at the kitchen door I harbored a slight hope that, despite my objection to her presence, she’d want to be my friend. She showed no such inclination. She was quiet, not shy but sullen, lanky and very dark. We sized each other up in the kitchen and didn’t see anything we couldn’t live without. Being fifteen was our only point of communion. School? She didn’t go. Work? I didn’t do any. Movies? I doubted she’d seen any lately. Books? We’d already established that she couldn’t read. The only prospect Eliza held for me was trouble.
Chapter 9
I wasn’t about to cave in on the matter of our new student’s education, though I was smart enough to plan my protest more carefully before giving it another try. I chose Sunday lunch, the Powell clan’s traditional forum for contentious dialog. We were all working up a good head of steam when Duncan exploded.
‘Fine, I’ve had enough of this. May, come with me.’ He held his hand up to Ma and she stopped with her mouth open. ‘Sarah, let me handle this. Come on. Now!’
Ma looked concerned, which wasn’t a good sign. Duncan had a lot to say but he rarely shouted.
What he needed to show me was too far away to walk. He kept himself entertained by muttering half sentences behind the wheel. ‘You want to see – I’ll show you – you have no idea – sitting there smug in our house – these people are – May, you just don’t – these folks – school. School? Hah!’ Whatever he had to say was sticking somewhere between his heart and his vocal chords.
Pretty soon I saw what he thought I ought to see. East of Forsyth Park was Fort Town. Its centerpiece was a school called the Beach Institute, built in the eighteen sixties by the Freedmen’s Bureau to give Negroes an education. It was one of the first in the South and enrolled six hundred students when it first opened. Over time other schools were built or donated, like the West Broad Street School and the Cuyler Street School, but Beach Institute was the first of its kind in Savannah. The school had been closed for almost thirty years but in its day a bustling neighborhood had settled around it. By nineteen forty–seven, the sun had firmly set on that day. We were in the slums.
I stared out the window as we crept along. Both sides of the street were lined with two story wooden houses. Most weren’t painted, and lots looked terribly unsteady. Windows were broken, many were boarded up, some gaped open. Hard–packed dirt skirted most front yards. Porches sagged or had crumbled and children played on their broken bones. Raggedy–looking dogs lounged in the dust or meandered hopefully amid the rubbish heaps.
‘Duncan, this is where the poor people live. Where do the people like Dora Lee live?’
‘May, this is where she lives. Right here in this neighborhood.’
‘How can that be? Dora Lee’s not like these people. She’s, she’s normal. Like us.’
‘This is where the Negroes live, the maids and the porters, laborers, everyone. They might work but they’re still poor. Black people don’t get paid nearly as much as white people do. You know that.’
I didn’t, actually, but if true it brought to mind an interesting predicament closer to home. ‘Does that mean you pay Dora Lee less than what a white maid would cost?’
It was Duncan’s turn to squirm. Something like guilt flashed over his face and I was glad. ‘We pay her more than the old lady did.’
‘But not the same as a white maid, right?’ I had him on the ropes and wasn’t about to let him off.
He muttered, ‘No, I suppose not.’
Good, we were even. We both felt lousy.
‘Duncan,I don’t need to see any more. Can’t we go home?’
‘No, we can’t. If you want to turn a blind eye to this, that’s your prerogative. But you’re going to make an informed decision, young lady. It’s too easy to ignore things when you don’t have to see them. You’ll keep your eyes open and look at what you’re suggesting we don’t do anything about.’
We drove back through town and out the other side. I let out a number of belly–deep sighs but they didn’t reverse our progress. If Fort Town was where working Negroes lived I didn’t want to think what the really poor people’s neighborhood looked like. But I suspected that Duncan wasn’t too concerned with what I wanted just then. We weren’t far from Savannah, but you wouldn’t know it. As the city receded, rural Georgia revealed itself. It could have been Mirabelle’s South, or her mother’s or grandmother’s. Out there in the farmland, nothing hinted at the decades. We drove through countryside for a long time. At each turnoff my father slowed, looking for something. A couple of times we bumped along a dirt track only for Duncan to cuss, hit the brakes and reverse back to the main road. Eventually he found what he was looking for and we continued to rattle along the pockmarked path. The weeds tightened around us. It was sweltering, my back sticking to the vinyl seat. The car churned up so much dust that my throat dried out, while sweat made shiny tracks down Duncan’s face. We stopped in front of a shack. It was unpainted and well–patched with wood, cardboard, and anything that looked likely to keep out the rain. Holes the size of my hand awaited repair. Most windows were shuttered against the elements and the flies. No glass graced the few frames without shutters, and the foundation sloped steadily towards the car.
‘What is this?’ But I’d had enough talks with Dora Lee by then to know what it was.
‘It’s the Negro school. Come on, there aren’t any classes today. We can go inside.’
I hung back, not wanting to see any more. But there was much more to see. Inside, the walls were also unpainted and the desks weren’t really desks at all. Whoever built the school had nailed together the leftover wood and called it quits. In one corner a handful of readers were neatly piled. Nothing about the place suggested its purpose except those readers and a handmade blackboard.
‘What grades go here?’
‘All of them. Well at least one through seven.’
‘All of them? At the same time?’
‘Yes. But they’re not all here at once. Only the littlest kids come during the cotton harvest. And the boys are excused when it’s time to plow and plant at the start of the season. There’re probably not usually more than ten or fifteen kids here at any one time.’
‘But Duncan, this is a farm school. The ones in town aren’t like this.’
‘Does that make this okay?’
It didn’t. ‘Where do these kids live?’
‘Over on the plantation.’
My mouth said O.
‘They’re not slaves. But they live in the old quarters there just the same. Come on. That’s where we’re going next.’
The shanties weren’t any bigger than our living room. Most had only a door and a window. All were built on pilings that flashed their uneven floors to the world. Assorted dogs panted away the afternoon in the dust beneath the houses. There weren’t many people outside. It had to be stifling inside those tiny boxes. All the doors were open to let in what little breeze kicked around, and, like the schoolhouse, most had quite a bit of unintentional ventilation. I could see faces watching us from the dim interiors.
‘May, this is all the South holds for most Negroes.’
It would be many years before I saw the inside of those hovels and when I did they confirmed what I had imagined that day. ‘The whole family lives in that little place? There can’t be more than one room.’
‘There isn’t. Everything, the beds, the stove, the table if they’re lucky enough to have one, it’s all in that room. There’s no running water and no toilet. And the whole family lives in there.’ Duncan looked at me. ‘Now how do you feel about leaving everything just as it is?’
I felt sick was how I felt. My throat tightened and I wanted to cry. I didn’t say another word in the car and I never again broached the subject of Eliza’s learning.
Chapter 10
‘Who’s Fi
e?’
‘She’s a girl in our class. She’s my friend,’ said Jim.
‘Your friend?’
‘Yes, May, is that so unbelievable?’
‘It’s just that I don’t remember who she is.’
‘She’s in history with us, and math with you. She knows who you are.’
‘Well, I guess you’ll have to introduce us.’
I was jealous. Jim was my friend. I’d taken pity on him and that made him mine. How he’d managed to attract a pal in the couple days I was gone was beyond me, considering that he hadn’t managed to do it in the first nine years of his academic career. But within a few minutes of meeting Fie I saw that I needn’t have harbored any ill–will. We took a real shine to each other. Being the only Northerner she’d ever met made me reasonably exotic. She was especially curious about the land of my forefathers and I admit I enjoyed my expert status as social commentator on the entire geography north of Virginia. I didn’t always know what I was talking about but she didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t mind. In return she filled me in on the lives of gentle Southern belles. Though she wasn’t anywhere near popular, she seemed to know all about them, and I enjoyed finally having a girl to gossip with.
It felt good, more secure, to have friends, plural. We settled into an easy routine, meeting at lunchtime to share gossip and bologna sandwiches. Jim and Fie were two ends of the same rope. He never stopped talking where she was quiet. She was lighthearted where he was intensely purposeful. Their common ground was the fact that they were both good people and I appreciated that. But even though a few good friends might be worth more than lots of not–so–good ones, I still wanted the chance to make that decision based on first hand experience.
My parents eventually got tired of being asked to commute my sentence, so they did. Had I learned my lesson, they wanted to know? I had. Before disobeying them again I’d make sure I had an airtight plan to avoid getting caught.
Once I was free, Jim no longer had to risk his neck to visit. ‘Ma, we’re going upstairs. To study.’ I shouted above the birds at Ma’s stooped silhouette. Since Dora Lee staked her claim on the house, Ma had settled herself outdoors, taking up gardening with the enthusiasm of a recent convert. She glanced up from her flowers and waved. Had Jim been a regular boy, our disappearance would have evoked an impromptu speech. My parents were ever watchful for potential infringements upon my virtue. But Jim wasn’t a regular boy, not in that sense.
I raced up the stairs after him and wham! I fell knees first on the landing. I was more surprised than hurt but I bellowed anyway, rubbing my stinging joints. I should have remembered the awkward stair, having made its painfully sudden acquaintance on more than one occasion. Jim smirked down at me. Just how did he know to jump the step, I wanted to know?
He paused. ‘It’s a burglar stair. All these old houses are built with them.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well then, presumably the burglars have them in their houses, too, so they’d know to step high on the top stair.’
‘May, they don’t always build them on the top stair. That would be stupid, wouldn’t it?’
Yes, I suppose it would.
Because I didn’t tell him beforehand that studying was merely a ruse, I couldn’t blame him for staring at me when I flaunted my letter collection. I was disappointed nevertheless by his lack of enthusiasm.
‘I found them in the attic. In an old trunk.’ He blinked at me through the fingerprints on his lenses. ‘They’re old, really old. Like from thirty years ago. They’re love letters, Jim.’ Still he gave me no enthusiasm. ‘Aren’t you even interested?’
‘Why don’t you just leave dead people’s things alone? How would you like it if someone went through all your stuff when you were dead? Reading all your letters from Lottie? It’s disrespectful is what it is.’
That wasn’t the point. How he could fail to be captivated by such a find? ‘First of all, Jim, I wouldn’t care if someone went through my things because I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? And second, why are you being so funny about it? It’s just the old lady who lived here. She left it all when she died. She didn’t get rid of them beforehand so she obviously wasn’t too concerned about who’d see them after she was gone. Why should you care?’
‘It’s just not right, that’s all. You should let sleeping dogs lie.’ That was the last word he had to say on the subject. He settled back into his book. He was welcome to his homework. I was determined to enjoy my treasure.
Jim wouldn’t be drawn into the details of Mirabelle’s life. The only concession he’d make was to come with me to see her old house. The temptation to look at history was one he couldn’t resist. We stood for a long time on York Street gawking at the old place. Most of the windows were busted and there were patches on the roof. No one who loved the place had lived there in a long time. In Mirabelle’s day it must have been something to see. That night I tucked into her story with visions of her house to stoke my imagination.
Chapter 11
1917 Savannah
Mirabelle was head over heels in love, as anyone could see. She fretted over the miles separating Savannah and Atlanta and would have given her eye teeth for the chance to pull the two together like chairs on a sun porch. Henry was a good egg and came as often as convention allowed, but short of moving in next door, nothing satisfied Mirabelle’s appetite for him.
She was twenty–eight when she met the love of her life, barreling headlong towards spinster–hood if you asked her father, which she never did. Though she was certainly old enough to look after herself, her parents were raised under the strict tenets of the Victorian era. No good family would think to let their single daughter spend time alone with a man. Mirabelle knew it was all hooey. Even good girls found ways to sneak off with their beaus. She was no exception. But she and Henry spent most of their days together with Mister and Missus Reynolds, picnicking, riding in the countryside or pursuing other chaste endeavors, like meandering around Savannah’s final resting places. Nothing quashed lusty thoughts like ancestors.
They strolled among the gravestones in Colonial Cemetery one glorious summer afternoon. Sidewalks crisscrossed the grass and great oaks shaded the city’s dead. The cemetery was a little dilapidated except where conscientious families went to the trouble of weeding their relatives, but it was better maintained than the squares around it, so Mirabelle always enjoyed being there. In the distance, she spied her mother shaking out the picnic blanket.
‘Henry, look here. Do you know the story of Button Gwinnett?’
‘I don’t, but I know you’re going to tell me.’ He gave her a sly squeeze.
‘Yes, I am. This is his grave marker, and right over there lay his mortal enemy. Mister Gwinnett signed the Declaration of Independence incidentally. After the Revolution the two men had a duel and Gwinnett lost. Then, to add insult to injury, when his killer died his family buried him right there next door. Isn’t that poetic justice? I suppose it isn’t any different from spouses who can’t abide each other in life and then have to spend the forever after buried together. Though I certainly won’t have to worry about that. I’m going to spend this life, and the next, with the person I love.’ She paused. ‘What about you?’ She murmured, tipping her head to look at him, coquettishly she hoped, from under her hat.
‘Oh, I expect so. So long as she keeps her passion for me.’ He glanced to where her parents were spreading their lunch, then kissed her quick. ‘This sure is a pretty place, don’t you think? Our cemeteries aren’t as nice, that’s for certain.’
‘Henry?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Nothing. I guess Mama must have lunch almost ready by now. We’d best get back.’
Henry took Mirabelle’s hand. ‘Belle, just a minute.’
She stopped, her heart fluttering.
‘You look awfully pretty.’
She blushed. He was right of course, at least when it came to her ensemble. Those were head
y days in the fashion world, despite wartime shortages. For the first time in history, ladies dared to show some leg, all the way up to their shins. Her dress was layered in filmy silk the color of whipped egg yolk, her arms daringly evident through transparent sleeves. She’d designed the frock herself. Her mother thought it too bold for her daughter, but Mirabelle didn’t give a hoot. Just wearing it put a bounce in her step. She made a show of inspecting the skirt’s fine silk until Henry started to look a little sorry he brought it up.
‘Em, I have something for you.’ From his coat pocket he drew a little box. Not the little box, she noted, but she was excited just the same. ‘I thought, um, well, darnit Belle, I just wanted to give you something, as a token of my heartfelt affection.’ He blushed. ‘Aw, it’s not much.’
She picked up the delicate comb. Little bits of shell the shape of birds and flowers winked at her.
‘I thought you could wear it, in your hair, next month at the Simpsons’ party. You have such pretty hair. I saw it and thought it was perfect for you. Do you like it?’
She avoided his eyes so he wouldn’t see her tears. She was overwhelmed by the little gift. ‘Henry, I love it!’ And she did, as much as she did him. She held it, felt its warmth, and already missed him.
In between his visits she was hopelessly dreamy. She wandered through the squares, replaying every second of their time together and ticking away the hours before she could decently write to him again. She started a growing pile of unsent letters, censored by a just–in–time sense of decency, a decency that certainly didn’t extend to her writing. Her letters captured all of her feelings, some chaste, most otherwise. For his part Henry fell madly for Mirabelle, though no hints about lifelong aspirations peppered his missives as they did hers.