“Is that you, Clay-Boy?”
The speaker was a man standing at the foot of the center aisle. He was a man in his fifties, a vigorous, muscular, tall man whose hair was just beginning to be touched with gray. Because the man was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, Clay-Boy had not recognized Hawthorne Dooly, a farmer whose land Clay-Boy and his father had often gone to to hunt and fish, a leader in the Negro community.
“Hey, Hawthorne,” said Clay-Boy.
“What you doen out here?”
“I was lost,” said Clay-Boy.
“Come on down here and warm yourself,” said Hawthorne.
“I don’t want to get in the way,” said Clay-Boy.
“Come on up to the fire,” said Hawthorne and met Clay-Boy halfway down the aisle of wooden benches, and led him to where the pot-bellied stove glowed red and hot. Clay-Boy was conscious of the watching eyes turning from resentment to acceptance, and he was relieved.
“Scrunch over,” Hawthorne called to a family on the bench nearest the fire. Obliging, smiling now that he was a welcome guest, the family moved together to make room for Clay-Boy at the end of the bench.
Clay-Boy was reassured by the smiles of the two little boys sitting next to him. He had never been anywhere where he was the only white person present, and it made him nervous. He had been told things about Negroes, told that they were different from white people. Wondering how they worshiped God, he guessed maybe they might sing spirituals or roll on the floor like Holy Rollers.
Hawthorne returned to his position in front of the congregation, looked out over his flock and announced, “We’ll continue the service with hymn number three hundred and two.”
There was a rustling of pages as hands turned the pages of hymnals, found the page, and waited. Now Hawthorne led off with the first line of the hymn and the congregation joined in.
O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie,
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
Clay-Boy felt something nudge his elbow and he looked down to see that the little boy standing next to him was offering to share his hymnal. Clay-Boy knew the words, but he smiled back at the little boy and pretended to sing from the book, joining his voice to the richness of the old Christmas hymn.
Still in thy dark night shineth
The everlasting light,
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in Thee tonight.
The song reached its end and silence fell in the room. Hawthorne tiptoed to the side of the center platform and pulled a clothesline on which sheets had been hung to form a curtain. As the curtain parted there came into view a barnyard setting. Instruments of work, a hoe, a scythe, a pitchfork hung from a wooden backdrop. In front of the backdrop two sheep and a goat were lying quietly beside an old wooden cradle. Two roosters pecked at corn and walked as far as the cord tethers allowed.
When the curtain had parted, Hawthorne picked up his Bible and began to read:
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. And all went to be taxed, each one into his own city.
Two figures appeared from behind the backdrop and made their way down the platform to the sheep and goats and chickens. Clay-Boy recognized the little black Joseph as Hawthorne’s grandson, Claudie. He wore a flowing purple velvet cape, and a turban of the same material was wound about his head. Following Claudie was little Emmarine Hoover, the daughter of Estelle Hoover who taught the one-room Negro school. As Mary, Mother of Jesus, she was clad in a white tunic and on her head was a glowing silver halo. The children reached the wooden cradle, stole a furtive look out toward the congregation, then knelt in practiced unison.
“And so it was,” read Hawthorne, “that while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.”
Mary reached into the cradle and picked up a doll. She held it to her breast for a moment then offered it for Joseph’s inspection. Now, casually, almost conversationally, Joseph began to sing:
Hey, Mary, what you goen to name
That pretty little baby?
And Mary answered:
Some call him one thing,
I think I’ll call him Jesus.
“Oh yes,” cried affirming voices in the congregation.
Behind the children appeared other children, dressed as shepherds and wise men, and they repeated the query:
Hey, Mary, what you goen to name
That pretty little baby?
And once again, Mary replied:
Some call him one thing,
I think I’ll call him Emanuel!
“Yes, Lord,” said voices in the congregation. And now the men took up the question Joseph had asked, and the women answered along with Mary, and their voices rose and the pace quickened until they could no longer sing from their seats, but had to rise and shout for Glory and exaltation at the coming of the Lord. Reverently, the singing voices lowered almost to a whisper. Onstage, the shepherds and wise men approached the Child and knelt with bowed heads.
Now a powerful voice, controlled, tremulous, reverent, began to sing, and when Clay-Boy looked he saw that it was Hawthorne, his face lifted to Heaven, his eyes closed.
O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till He appear’d and the soul felt its worth.
Shivers went down Clay-Boy’s back. He had heard the hymn since he was a baby, carried to church in his mother’s arms, but he had never heard it sung this way before. Hawthorne crooned the song, stroked and caressed it with tenderness, letting his voice cling to the melody, elongating the last line as if reluctant to let it go, until the feeling and the events the song described seemed to be taking place now and here and not two thousand years ago in some distant Biblical storybook place.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine! O night when Christ was born!
O night divine! O night, O night divine.
The song ended; the congregation in a single voice spoke, “Glory Hallelujah!”
Hawthorne bowed his head, and the congregation followed suit.
“We thank Thee Father for the Gift of Thy Son. Help us to be worthy of Thy sacrifice, and to walk in Thy light all the days of our lives. Amen.”
“Amen,” answered the congregation.
Hawthorne Dooly glanced toward the rear of the church and nodded a signal.
“Ho-Ho-Ho!” came a booming voice from the vestibule. Every head turned and the children’s eyes widened with awe as a roly-poly Santa Claus came marching up the aisle.
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” he called as he stopped to shake hands with a grownup or pinch some youngster’s cheek.
To each child he passed out an orange, and when he came abreast of Clay-Boy and offered him an orange too, Clay-Boy remembered how his father felt about accepting charity, but at the same time he did not want to hurt the black Santa’s feelings, and accepted the gift from the outstretched hand.
Carrying his orange, Clay-Boy started for the door while families rose and visited with each other and waited for each child to receive his gift.
As he made his way past the Negro faces it came to him that he did not really know any Negroes. He knew those in the village, but he had never been in one of their homes and did not know what they yearned for or what their dreams were. He felt a sense of loss that an entire community existed within the larger community and he did not know one of them beyond his name and face.
When he reached the door, Hawthorne Dooly was waiting for him.
“You out this way looken for your daddy?” asked Hawthorne.
“I reckon so,” answered Clay-Boy.<
br />
“Have you tried the Staples place?”
“No, I didn’t. So far out there.”
“It ain’t all that far if you’ve got transportation,” said Hawthorne. “You come and ride on General with me.”
Gratefully Clay-Boy accepted the offer and a short while later was riding through the silver night on a white horse with a black man guiding the way. Once the snow lifted, the moon shone sulkily through scudding clouds. Clay-Boy could see their shadow moving along with them in the glittering luster which blanketed the world. We could be two of the wise men, hurrying after some bright star, thought Clay-Boy.
SEVEN
In observance of Christmas Eve, Miss Emma and Miss Etta Staples had gotten out of the overalls they usually wore, and changed into finery. It was Emma’s idea. Etta was a ninny and never had an idea of her own. It would have been just like her to have forgotten Christmas altogether and worked right through to New Year’s. But Emma remembered and it was she who cut the tree and set it up, laid the fire in the seldom-used front room, then briskly climbed the stairs to change.
“Hurry along, Etta,” called Emma, passing her sister’s door, knowing full well that Etta was such a dreamer that she might lose herself in a magazine and forget why she had come to her room altogether.
“I’m almost ready,” Etta called gaily from behind the closed door.
“Wait for me,” called Emma. “We’ll go down together.”
Quickly Emma changed into her good dress, a plain black wool which she had bought in Charlottesville for Papa’s funeral. There had been lace at the collar, but Emma did not care for lace and had removed it. Stopping at the dresser, she picked up the cameo brooch which had been her mother’s, stuck it in the front of the dress, then touched her hair with a comb. Hair was a nuisance most of the time. Emma cut her own, kept it short and clean, and observed with a twinge that there was more gray present than the last time she had looked. Emma gave her hair one final whack, lay down the comb and left the room.
Hearing Emma’s door open, Etta opened her own door and self-consciously walked out into the hall.
“My, Etta!” exclaimed Emma. “You could win a beauty contest!”
Etta had taken some pains with herself and she did indeed look beautiful. Her hair had turned pure white, with none of the yellow which streaked her sister’s. She had combed it straight back and put it into a bun, and it framed her small well-made face like a halo. At her throat was a black velvet choker, and the dress she wore was a lavender silk.
“You look nice, too,” said Etta, observing the cameo brooch her sister wore. She had wondered where the brooch had gotten off too. She planned to steal it back when the first opportunity arose. She fancied that Emma was constantly stealing her things, and she resolved to hide the brooch better once it was back in her possession.
“Where are the decorations, Emma?” asked Etta at the head of the stairway.
“They’re already by the tree, just waiting for you to put them up,” replied Emma.
“I feel just like when we were little,” said Etta happily as they walked into the front room and she saw for the first time the tree which Emma had set up earlier in the day.
Etta opened the box of decorations and was swept into yesterday. Emma watched, taking pleasure in their yearly visit with the decorations they had known since they were children. Out of the box and onto the tree went doves made of spun glass, angels with wings of gauze, ropes of glass beads, a dozen little tin trumpets, stars of gold, and glass bells with glass clappers, a hand-carved Santa Claus and all eight reindeer.
While Etta worked at the tree, Emma arranged the crèche on the old walnut end-table beside the horse-hair sofa. She had placed the Jesus figure in the manger and was reaching for a lamb, when there came a knocking at the front door.
“Someone has run out of Recipe!” said Etta.
“I was sure everybody had laid in a good supply,” said Emma and opened the door.
“Who is it?” asked Emma doubtfully, observing the snow-covered figure just beyond the door.
“Clay-Boy Spencer,” answered the boy through lips that were numb with cold.
“What a treat!” cried Miss Emma. “Company, Etta!” she called gaily over her shoulder. “It’s Clay Spencer’s son. Come in! Come in!”
Showers of snow fell away as Clay-Boy removed his cap and scarf, then shook his coat and stamped his feet.
“Why, you’re just caked with snow!” said Miss Etta, taking his jacket and hanging it on the clothes rack.
“You look frozen to death,” cried Miss Emma. “Come by the fire and warm yourself.”
Clay-Boy had been in the kitchen of the Staples’ house, but he had never seen the front room. It was grand beyond his imagining. Tasseled lamps rested on heavy hand-carved tables. Two horsehair love seats flanked the fireplace. In a corner an ancient grandfather’s clock was stopped at twelve minutes past two, and Miss Etta beamed at him from beside a Christmas Tree which shimmered with all manner of glowing, shining, many-colored ornaments.
“Etta, this boy is frozen through and through. Take off your shoes, Clay-Boy, and let them dry while you visit. Etta, bring some eggnog and put some Recipe in it.”
“Don’t go to any trouble,” said Clay-Boy, but Miss Etta was already on her way to bring the eggnog. “I can’t stay but a minute.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Emma. “Take off those wet shoes before you come down with lung trouble. The socks, too. They’re soaking wet.”
“It’s a wonder you haven’t got frostbite,” said Miss Emma when Clay-Boy’s feet, blue with cold, were exposed. “You sit down and wait right here.”
Now Miss Emma left the room also and Clay-Boy sat down on the love seat and held his feet out toward the warmth of the fireplace. He felt silly, but he was grateful as the numbing cold began to seep out of his fingers and toes.
Miss Emma and Miss Etta returned together. Miss Emma carried a large steaming pan of water which she placed at his feet.
“Soak your feet in this hot water,” she commanded. “It will ward off lung disease.”
Obediently Clay-Boy placed his feet in the pan, feeling sillier by the minute, but knowing it was useless to argue with the two old ladies.
“Doesn’t that feel better now?” asked Miss Emma.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
Now Miss Etta came forward carrying a tray on which she had arranged a silver pitcher and three silver mugs.
“This will warm you up,” she promised. Clay-Boy accepted one of the mugs, which was filled with eggnog lightly sprinkled with cinnamon. Something in it warmed him all the way to the pit of his stomach, and once it rested there, radiated throughout the rest of his body. Miss Emma and Miss Etta waited expectantly for some reaction from him.
“It’s powerful good,” said Clay-Boy. “What’s in it?”
“It’s Papa’s Recipe,” explained Miss Emma. “Papa used to make it all the time and then when he passed on we used to get so many calls for it that Sister and I just kept on making it. Drink hearty. There’s plenty.”
“We had a gentleman stop in last week all the way from Warrenton, Virginia,” said Miss Etta. “He loved it so he took a whole gallon back home with him.”
“It gives us something to do in our old age,” said Miss Emma, “and it makes people happy, so I can’t see why we shouldn’t keep right on providing. Etta, help Clay-Boy to another cup of eggnog.”
Miss Etta poured, and Clay-Boy accepted the refilled cup gratefully. He was warm now from head to toe and he was beginning to feel so lightheaded and relaxed that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be sitting with the two antique ladies, sipping eggnog while his feet soaked in a pan of hot water.
“How are your mother and all those dear children?” inquired Miss Etta.
“Everybody’s just fine,” said Clay-Boy between sips of the warming eggnog.
“There are eight now. I believe,” said Miss Etta.
“Yes, ma’am
,” replied Clay-Boy. “Last time we counted it was eight.”
“Your father never comes but what he says for us to come over and visit,” observed Miss Emma, “but we never seem to get out any more.”
“We’re getting old,” said Miss Etta proudly. “Hard to get around when you’re old.”
“Your daddy says you make good grades at school,” said Miss Emma, looking at Clay-Boy appraisingly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What are you going to do with your life?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What do you want to do with it?”
“They seem to think real high of Daddy over where he works. He says they’ll put me on over there if I learn a trade.”
“Are you interested in taking up a trade?”
“None that I know of. Maybe I’ll find somethen,” said Clay-Boy.
“If you had your choice, what would you be?”
Clay-Boy had never confessed his secret yearning to anyone in the world before, but the eggnog while warming him had also released his inhibitions.
“You know these Big Five tablets?” he asked. “Like you do homework in?”
Miss Emma nodded interestedly.
“I keep one under my mattress.”
“You’re just like Etta,” said Miss Emma. “She hides things under her mattress too.”
“Just letters from my beaux,” said Miss Etta, then turned accusingly to her sister. “And now that I know you’ve been snooping I’m going to hide them somewhere else.”
“Her beaux!” cried Miss Emma derisively. “Way she tells it you’d think she had a regular Hallelujah Chorus lined up at the gate.”
“I wonder what ever happened to Ashley Longworth,” sighed Miss Etta.
“Papa chased him off is what happened,” Miss Emma reminded her.
Miss Etta said wistfully: “Once when we were in Charlottesville we were walking along and I thought I saw him, the back of his head, walking along in front of me. I nearly ran, trying to catch up with him, but when I did, the man was a stranger. He could never have been Ashley Longworth. Ashley had fine features. He came from a good family, and he was a gentleman. Emma, why didn’t Papa like him?”
The Homecoming Page 6