The Red Rose Box

by Woods, Brenda

  I was tired when Ruth and I climbed into the back of Elijah’s truck at the end of the day, but there were two quarters in my hand and two in Ruth’s. I fell asleep.

  The days and nights kept coming and Mama and Gramma stayed up late, cutting dresses, sewing, talking, their low laughter coming in under our door, and by the end of the week we had a closet full of clothes. Mama borrowed a few of what Sister Goodnight called her finer things and by the twenty-ninth day of June, we were in the back of Elijah’s truck, on our way to New Orleans. I had the red rose box in my lap, hundred percent silk bed jacket and all.

  Elijah let us off in front of the station with our bags, saying he was going to park, but when I saw his hand waving, I knew he was on his way.

  I reached down and dusted off my patent leather shoes until I could see myself.

  I looked around and around at everything and everybody until it felt like my head was spinning. A porter, high yellow and as polite as could be, came up behind Mama and asked her if she needed a little help. She told him we were going to Los Angeles and he asked to see our tickets. He winked at Mama, smiled at me, piled our trunk on a cart, and tried to take my red rose box. I told him I could carry it myself and I could tell he didn’t know that we were poor and country. I followed Mama up four steps into the colored section on that Jim Crow train.

  Mama and Gramma took their seats and Gramma put a quarter in the palm of his hand. He seemed thankful as he tipped his hat and walked away, humming a tune. Ruth and I were looking after him when the train started to move. We hurried to the window and stood, looking and watching. We were wearing matching pale blue sundresses with ruffled sleeves. Our hair was fresh and pressed with a warm comb.

  I looked at Mama and I thought that she was pretty. I stood in front of her until she reached for me, put her arms around me, and sat me in her lap like a half-grown pig. Mama began to cry and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Gramma shook her head. “Why you cryin, Rita Ann?”

  Mama replied through her tears, “Cuz I ain’t never wanted nuthin, just a little house, a good husband, and some babies.”

  Gramma reached for her hand. “Ain’t nuthin wrong with bein content, if that’s the way you was put together.” Then she said, “Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy,” and Mama stopped crying. Gramma said to me with two quick winks, “Hand me my shoe box, Leah Jean.”

  I handed her the shoe box, Gramma opened it, offered me a piece of fried chicken, Ruth a piece of stick-it-together cake, Mama some roasted peanuts, and we ate. I sat in the window seat, watching the world go by. I pictured my daddy. Thinking about him made me smile.

  Three days later, we were in Los Angeles.

  I was never going to be the same.

  Five

  Aunt Olivia walked through the crowd like she was walking on water, and no one had to tell me it was her. She was the prettiest woman in the station, white or colored, at least I thought so. Olivia and Mama looked at each other for what seemed like a long time but no words passed between them. Ruth and I stood together, holding hands. Too many people were weaving in and out, out and in. I kept one hand on Gramma’s blue polka-dot dress.

  Finally, Olivia, being the oldest and the wisest, reached for Mama and pulled her close. I could see Mama’s hurt melt like butter in the sun. I looked at Olivia, and she must have felt my eyes on her soul because she let go of Mama, reached down, touched my shoulder, and kissed my cheek, then the top of Ruth’s head. She gave Gramma a hug and a kiss. Then she put her arms around Ruth and me and we walked through the station.

  I paused to look at the drinking fountain as we made our way to the door. I was thirsty and there were no signs. I pointed to it and asked Aunt Olivia, “That for white or colored?”

  “Anyone who’s thirsty, white or colored. No Jim Crow here.”

  I turned the handle and the cool water met my lips.

  We walked to Aunt Olivia’s car. It was shiny blue and gleamed in the sun. A porter, who had a face like the man on the Cream of Wheat box, placed our things in the trunk, and as he took his tip with a smile, we got in.

  Olivia drove slowly and it was a long ride, through streets full of people, some colored, most not.

  Gramma said, “I cain’t wait to get outta this girdle, into a housecoat. Lord have mercy, I hate to be uncomfortable.”

  I looked out of the window, the red rose box in my lap, for ten minutes, according to my real watch. Then I turned and looked at my mama’s sister, Olivia. She had dark brown hair, pressed and perfect, red lips and nails, no other face paint, the whitest teeth, skin the color of a sweet praline, delicate bones, and brown almond eyes that didn’t dance.

  We passed a red streetcar and I looked to see if colored were sitting in the back but I saw a lady with skin so black it was almost purple sitting right behind the driver, and I began to see what Mrs. Redcotton had talked about. We drove past a movie theater but there was no colored entrance, and we passed shops and restaurants, where there were no Whites Only signs. I started to think about the word freedom.

  When the car stopped, we were in front of Aunt Olivia’s house. It was white with green shutters and two stories, and had a brick path, like a house where Mama had once worked in Lake Charles. Olivia called to me and Ruth, and she held our hands while we walked up the steps with her. There were six steps. I know because I counted them.

  A round colored lady, dressed like a housemaid, black dress with a stiff white apron, opened the door. She wore a big smile, a black hair net, no gold teeth, and she called Aunt Olivia “Mrs. Chapel.” She was dark brown and her ears were pierced.

  She said, “Evenin, Mrs. Chapel.”

  Olivia replied, “Evenin, Mrs. Pittman. These are my nieces, Leah and Ruth Hopper.” Olivia turned to Mama and Gramma and continued her introductions. “And my mother, Mrs. Carter, and my sister, Marguerita ... Rita Hopper.”

  “Leah, Ruth, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Hopper, pleased to meet you. I’m called Mrs. Pittman round here, though I ain’t got no mister to speak of.” Mrs. Pittman held the door open and we walked through, into another world.

  While the grown-ups’ minds and eyes were on one another, Ruth and I wandered off. We looked but didn’t touch because everything was too fancy. It seemed like no one touched anything and we weren’t about to start.

  There was a long violet velvet sofa. Two chairs, the color of cream, had threads of gold that made them glisten in the sunlight. In the corner there was one large violet velvet chair with a footrest that matched. Glass lamps with pale yellow shades sat on tables of dark polished wood. The floors were covered with rugs that my feet sank into. There were paintings on the walls surrounded by frames of gold and a staircase with a white banister that curved its way upward. Beauty was everywhere and I liked the way it felt. Ruth took my hand and we smiled at each other as I led her to the foot of the stairs. We looked up, silent, like two cats waiting.

  Mrs. Pittman came up behind us and we almost jumped out of our skins.

  She said, “Y’all must be tired. I’ll show you upstairs to your room so’s you can get freshed up.”

  We walked up those fifteen steps and she took us to a room where everything was pink, including the walls. Mrs. Pittman brought in our traveling bag and left it inside the door. She showed us the bathroom that was attached to the room and it was pink too.

  Mrs. Pittman told us as she stood in the doorway, “Mrs. Chapel fancies pink. Mr. Chapel be home soon and you oughta be dressed, ready for supper by then.”

  She closed the door and we took our shoes off and jumped, like grasshoppers, on the bed that was big enough for two. Ruth went into the bathroom, flushed the indoor toilet, and turned on the water in the tub.

  I made her stop. “We don’t have time for no bath. Change your drawers and wash up in the sink.”

  We washed our faces, necks, arms, legs, and ears with pink washcloths that we were afraid to get dirty, put on clean underpants, white undershirts, never worn, matching lavender dres
ses, clean white socks, and our patent leather shoes. I combed Ruth’s hair, braided it into two braids, then combed and braided mine. We sat on the bed, waiting. We didn’t know what else to do.

  We sat for ten minutes before Mrs. Pittman knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” I said like a lady. Ruth looked at me out of the corner of one eye.

  Mrs. Pittman asked, “Where’s your dirty clothes? I’m gonna wash em.”

  I told her, “We put em in our travlin bag.”

  “They’s called suitcases, not travlin bags.” She opened the suitcase, took out the dirty clothes, and told us to take off the lavender dresses because she was going to press them. We did as we were told.

  I sat on the bed, a living statue, still as could be, but Ruth, who never knew how to be still, got up, opened the door, and looked after Mrs. Pittman the way folks look after a pretty woman on her way to communion. I told her, “Sit down and be still, like we was told.”

  Ruth replied in her sassy way, “Ain’t nobody told us to sit still.”

  “Stop sayin ain’t,” I said.

  Ruth frowned. “Didn’t nobody tell us to sit down and be still, unless you was hearin things.”

  I got weak like a twice-used tea bag and followed Ruth into the hallway.

  We could hear Mama and Gramma across the way and we tiptoed over to their door, our ears pressed close. Ruth sneezed and Mama opened the door and asked, “What in the world y’all doin in your underclothes?!”

  “Mrs. Pittman took our dresses cuz they was wrinkled. That’s why,” I replied.

  Mama said, “Come in quick and close the door.”

  Gramma was on the bed, slip on, girdle off. The ceiling was painted white but there was pasted-on paper with yellow flowers in bloom everywhere else. I sat on the bed next to Gramma, Ruth in a yellow chair by the window.

  Gramma whispered, as if the walls had ears, “Mr. Chapel is a man with a little money.”

  I asked, “How much money?”

  Mama answered, “He’s a well-off man who married Olivia cuz she’s beautiful.”

  Ruth, smiling like she was being tickled from the inside, said, “He married Olivia cuz he pro’bly see’d her dancing half naked at the Cotton Club.” Then Ruth started dancing around the room like a wild pig and Gramma had a fit.

  “Where you heard such nasty nonsense?” she asked Ruth, her voice raised.

  Ruth stopped dancing. “Sister Goodnight,” she replied.

  Gramma pinched Ruth hard enough to make her scream and told her she was going to have to learn to keep her big mouth shut. That’s one thing about Ruth; I loved her but she did have a big mouth.

  Mama said, “Olivia never danced half naked.”

  Ruth rubbed her behind where Gramma had pinched her.

  Someone knocked on the door and Mama said, “Come in.”

  Mrs. Pittman opened the door, lavender dresses swinging on two wooden hangers, and said, “Good evenin. Mr. Chapel’s home and supper’s near ready.”

  We followed her back to the pink room and dressed when she excused herself.

  Ruth said, “Mr. Chapel must be a white man.”

  “No, white cain’t marry colored,” I told her. When Ruth asked me why, I told her, “Cuz.”

  We sat on the big bed, bouncing, singing silly songs, until Mama turned the glass doorknob, opened the door, poked her head in, and told us, “Come on downstairs with me.” She smiled and said, “You sure are two pretty little gals.” That’s what Daddy always called us, pretty little gals.

  Mama had on lipstick, stockings, a red dress, and Sister Goodnight’s real gold earrings, and Ruth and I looked at her for a while because she had her femininity. It must have been something Olivia’s house was full of. Mama walked down the steps with what Elijah would have called a sassy wiggle, me and Ruth on her heels. That was when we saw him.

  He was puffing on a fat cigar, sitting in the violet velvet chair, the newspaper in his lap. He, Mr. Chapel, looked up, smiled, and winked at the same time. He was so handsome.

  I could tell from looking at him that he had some Indian blood. He had clear, dark, red brown skin, black hair, brown eyes, and a shiny, trimmed black mustache. He stood up, taller than my daddy, like a gentleman should, shook Mama’s hand, and introduced himself as Bill, Bill Chapel. I watched and thought that I had never seen my mama, Rita Hopper, look at any man except my daddy the way she was looking at Mr. Bill Chapel. The smooth man Boon crossed my mind.

  He let go of Mama’s hand, patted the tops of our heads, and said, “Sure is nice to have a house fulla beautiful colored women-folk.”

  Aunt Olivia glided in from the dining room, Gramma on her arm, told us dinner was ready, and looked straight into her husband’s twinkling eyes. Mr. Bill Chapel took Mama’s arm and Aunt Olivia didn’t seem to mind. Ruth and I, holding hands again, followed.

  The candlelit dining-room table was set with dishes, matching forks, knives, and spoons, water glasses full of cool water, wineglasses waiting to be filled, and ten white roses in a vase, right in the middle. Ruth and I were given seats across from each other and we looked and peeked around those roses, making faces, most of the evening. The plates were white and Ruth picked hers up, admiring her reflection. Gramma pinched her again.

  Mrs. Pittman, polite and smiling, came around the table, putting food on our plates, and I felt funny inside, being served.

  Mrs. Pittman asked, “Turkey or ham?”

  I said, “Turkey and ham.”

  I looked at Aunt Olivia, who smiled and said, “You must be hungry after that long train ride.”

  Ruth raised her hand and said, “I want ham and turkey too.”

  Mr. Chapel said, “Everybody’s gonna have ham and turkey, whether they want it or not.” Everyone sitting at the table was smiling, and that was when I knew that money was not the root of all evil like Mama and Miss Lutherine were always saying.

  We finished eating, Mrs. Pittman cleared the table without any help from us and gave us each a dish with two scoops of what looked like orange ice cream. Mrs. Pittman saw my question before I could speak and said, “Peach sherbet.”

  Ruth looked around the table. “My nose itches. I smell peaches. Somebody’s coming with a hole in his britches.” I was waiting for Gramma to pinch her again, but Gramma kept smiling as the silver spoon carried the orange delight to her lips.

  I spilled my last spoonful of sherbet on the front of my dress and excused myself from the table, the way Daddy always made us do. I walked up the stairs, through the pink room, into the pink bathroom, and tried to wash the stain from my dress. I scrubbed until the stain was as gone as it was going to be, used the indoor toilet, sat on the bed, and looked around the room. I sat quietly, thinking that I didn’t want to ever leave this house with the big bed, fifteen steps, and white roses.

  I was still thinking when Ruth came in and told me that she had been sent to bed.

  “What you did?” I asked.

  “Nuthin,” Ruth replied.

  “I don’t hardly believe you,” I said.

  I looked at Ruth, her golden eyes, the dark skin, her rust-colored hair, and shook my head. Ruth smiled, knowing I knew the truth, went into the bathroom, put the stopper in the drain, and started running the water. I opened the red rose box, found the lavender bubble water, took the bottle into the bathroom, and poured two capfuls under the running water just like it said.

  I told Ruth, “You take a bath first and be careful not to get your hair wet cuz it’s gonna go back if you do.” I went to get my scarf and when I came back Ruth was in the tub, bubbles everywhere.

  My sister, Ruth Louise, always had a good time. From the time when she was just a little something, no matter what, even after a whipping, Ruth came in smiling. We were different. Always would be.

  I sat on the floor, waiting my turn, but Ruth stayed in the tub so long that I nearly fell asleep and forgot about taking a bath. Ruth got out of the tub and said, “Leah, you ought not go to bed stinkin cuz the sheet
s is clean.”

  Ruth wrapped a pink towel around her, looked at herself in the mirror, smiled, and walked out of the bathroom like she was some kind of Mardi Gras queen or Cleopatra.

  I had one foot in Ruth’s dirty water when she peeked in and said, “Mr. Chapel got enuf water for bout seventeen tubs.” I got in her water anyway. There were still plenty of bubbles.

  I washed good, even my ears. There was a ring in the tub when the water finished draining, so I put soap on the washcloth and wiped it clean. I put on my white cotton nightgown, clean underpants, and the hundred percent silk bed jacket. When I went into the bedroom, Ruth was asleep at the foot of the bed. I went to the other side, turned back the sheet, took off the bed jacket, folded it neatly, and put it on the night table. I kneeled by the side of the bed and asked God to take care of my daddy and to send me a husband like Mr. Chapel. I made the sign of the cross, got into bed, put my head on the pillow, and the sandman took me.

  Six

  When I opened my eyes, Ruth was staring at me, her broad nose touching mine. I almost forgot where I was. Ruth stood up, shook her narrow hips, and said, “Little Leah Hopper, sittin in a saucer. Rise, Leah, rise. Wipe your winkin eyes.”

  “Weepin, not winkin,” I corrected her.

  “So, it don’t matter none no way,” Ruth replied.

  I got up, went to the window, and looked outside. The sun was barely up and the sky was half lit like a room with one candle. I told Ruth to go back to bed.

  She said, “No. I smell bacon, biscuits, and somethin sweet.”

  I didn’t have to take a deep breath to know she was right because my sister, Ruth, had a nose for food. She could stand outside any kitchen and name every dish about to be put on the table. Collard greens, corn bread, every kind of gravy, red beans and rice, fried cabbage, catfish, bread pudding, oxtail soup, black-eyed peas and neck bones, grits, okra gumbo, or peach cobbler. Ruth knew.