Truth is, I don’t feel inclined to be going off on my own and learning in a room full of strangers without Safi. We been doing stuff together ever since she got me on scotch at school and I took to helping her with lessons and chores. I stay put because she’s so keen on it, but I know there ain’t no way I see me sitting with folks like Mr McIntyre and Mr Seymour, taking notes and looking after their business. Can’t see me doing those folks’ bidding at all. I guess I’m more like Mambo than I ever thought. Anyways, I feel glad we got a place learning something, and if I bide my time, that gonna lead to something else. That’s what learning’s like.
Except for Saturdays, soon as we finish our time at the mill, and taking us to church on Sunday, Mrs Archer-Laing keeps herself to herself. That’s the way Errol puts it. And we don’t see much of Agnes Withers, neither. Errol says she’s what he calls ‘a loner’.
‘Them type ain’t gonna be mixing. Since she come here, she ain’t mixing. Just that sorta girl.’
Across the courtyard, other end of Errol’s kitchen, Mrs Archer-Laing’s got a room she works in every weekday on sewing she takes in from folks. She’s a ‘Fine Seamstress’ it says on the board next to that bell-chain out front by her gate. She sure can work up a rhythm on that treadle when she’s flat out and, boy, is she good with a needle, fixing up smart suits of fine cloth like we ain’t never seen.
I’ve already started on all them books she got in our parlour. Them’s mostly what they call classics. I learn that later of course, right then there ain’t none I ever hear of, except Mark Twain, and he sure did write a classic. R.L. Stevenson, Sir Walter Scott, Victor Hugo, Edgar Allan Poe and Henry James. I’m gonna work my way through them all. I already read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer from our travelling book wagon and I ain’t got no preference on them others, so I start up in the left corner, reading What Maisie Knew by Henry James.
That leaves me thinking I’m lucky I just ever gotta deal with my Mambo and her beaux, because Maisie’s ma and pa sure were all over the place and that had her stuck right in the middle of them both. Ain’t right, but she turn out fine. I curl up my worn-out mill bones in the parlour every night till it’s done and I’m nodding off. Next book I read is Treasure Island – that got me up late another few nights, then Kidnapped, then Les Misérables (that so full of rambling, I reckon I get two for one) and a real fine set of short stories with drawings by Edgar Allan Poe. I finish Uncle Tom’s Cabin and turn right back to read it again. Second time round is easier, too. And I cry tears on my own reading about Celia, a slave, and how she buried her master in the hearth ’cause of all his doing to her that she ain’t able to take no more. Well, I know just how she was feeling, and I’m glad I never said a word to anybody about what I did to Seymour, ’cause she ended up swinging.
Course, I’m nearly falling asleep at the mill, and I lose count on how many times that needle poke itself sore into my flesh, drawing blood. Me and Safi keep rags just for soaking it up and wash them every Saturday out back of our yard. She gets a better hold on stitching than I ever do and most of that blood is mine. She keeps me awake at work too and tells me to leave off reading or I’m gonna be outta there.
‘Ya give it a rest, y’hear, or we gonna get hauled up by Li’l Skivvy. I seen him looking our way already, and y’all slacking off with that head full of nothing but reading. He don’t wanna be knowing nothing about no reading, so leave it be.’
If I’m caught slacking we’re both gonna be for it, that’s for sure, and Safi don’t deserve no trouble. I need to be keeping her company more anyways, so we start getting out in the evening, watching folks going about their business in Marksville, or walking over to the mill village where stuff’s always going on. Over there’s what folks call lively. Safi’s keen on being out among folks; she’s from a big family anyways, so down that way suits her fine, but I’m always thinking about what I could be curled up reading instead.
When we find a run-down hardware store at the far end of Marksville selling all kinds of second-hand stuff and giving away all sorts of pamphlets, on a wobbly old trestle table resting out on the sidewalk, Safi takes off right away.
‘Oh no, I’m gonna leave ya right here with all that rubbish, Arletta. Meet me when ya good and done at Coco Corner, about half an hour? I ain’t wanting no books on my day off! I’m gone.’
I hand over a few of my hard-earned cents to buy a big old battered atlas from a table so shaky it near falls over soon as I pick the atlas up. That table’s only holding up ’cause the store boy tied it up with string, and I’m glad he did the same with my atlas. His boss – I guess that’s who he is – catches me fingering a few old shabby pamphlets from the start-up days of the abolitionists and he says them’s free. I ain’t ever had cause for buying much of anything, and I reckon maybe he can see that. He throws in a pamphlet on the war going on in Europe and tells me I oughta be reading up on all them folks perishing in trenches. He bundles them all up with the atlas and I feel about as happy as I’ve ever been with anything, till I catch up with Safi at Coco Corner.
She’s all over the place on account of some white man ordering her off the sidewalk so his kids can see niggers know they need to be making way for white folks.
‘Well, I stood my ground just as long as I’m able to, Arletta, and he gets red as hellfire in the face on it.’
‘Ya did right.’
‘He gets on, huffing and puffing, with folks turning round to see what’s happening. Well, I think I need to be stepping aside for fear them poor kids gonna end up one parent short of a pair, ’cause somebody’s gonna start a fight or he’s gonna give himself a heart attack.’
She sure is mad now, though, for giving up her ground, but she couldn’t stand looking at them kids getting lessons on thinking the same way as their pa. The way I see it, they gotta be thinking that way already. Ain’t right, but that’s how it is. Folks wanting a change to come but sometimes I ain’t so sure on seeing it coming at all.
Mrs Archer-Laing is entertaining a gentleman she calls Monsieur Desnoyers from Quebec. He’s passing notice on every move she makes, so it looks to me like he’s taken a shine to her.
She sees my tied-up bundle from the trestle table and reckons I’ve read my way through the whole bookcase in our back parlour already.
‘Oh no, Miss, not yet.’ Then I think about Mambo always telling me I ain’t to be using up oil for reading after dark. ‘I’m using up lamp oil, I knows it, but I’m gonna pay for it, Mrs Archer-Laing. I will. Just say what I got owing.’
Safi looks like she’s wondering what I got be paying up with.
‘Don’t be silly, Arletta. You read as much as you like, my dear. Next Saturday I’ll let you have a look through the other books. Mr Archer-Laing was an avid reader, you know. There’s an old trunk in the basement you could ask Errol to arrange to be brought up to your room to store your books in if you like. Safi wouldn’t mind that, would you?’
I like the sound of that trunk, but Safi don’t understand books at all.
‘Why ya saying ya gonna be paying for reading, Arletta? Ya wanna be doing scrubbing so ya can be doing reading?’
I guess I was thinking of pulling one of them dollar bills outta the King of England back at Mambo’s, but I ain’t saying nothing. Matter of fact, I need to be fetching him up out of the ground anyways. We been here in Marksville for months and he ain’t got no place being someplace I ain’t.
The mill workers say they wanna be holding what they call a ‘social’ for Christmas coming up, and folks sure do get excited about it, except of course all them bosses strutting about, and Li’l Skivvy. They say the mill ain’t no place for it, and it gotta be down in the mill village. Folks say there ain’t no room down there for no social and Chester comes to tell us we gotta work slow.
Li’l Skivvy gets mad and hauls a couple of men up to see the foreman, and that puts an end to working altogether. The whole place gathers round to look up through the windows of the office on the gantry. Nothing com
es of it, can’t say I rightly follow it all, but next thing we hear is that ‘social’ is set for holding inside one of them empty mill barns and everybody is right cheery about it. Anybody able to get a tune outta anything gets asked if they wanna play and we get told we can bring one guest each. Well, me and Safi ain’t got nobody except Agnes, ain’t no surprise when she says no, and Errol laughs into his chest and says ‘social’s for young folks’.
Our wages don’t go far past our board and lodgings and the few cents I spend on what Safi calls ‘old rubbish’ for reading. She gets on back to her folks more than me, ’cause I still ain’t taken to spending any of my time watching Quince rocking out on my porch in my Pappy’s chair. Safi always leaves something where her ma is able to find it after she’s gone, ’cause her ma’s got pride and don’t take nothing put straight in her hand. And with her still on about saving, Safi gets an earful next time she goes home too. By the time that mill social comes round, we ain’t got much set aside and it’s plain as day, looking through our closet, that we’re both in need of something. All we got hanging in that wardrobe Mrs Archer-Laing was thinking we were gonna fill are worn-out frocks maybe one day showed some kinda pattern, way faded out before we ever seen it.
All them young ladies at the mill gonna put us to shame if we don’t do something about our lack of finery. We ain’t no laughing stock, and I been thankful nobody’s called me Po’bean, but we sure would be struggling to put on any kinda show for a social. Me and Safi ain’t ever buy a stitch of clothes in our lives, we’re still washing and wearing, and don’t know where to start on it. We move our sofa over to the window to see what’s going on up and down Main Street while we talk over the ins and outs of purchasing new clothes.
We tell Mrs Archer-Laing we gotta be cutting short our Saturday chat for trawling through Marksville and Mansura looking at frocks ain’t no way we’re able to afford. Then one shop door is slammed shut as soon as we get spotted looking through the window, and we just about give up on it. A ‘No coloreds’ sign flips over, so we take off for the bus station and the row of seating set aside for us ‘coloreds’. A bunch of young men dancing with nails in their shoes and folks ‘da-da-dadding’ out a tune soon lifts our spirits except, truth be told, by now buying clothes for a social is starting to seem flighty.
Looking at the state of our frocks gets us back to it, but all we got by late that afternoon are a pair of canvas slip-ons with shiny black buttons and a pink hair band each. I see right away the boy selling slip-ons takes a shine to Safi. I catch him setting his eyes on her sideways, and she starts fussing and flushing all over. They end up smiling and giggling at one another like a fine pair of clowns.
With the price of everything, we start worrying we ain’t gonna have nothing fit for a social at all. Then, in the nick of time, as folks say, and just when they’s already starting to pack up, we see something on one of them nickel-and-dime stalls in the market. Something we’re able to afford, anyways. We get ourselves a brand new shift made outta thin cotton each, and that’s the first stitch of clothes me and Safi ever wore that never got handed down from someplace. Safi gets a pink one that matches her hair band and I have to get a lemon one because of how tall I’m growing, it looks like it’s the only one gonna fit. We’re about as happy as we ever been and laughing over how that lemon frock is gonna clash with my pink hair band. Buying new clothes sure feels good, like we ain’t got a care in the world. Errol feeds us rabbit stew and yellow corn biscuits he’s been keeping warm for us. Tastes fine.
Soon as our bellies are full, we wash down in the tub and put on our new cotton frocks. With our new hair bands and slip-ons we look like we’re gonna pass fit for that social. Safi says she’s gonna buy a lipstick.
‘Ain’t nobody buying them card pots, they’re outta fashion. Colouring comes in a stick now. I see them sirens with lipsticks.’
That’s what we call all them young ladies at the mill since I started my classic reading from the bookcase.
She pretends she’s pasting a stick of coloured grease on her lips and we end up sore with laughing, thinking we’re young ladies.
‘Ya gonna be smokin’ next Safi. I can see ya gonna be just like one of them sirens.’
‘Sure will be. I’m gonna be smoking cigarettes just like this. Look.’
Safi walks the floor with a wiggle Mambo’s gonna be right proud of. Reckon that’s where she got it from.
Right then I catch myself in the mirror. Mambo’s always telling me how I grew up pretty and don’t even know it. She’s keen on saying we’re like two peas in a pod too, so I ain’t ever been sure about wanting to know it. This is the first time I see a mirror say she’s right. I ain’t ever seen it before now, so I reckon lemon got to be my colour. By the time Safi buys that lipstick she sure is gonna be doing something for men with that wiggle of hers too. Wiggling works fine on men. But I get my head outta that mirror fast on account of feeling like I’m gonna pass right out. I ain’t wanting no pretty face telling no men it’s fine to come at me for nothing. No way. I’ve had enough of men to last me a lifetime.
‘Hush ya mind chile, with that thinking, ya’s the one gonna be all right. Hush now.’
‘Nellie?’
‘Hush chile. It’s gonna be all right.’
‘What ya say?’ Safi is still pretending she’s blowing siren smoke and tossing her head like she’s been doing it all the days of her life. I’d go as far as to say she’s a natural.
‘Nothing. Ain’t nothing …’
‘Who’s Nellie, then?’
‘That’s one of them sirens. Ya put me in mind of her, ya just like her, Safi.’
I ain’t heard Nellie’s voice since I don’t know when and I’m wondering why I’m hearing it now, even if it’s just a whispering. But she says I’m gonna be all right and that takes the fear of looking fine right outta me. I got my strength and I used it good. If I need to be using it again, well, that ain’t gonna be nothing.
‘I hope that Nellie is getting ready for the competition,’ Safi says. ‘Look at us. Heads gonna turn, Arletta.’
‘They sure will if ya get a hold of that lipstick.’
‘Uh huh. And ya gonna be the prettiest picture there wearing it too Arletta.’
I ain’t.
Errol hires a cart and takes Mrs Archer-Laing with her big suitcase all the way to the new depot in Plaquemine. She’s off visiting her kin, and he ain’t happy she’s gonna be sailing the ocean in winter when war’s getting worse in Europe. We hear all the menfolk over there been called up for fighting and ain’t much chance of them getting home again neither. He’s back in time for serving crusty meat pie with fried beans and onion. Our evening class breaks up for Christmas and that old trunk gets hauled upstairs outta Mrs Archer-Laing’s basement so my growing heap of printed pamphlets and shabby books have someplace Safi ain’t falling over them and cussing. Soon as I see it’s got a padlock, I set my mind on bringing the King of England to Marksville.
We find out what a social is all about. Music plays on and on, and me and Safi learn dancing alongside them sirens till my feet sure are worn out and it’s long past midnight. Ain’t nobody wait to be asked up for dancing like Mrs Archer-Laing said it was gonna be like at all. Nobody knows who’s dancing with who half the time, and it don’t seem to matter neither.
Everybody is talking about jazz and the fresh-faced happy jailbird up from New Orleans playing trumpet on the makeshift stage Chester and his pals fixed up. Gossip says that trumpet player’s got a ma working as a prostitute down in Storyville, and even though he sure is tiny and I’m just about the tallest girl in the place, he’s got the happiest smile I’ve ever seen and he keeps it looking my way half the night. I smile back like we’re long-lost pals ’cause dancing sure does make me feel nice. I’m hoping it don’t have me looking like I’m foolish too. Chester does a fine turn with his nailed boots, I reckon he’s full of liquor, and I find out why my own Mambo was gadding off to have herself a good time when she was ju
st about my age.
The mill shuts down for Christmas after that, so me and Safi get on home to our folks.
We get off the bus and I see Madame Bonnet must be visiting Mambo. Ain’t nobody else gonna be out this way in a brand new crimson velvet trap looking about as out of place as any damn thing could. Tout de suite is looking mighty pleased with himself, and wearing a smart new tunic.
‘Braiding and epaulettes, Miss Arletta. That’s what they call these. Epaulettes.’
He looks fine, real smart, and I tell him so.
‘Bien. Merci beaucoup, Miss Arletta, you a fine sight too. Good to see you ’ome.’
‘Stop calling me Miss Arletta. I ain’t no Miss.’
Madame Bonnet has a broom out on our porch and dust is flying all over the place. That’s enough to tell me something ain’t right. Mambo’s right fussy who touches her broom on account of it being what she uses for pointing at folks and pounding the earth up at Lamper Ridge mule barn.
‘What’s happened Madame? Mambo okay?’
‘Arletta? Mon dieu. Viens, un plaisir seein’ you ’ome, ma chérie. Bon. You come. Mambo need la joie, le bon mot. Elle est très fatiguée avec l’enfant. L’enfant come soon. You help, non?’
Madame’s brushing out our cabin best she can I s’pose, but it’s easy to see she gotta be better at something else to get her that brand new fancy trap, because dust is flying up one minute and falling back down the next. Looks like Mambo ain’t doing so good since it’s near her time, she’s all sour-faced and droopy-eyed. Don’t seem like my Mambo at all. Soon as Madame takes her leave, I get down to proper cleaning and cheering Mambo up.
‘Mambo, I been thinking ya oughta paint this cabin.’ All that newspaper’s been up so long it’s turned yellow and peeling off all over. It don’t feel much like Pappy’s cabin these days and now Quince is living there and got work, he oughta be putting something aside for doing stuff round the place. Ain’t right he don’t seem to be doing nothing at all.
What the River Washed Away Page 11