“I am hungry, Mrs. Annie May.”
“Give me a few minutes.”
After she walked out, I told him, “Willie, I hadn’t planned on staying here.”
“I want you to be happy. Seems like yo’ momma enjoy you here, and she is getting up in age.”
“Willie, I really don’t know.” I knew that owning a piece of land was a big deal for coloreds, who had not received anything in the land of plenty. But living in the country did nothing for me.
“We can open our own club, if you want,” he commented. A memory from the night at the joint flashed in my mind. In a panic, I wondered how long had he been in town. “When did you get in town?”
He avoided answering me. “Ain’t you surprised? I came, got the land, and came straight over here.”
“I don’t know.”
“I want you to be happy. Bessie Smith done did the town. You sound like her, Pearl, and peoples want something different. Just sing round here, maybe travel to D.C. sometimes. You can have yo’ own place right here with yo’ family.”
Everywhere I sang, people would often comment that I reminded them of Bessie Smith. No matter how much I tried to sing the blues my way, everyone said the same thing.
“Let me think about all this, Willie.”
“Do you think Mrs. Annie May will let me stay here with you for a little while?”
I hesitated. “This is my parents’ place, Willie, I don’t know.”
“You’s my wife.”
Moments later, Momma walked into the family room. “I guess you gonna stay with us tonight. Come on in the kitchen and get you something to eat.”
A conniving look beamed across Willie’s face.
That night we lay in the bed beside one another, barely touching. It was quiet and pitch black. The only light around came from the moon high among the stars, casting a shadow through the thin curtain hanging across the windowpane. Willie reached over to put his arms around my waist, and I scooted away.
He moved closer. “Come on, gurl, you my wife.” He grabbed my breast and fondled my nipple, even though I elbowed him twice.
“I can’t tonight, Willie.”
He didn’t let my breast go. “Please, Pearl,” he begged.
“I can’t right now,” I said, and moved closer to the edge of the bed.
“Look what you do to me, gurl,” he said, referring to his swollen manhood.
“Go to sleep,” I told him.
“It’s been so long.”
“Willie, give it some time.”
Groaning, he rolled aside at last and tossed and turned the entire night.
My daddy appreciated having Willie in Jefferson. Willie rose early every morning and helped around the house, tending to the garden and picking tobacco on a farm nearby, coming home at night with blisters and bloody fingers from pulling and twisting the tobacco. At other times he did odd jobs.
With Willie in Jefferson, I could not see Herman. So after a week of Willie getting up early in the mornings and dressing in country overalls to go with my daddy to work, I got dressed, too.
I took the path down the road behind the Watsons’ property and through the trees to the joint.
Herman was sitting at the bar. He had a drink in his hand and a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. His eyes were red and he was shaking his legs as he did whenever he had something on his mind.
“What’s wrong with you, Herman?”
He was startled by my voice. “Ain’t nothing wrong with me. Why do something have to be wrong with me?”
He seemed spooked, like he’d seen a ghost. “Why are you being so short with me?”
“Woman, please…”
“Why are you shaking?”
“I got stuff on my mind, Pearl. I’m tired of the damn questions.”
The fear hadn’t left his face, so I coaxed him. “Something isn’t right. You drinking early in the morning. Talk to me, Herman. We used to share everything.”
He pushed my hand away. “Like I said, I don’t wants to talk about it.”
CHAPTER 19
CARRIE
For three days, I couldn’t eat. Every time I thought of what had happened, I became nauseated. I found it hard to concentrate on anything, fearful of my own self. Scared that even my family would turn their backs and abandon me. I didn’t know what to do or who to talk to. I had no place to hide. I walked around ashamed, my eyes lowered to the ground. I had managed to stay out of the way of Momma’s husband, knowing the sight of him would only heighten my anxiety. I found it hard calling him mister. Mister was used to show respect to men. How could I say mister to him?
Momma knew something was wrong. Each night she would pound on my door until I answered her. “Come on and eat ’fore the food get cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, don’t let me catch you in the kitchen later on. We eat together.”
I had not eaten with the two of them since Mr. Camm stole my precious virginity from me. It was something that I’d always felt good about. Most of the girls my age had slept with boys, and even had children. My first time was going to be with someone special. Simon. Many times when the heat traveled throughout my loins and Simon felt the bulge of his own cravings, we’d stop. Marriage would be our permission to continue and finish.
I wasn’t sure if I could control the deep-felt resentment I had for my mother and stepfather. First, Momma for inviting him into our home, and then Mr. Camm for being the cold, thieving, lowlife he was. Why didn’t she leave him? Why did she need to have a man around?
I managed to mask my rage by making myself scarce, spending most of my time in my room, either reading, or writing or even praying. When I heard their voices, I drowned them out with my own. I would read out loud in my room, hum, anything to filter out Mr. Camm’s voice. I could not stand it. If I didn’t resist it, I knew that my rage would soon take over. The evidence remained on my thighs and breasts, bruises that I hid well underneath my long dresses.
Making sure that no one else was around, I grabbed two dry biscuits on the stove and poured some syrup on them. I ate one of them as I walked up the path to school and saved the other one for lunch. Every time I thought about what happened to me, my eyes would fill with tears. The warm breeze dried the tears that slid down my face, but the emotional scars would remain forever. I concentrated on the birds and the trees and Mr. Penn’s apple trees as I passed his house. I held my head up as high as my conscience would allow. I tried hard to not think of how much I despised Momma’s husband.
All my life, I’d been recognized by the church folk and others for my smile. I never let too much get me down. I had learned to take one day at a time. Never force things to happen, let things take their natural course.
I tried to focus on Simon, but the thoughts brought more tears to my eyes. What had I done to him? I wished that I had been born in a different family. First, I’d found out that I was adopted. Now this. What more could I take? Simon would understand, I tried to tell myself. If I could get through the next school term, then I’d leave.
At school, I isolated myself from Hester and Anna long enough to clear my head and refocus. During the breaks, I sat under the pine tree and hoped that they didn’t bother me. I needed their company, but I wasn’t ready to open up to them.
“Tell me what’s wrong with you,” Hester insisted, tugging my arm for attention. I wanted to share everything with her, but what would she think of me? Hester and I had similar expectations. We wanted more.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
“Well, you sure don’t look like it. You look like you lost your best friend.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said, and Hester shook her head in disagreement.
I didn’t go to Anna’s. Instead, I walked home with Hester. I couldn’t go straight to my house. Mrs. Ferguson was demanding more and more of Momma’s time. She was coming home late a few times a week. I only had one evening chore, and it was the dishes. Then Momma would be ho
me to protect me.
“Did something happen between you and Simon? You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” Hester asked once we were in her room. All the way home, she would glance at me, wanting me to talk. And I couldn’t because I felt ashamed and overburdened.
“I don’t have much to say.”
“Carrie, I’ve never known you to be this quiet. How are things at home? Is that man still messing with you? Talk to me.” My heart ached to release it all, but I couldn’t find the words. I bit my lower lip and wiped the water creeping out the side of my eye.
“Have you started your homework?” I managed to say. “Mrs. Miller wants us to turn it in on Friday.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m okay.”
Hester and I lay across her bed and did our homework. When I started home, I had just enough time to get there before the sun slid beneath the horizon.
Mr. Camm was standing in the kitchen when I arrived. He gazed at me as usual, but this time it was different. I stood and looked him square in the eyes. I dared him to cross the line.
With his chest deflated, he turned and walked away with a make-believe grin on his face.
Tears beat my pen to the paper when I tried to write Simon. I couldn’t find the words to say much. I managed to do what he normally did when he wrote me. Be brief. I told him that I missed him; I was well and hoped to see him soon. Then I licked the envelope and put it with the rest of the mail Momma had Carl take to the post office. I couldn’t bother Simon with my problems anyway. He needed to concentrate on his game.
Pretty soon school would be out and I longed for Simon to pay me a visit. I had to find something to do during the summer, because I refused to be left in the house alone again with Mr. Camm.
On the way home from school the next day, I paid a visit to Mrs. Ferguson. She was not only the white lady Momma worked for, but along with the reverend, Momma occasionally sought her advice on matters of business. Momma knew that Mrs. Ferguson had some snobbish Southern ways, but she’d gotten used to them over the years. Mrs. Ferguson had even sought her advice in turn a time or two. They had a degree of respect for each other that went beyond a boss lady and worker relationship. Momma admired people of stature; people she believed were doing positive things. She admired Hester’s parents, the reverend, and the Fergusons, and she looked down her nose at those she felt were doing the opposite, like the owner of the juke joint, the bootleggers and whores. She especially admired Mr. Ferguson, who had been able to provide well for his wife, despite not having the money of his father-in-law.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Ferguson said from her back door.
I stood in her kitchen.
“What’s going on, Carrie?”
“Mrs. Ferguson, I’m ready to work. I was hoping you had something I could do in the evenings after school.”
“Mae Lou has been doing it all for me. She really doesn’t need any help, since she comes more than once a week.”
I persisted. “I thought maybe you knew somebody.”
“Well, I know Mrs. Gaines was looking for someone to help her. Now, I can’t guarantee anything, but she was looking awhile ago.” She nodded her head slowly. “You stop by there on your way from school tomorrow, and tell her I sent you. And make sure you go to the back door.” Always the back door, I thought. Despite that, I was grateful for her recommendations but frustrated that I had to do something I never ever wanted to do—clean for a living.
Momma was sitting at the table when I got home, staring out the window. For once she wasn’t busy. It had been a long time since I’d studied her face. Her eyes were sunk deep in her head and darkened by a sadness, similar to the time when Papa had been sick. I wasn’t sure if it was loneliness or pain from living with such a cold son of a bitch.
Momma had never liked for her children to wander too far from home. Even when it came to working, she felt that there was more than enough to do around the farm to occupy time. Making money was always secondary to her. As long as we were fed and clothed, there wasn’t a need for us to work. She had said, “There will be plenty time for working once you finish your schooling,” so I knew that I had to convince her that I needed a job away from home.
I sat down at the table. “Momma, it’s almost time for me to go away to college.” I was feeling uneasy about talking to a woman who’d nurtured and raised me my entire life.
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s about time that I make my own wages. John told me how much everything costs and it’s real expensive.”
For the last year our crop had not been real good and Momma wasn’t making much profit. She needed money, although she’d die before admitting it. Carl managed to make enough for us to survive during the winter months, but not much over that. Mr. Camm was no good to us.
“Chile, stop beating around the bush, and tell me what you wants,” she said.
“I want to work this summer. I can help pay my own way to school.”
“What about your chores around the house here? I still need your help. Money ain’t er’rythang.”
“Momma, I’ll get up early, and feed the hens, and gather the eggs before I leave in the morning.”
“Where is a teenager gonna get a job ’round here?”
“I stopped by Mrs. Ferguson’s and she knows someone who needs some light housekeeping.”
“Now’s you know better’n go involving Mrs. Ferguson in our business.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But I’ve got to admit it, you’re moving in the right direction.”
I was too frightened anyway to go out to the henhouse when she was gone. I had daydreamed about killing Mr. Camm. I hated him with a deep-felt passion I’d never experienced before and imagined if he ever attempted to attack me again, he wouldn’t live to see the break of another day.
“I think you are old ’nough to make your own money. I started wo’kin when I was much younger than you. I’s didn’t even get paid. Lord, times have changed.” She shook her head and grinned. “Now don’t go letting folk down that help you. They won’t ever help ya again.”
I smiled at Momma for the first time since the rape and said, “Thank you.”
Even though the air was crisp, delight was everywhere. Everyone crowded around John and Uncle Joe, Papa’s brother, as if they were celebrities of some sort. Country people are like that. John looked like he owned the college. In less than a year, he’d managed to adapt the sophistication of a citified colored man. He sported a freshly starched white shirt and dress trousers with a thin cuff in the bottom. His mustache was shaped around his lips and his hair was neat. And when he spoke, the words seemed to flow from his lips like a stream of water.
College must be good for him, I thought.
A year or more had passed since we’d seen Uncle Joe. He was the spitting image of Papa. Uncle Joe, although he was close to forty, still looked like a ladies’ man, dark and stately with an air of sophistication. His hair was slicked back and his shoes gleamed from a recent shoe shine. The government had been good to him. At first he worked as a porter, but he didn’t like the road, and the way the train shook made him sick to the stomach. Then he started cleaning up in a government building near the Capitol. He moved up to the head of the maintenance department. Papa always said that he was good with his hands.
“Lord, Joe, we are glad you came,” Momma said, eyes wide at the sight of him.
“Mae Lou, I had to make it to my nephew’s wedding. Besides, he needed someone to stand in for his daddy. I couldn’t miss it.” He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, I am happy you made it,” she said again, grinning.
“Mr. Camm sure can’t fill Papa’s shoes,” I whispered to John. He nodded ruefully.
Mr. Camm stood close, soaking in everything he could. His eyes had become dark and sinister, which was inappropriate for such a happy occasion. I stayed well out of his reach.
Uncle Joe and John put their things in the boys
’ old room. As I was fixing to go and help Momma in the kitchen, John knocked on my bedroom door.
He dropped down on my bed like old times.
“Is Hester coming?”
“Maybe…Why do you need to know, anyways?”
“Well, we’re friends,” he said, shoving me playfully on the bed.
Teasing, I said, “Maybe she has someone else now.”
“Come on now. We’re still close. I know about that boy in your class. She sent me a letter or two.”
“By the way, bro, does she know about that girl you wrote me about from New York?”
“Now, I told you that girl and I are just friends. There was no need to worry Hester with that. Besides, in college, everybody sticks close, because the work is so difficult.” I shook my head in disbelief.
“I’m leaving you to wonder about Hester. I’m going in the kitchen with Momma,” I said, and slapped him on the arm.
Momma was standing over the stove stirring a sauce when I entered the kitchen. The aroma of sweets and greens cooking excited my nostrils. She told me to continue stirring while she shoved the rice pudding in the oven. My mouth salivated with the thought of tasting everything she was preparing.
“I need you to mind the kitchen while I walk with your uncle and Mr. Camm over to Carl’s,” she said. While she was gone, I finished adding the eggs, cream, and flavorings to the cake mixture. I’d known how to cook since I was a little girl. Momma had insisted I pay attention, telling me, “Don’t no man want to marry a woman who can’t cook.”
Mary knocked on the door. She was carrying a box with two butter pound cakes in it. As she stood there in the sunlight, her glow radiated throughout the room.
“Momma baked these this morning,” she said, handing me the cakes. She sat down, still smiling.
“Would you like some coffee?” I offered.
“No, thank you, I didn’t plan on staying long. I’ve got so much to do.”
“Is Simon coming home for the wedding?” I asked.
Her face softened at my concern. “We don’t know, can’t never tell about him. He likes to surprise us, always keeps us on edge. He hasn’t written in a while. But Momma wrote him and so did I,” Mary answered.
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