Black, White, Other

by Joan Steinau Lester

  “No.” Sarah leaned against the bony old man for a moment, then ran to the woods to find the bowl. She dug with a stick in the place she was sure she’d buried it, where she’d put two rocks to mark the spot. Nothing was there. Had someone else watched her, followed her into the woods, dug it up, and taken it away? Desperate to find the bowl, she’d dug holes all around the small clearing, moving farther and farther from the spot where she was sure she’d dug. Suddenly, she saw the two rocks, placed exactly as she remembered. Frantically, she dug until her stick hit something hard. She tapped it, poking the hard, dry dirt with her stick until she could scoop out handful after handful and finally reach in and pull out the gourd. Scraping it as clean as she could, she carried it back to the quarters, walked triumphantly into the little cabin Jeremiah shared with eight others, and placed it into his welcoming hands.

  Later, she thought miserably, having the bowl didn’t help, didn’t bring her family any closer. What would?

  “When that old chariot comes, I’m going to leave you. I’m bound for the promised land, friends, I’m going to leave you.” The old words pounded in her head. But now the promised land meant Washington, D.C.

  At night she joined with others singing, and knew that now, when she had a chance, she’d be following the North Star and that old gourd to freedom. The words rang in her mind: “Daughter, you work with what you got.” What she had was two strong legs that could carry her north. Her mother and father had not been able to save themselves; she wasn’t going to let herself get sold the way they had. Her spirits rose. Though restrictions tightened every day, her heart began to beat in a new way. She had a spring in her steps.

  Weeks passed. She looked for opportunities. Will this be the day? she asked herself when she set out to shuck corn. Or tonight, she wondered when she joined others stuffing a mattress with the corn shucks.

  Soon, she thought, while she and Ruth hoed a small garden of cabbages, collards, and turnips, next to the shingled cabins. When? she tried to guess, but she did not yet know. Although about to join a mass exodus, she did not yet see the path.

  On Christmas Day Sarah joined the children, laughing, as they pulled syrup candy. During the week of feasting, she lay under her quilt of bright-blue squares in the afternoons, and though icy wind blew through cracks in the cabin walls, she was at peace.

  Her world looked the same, but her soul had shifted. She would be going north. And it would be soon. The joy of freedom filled her soul.

  She still dashed off hungry in the morning to the faraway fields, rushing to get there before the bullwhip began to fall. When the lower field flooded again, Sarah, with a gang of others, did the heavy, messy work of draining and clearing it.

  She sped through the days; her muscles ached and spasmed, her back pulled, and by night she couldn’t lift her arms to carry water from the spring or build a pitch-pine fire. But inside, slavery fell away.

  As it shredded, she began to hear news that pointed a way. Of a specific cook on a plantation five or six nights’ walk north, who hid refugees under the kitchen floor. Of lanterns and bells that signaled safe houses. And rumblings of northerners planning to end slavery altogether.

  It wouldn’t be long. She had to wait. And now she knew that when the right time came, she would recognize it. She didn’t know how, but she felt sure something would push her and pull her, and it would simply feel right. Her ship could ride to glory over calm seas. Sarah Armstrong understood that she was getting the call; her soul was settling. She would make it all the way to Washington—without a doubt.

  CHAPTER 11

  Something would push her and pull her, and it would simply feel right. How long it’s been since I’ve felt that way. Where’s my miracle, my message from God? Why have I been left to do everything on my own?

  At Montgomery Station in San Francisco I bump my suitcase up the stairs to the street and try to appear normal, like I know exactly where I’m going, even though I’ve never been to the Transbay Terminal before. Inside, it’s dark and dirty. People race by; stained concrete barriers block off whole sections. Since I don’t see the ticket window, I ask a tall, smelly old man stretched out on a bench, “Where do I buy a bus ticket?”

  He gives me a slow look, then props himself up on one elbow. “Wanna me … me want … to show you, baby?” His words slur, and when he reaches toward me, he rolls off the bench and tumbles at my feet, giving me more than enough of a whiff. I hold my breath and back up, until I bump into a woman with a head wrap sitting on an ancient black suitcase. “Sorry,” I say. Bundles spill around her while three small children play nearby. She seems safe.

  “The office is over there, in the corner.” She lifts a skinny finger and points to a Greyhound window, where a light shows that it’s open. I thank her and walk away, checking behind me to make sure the old man stays put. “Where to?” the clerk asks sourly.

  “San Luis Obispo,” I say confidently, knowing I have time to spare. “The ten thirty bus.” It’s a seven hour and ten minute ride, according to the schedule, plus Fran told me I’ll have to take a half-hour taxi ride to her place, so I’ll arrive tonight. And I’ll be far away from all my problems.

  “That line’s not running today.” He looks up and narrows his eyes. “It’s the strike.”

  “The strike?” I repeat numbly.

  “Yeah, the drivers’ union shut down all California trips today.”

  “What? When will the strike stop? When will the bus go to San Luis Obispo?” I try to keep breathing.

  “Tomorrow morning, same time, best we know.” He’s still squinting at me. I hope I appear older, tall as I am. I smeared on some lipstick and eye shadow while I was on BART as a precaution.

  The clerk presses a buzzer and lifts an arm, signaling, it looks like, to someone back in the shadows of the room. “Next,” he says, turning to the man behind me.

  I walk to the center of the station, shaking, while people rush past. Where can I go until tomorrow? One girl in a long skirt keeps stretching out her arms to catch a baby who’s running, shrieking. The girl, who doesn’t look any older than me, practically trips on her long hem. I’m watching them when a small woman strolls up to me. She glides like a dancer. “Lost?” Her skin is dark, a purple-black, and she stands completely straight with her shoulders way back. Her eyes are dark and shining, beaming up at me while she waits for me to answer.

  “No,” I finally say.

  “Where are you off to?”

  I tighten my mouth, the way I’ve seen Mom do when she doesn’t want to talk.

  “That’s all right,” she says smoothly.

  I pull back and hear Mom: Nina, don’t talk to her. The voice sounds so real I turn around. Even though Mom treats me like a child, at this second I wish she were here, just for a minute, to get rid of this creepy little woman.

  “Don’t be frightened. My name is Imani.” She extends her tiny hand. “I’m a social worker.”

  I pull back.

  “Imani Hairston. I help runaway kids.” She drops her arm, smiling, then sweeps her arm around the room. “Doin’ my job, looking for runaways before they get in real trouble.”

  “I’m not a runaway. I’m on my way to a friend’s.” Tears cloud my eyes.

  Her face stays calm and kind. “Right. A ‘friend’s’“ she starts. “I’m here to help out. Especially young sisters.”

  “I’m not your sister!” Even here I can’t get out of my black-and-white world.

  “Really?” She looks amused. “All right,” she says soothingly. “You know you’ve got to go home. Even-tu-ally.” She draws out the word and looks at me expectantly.

  I shake my head. Not with Dad ready to murder me, and no friends, anyway. “I’m going to San Luis Obispo.” I jiggle my suitcase for emphasis.

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  I’m struck mute; I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to tell her the truth either.

  “You’re going home, young lady. Soul sister or not
.”

  Who does she think she is? She can’t boss me around. And why is she pestering me about running away? I am planning to visit Fran, so she has no reason to grill me.

  “You can’t run away, you know, blaming everybody else for your story. Trust me, sister, I can tell these things.”

  What is she talking about? I smile in a fake way, like she’s a crazy woman I’m trying to humor, and take a step back.

  “Oh, you think you have it tough with your sorry little story,” she says, leaning toward me. “Whatever it is. You haven’t seen anything, sister, until you are out on these streets. Now that’s tough.”

  I start to walk away, pulling my case. Don’t I have any rights? I have money I have a safe destination, I’m just waiting to take the bus, is all. She can’t keep me.

  “Young lady,” she says loudly. “If you need help at home, we have services. Tell me—”

  I keep scrambling through the crowd, even though I hear her calling, “Wait!” Soon she’s behind me, talking to the back of my head. “Young lady, you are going directly, as in right now, back to your life, wherever that is. You are not going to land on these mean streets, not on my watch. And they are mean.”

  She’s giving me the creeps. “You are going back the way you came,” I hear her say while I’m moving fast. I weave between people, knocking over luggage and crashing against a stroller, until I turn the corner that leads to the bathroom. In case she’s still behind me, I rush into the women’s room, hide in a stall, and climb on the toilet, like in a movie. Then I wait, panting. One person flushes a toilet. Afterward I hear water running in the sink and heavy footsteps plodding out of the restroom. Still, I stay up on the toilet, crouched down. I got away, I think proudly, forgetting all about my telltale green suitcase on the floor until it’s too late. But it doesn’t matter. When I finally peek out from the stall, the bathroom is empty.

  For an hour I hang out in the bathroom. Whenever anyone comes in, I pretend I’m going into a stall or about to wash up. Finally, after my hands are so clean they’re puckering, I tuck my chin into my chest and run to the nearest exit.

  With twenty-four hours to kill until the bus tomorrow morning, I’m not sure which way to go once I leave the terminal. I turn from side to side, hoping a refuge will catch my eye. Instead I see a pack of men in black leather jackets milling around by motorcycles parked at a bike rack at the curb. A couple of them, sitting on their bikes, gun the motors. “Where you going with that bright-green suitcase, pretty lady?” one calls out. “Hey, wanta take me along on the trip? Hop on.”

  I try to get away from them and head up Market Street, but a biker follows me, whistling, and soon I hear another man join him. “We want to go too,” I hear behind me. Both of them are half walking their bikes, with their legs on the ground. “Take us with you. We’ll have a good time!” Snickers follow the statement.

  Now they’re on either side, hemming me in. I stare straight ahead, walking faster, but I can smell them: greasy leather and sour wine. “We’ll take you anyplace you want to go,” the one on the left says. His stench drifts over me. Out of the corner of my eye I see him: the guy’s so skinny he hardly fills half his black leather jacket.

  I keep walking up Market toward Civic Center, trying to ignore them; maybe I can make it to the main library and hide inside until tomorrow, or if the strike isn’t over then, until the next day.

  “Come on,” one pleads. “You’re too good-looking to be walking around alone.”

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend? I could fill in,” the one on the right says, and laughs. He’s older, with tattoos on his neck and even his wrists, which poke out from his jacket.

  His hand brushes my back.

  “I’ll be your boyfriend today,” he whispers, and I try not to shudder.

  The hand moves to my leg, and I feel his hot, boozy breath on the side of my neck. “Now.” He leans around to my face and leers, swaying.

  I gag.

  “Come with us.” He growls. “Tiger, scratch me.”

  I look around, trapped between the motorcycles. Won’t someone help? Their noisy motors sputter, spewing fumes. The man on the right keeps reaching his hand out to touch me. Each time I barely duck away from him, and I can’t take any air into my lungs.

  “You’re my tiger cub,” I hear him growl again, and then the roar of both motorcycles as they rev up the motors.

  Suddenly, I act fast, like Sarah would. “Stop it!” I yell, whirl, and run back the way I came, bumping my suitcase.

  “Oh, chases, I like chasing girls,” the skinny one howls.

  I spin, ram my luggage in front of his wheel—which stops him short—then tug and flee into an open Nordstrom’s door. I stagger into the bathroom on the fourth floor and slump inside a stall, not bothering to lift my feet. What am I going to do, spend the day and the night in bathrooms? It’s only ten in the morning. I sit on the closed toilet seat, trembling, wishing I’d never come to San Francisco. Where can I hide for twenty-four hours? I pull out my phone to text Fran about the strike—but no, it’s dead. Darn! I left my charger at home.

  Finally, I gather my courage. Venturing out, I scoot up Market Street toward Civic Center, and when I don’t see any motorcycle guys I let myself wander, checking out store windows, dodging a couple of guys drinking out of paper bags. But they’re harmless, like the men who sit on crates, nodding, holding up cardboard signs asking for change. I turn and wave to one old guy. “God bless you,” he calls out as I pass him.

  If it were only that easy.

  A concrete ledge by a bank looks like a good resting spot while I try to come up with an idea about where to spend the rest of the day and, more significantly, the night; I climb up and sit on the ledge, swinging my legs, listening to a saxophone hit the high notes and watching people drop money—coins and a couple of fluttering dollar bills—into a soft blue-velvet case. Pigeons peck on the ground below me, jerking their heads up and down. When I tear off a piece of bread from a sandwich I packed and throw it to them, they peck, peck, peck before they flap away. It’s peaceful here on the ledge, and for the moment I calm down, with the pigeons pecking and jazz notes wafting into the air. The music reminds me of Mom, with her jazz or soul playing constantly.

  Soon four girls who look about sixteen or seventeen saunter by, laughing. I wonder where they’re going and why they aren’t in school. Two are white, I’m pretty sure, and two are definitely black, with long, dark dreads shot through with red highlights. They all have their arms around each other and look like they’re having a good time. Was Mom right, that after ninth grade things get better? “Social life is more fluid,” she said. “Not as exclusive.”

  I won’t last till then.

  After I finish the first of my three cheese sandwiches, I stroll toward Civic Center. The plaza there is a nice open space where people hang out. But when I get to the corner of Taylor Street, something tugs me across and off to the right, and soon I’m headed up Taylor. After meandering up the hill for a few blocks, I notice Glide Memorial Church over to my left, on Ellis Street. Should I head over there? The church, where I went to services a few times last year with my dad, is known for welcoming everybody, from homeless people with AIDS to politicians who live on Nob Hill. The congregation looks like the UN, and they have a great choir too. The service was jammed every Sunday we went, back before my parents split up. I might even score a meal there.

  No, for some reason I want to keep heading uphill. Stretching my legs feels good. Is that what’s drawing me up the steep slope?

  After twenty minutes my calf muscles are feeling the climb and my left shoulder throbs from the effort of dragging my suitcase up the hill. I’m about to turn back when that “something” nudges me to turn my head left. I instantly see what drew me here: Grace Cathedral, thrusting its spires into the sky. That awesome Gothic cathedral is why I’ve come. My parents brought Jimi and me here a couple years ago, once for an organ concert and once for Linda Tillery’s Cultural Heritage Cho
ir, where five women sang Negro spirituals—that’s what they called them—and other old songs. The drums reverberated off the incredibly high stone arches, which my parents said are built like Notre Dame, and I remember how peaceful the whole vast sanctuary felt, even with the energy of the music bouncing around.

  I bump my suitcase up a few flights of stone steps and face a glowing bronze door, double paneled, gigantic like everything about this place. It’s covered with raised figures—biblical scenes, maybe. The Gates of Paradise, a small sign says. As I step inside, light floods the stained glass windows that fill every arch, sprinkling intricate designs—blue, red, gold—over the yellow stone floor. There’s a hush, even with a couple of tour groups tiptoeing around the huge stone labyrinth in the lobby, which is paved with white and gray stones. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I walk down that amazing center aisle toward the yellow stone altar and fall into a pew. The silence in this huge space relaxes me in a way I haven’t felt since Mom rubbed my forehead that night, before she got all freaky. I look around to see if anyone notices me, if they’re glaring at my squeaky suitcase. No. I draw in a deep breath.

  Half an hour later, I’m aware of someone by my side and look up. “May I join you?” the young man says quietly, flashing me a broad smile. Even with his cassock, or whatever it’s called, he looks like he’s hardly more than a teenager himself. The white collar digs into his brown skin. It’s darker than mine, with a yellowish tint, and his eyes and straight black hair look Asian, maybe. Or Hispanic. Or mixed. I can’t tell, but I’d never ask “What are you?” the way people always quiz me. Anyway, what does it matter, I scold myself.

  “Uh-huh. Sit wherever you’d like.”

  “I’m Father Jorge,” he says, extending his hand.

  “I’m Nina.” My name is out before I can pull it back. But at least he doesn’t know my last name. I definitely won’t tell him that.

  “No school today?”

  Oh no, another grilling, like the woman at the bus station. Do I really look that young? I thought I’d lost the baby fat in my cheeks.