Black, White, Other

by Joan Steinau Lester

The grungy alleyway sits between a boarded-up storefront and a souvenir store window full of tiny cable cars. I edge in behind her, picking my way slowly, ready to run. A rat darts in front of me. I flinch, but hunger pangs in my stomach keep me moving. This must be where the garbage cans are kept, because I haven’t seen any on the street. We walk farther into the alley. Yes, there they are, a jumble of battered green and gray cans spilling over with trash.

  Nobody else is around this early, and the old woman, without another word, pries open one of the largest cans, a gray one with a dented lid, full of white bags tied with green twisties. She pries open one bag, but when the stink of old chicken hits us, she slams the cover down. Mesmerized, I watch her open another can: it overflows with rotting fish scraps and smells even worse. “Phew,” I say, holding my nose.

  The third can has a partially opened lid already, and half-chewed pastries strewn around it on the ground. This must be trash from a bakery. Inside the can a loaf of bread is ripped in pieces, as if raccoons were here last night. The woman reaches in, snatches two hunks of bread, and stuffs one in her mouth while handing me the other piece. It’s rye, leathery in texture, with sesame seeds, and I’m so famished it smells delicious. But I can’t put it into my mouth. The idea that raccoons might have drooled on it, or that it could be a leftover from somebody’s plate, makes my stomach clench. I hand it back. She doesn’t say anything but pops it directly into her mouth all in one bite so her cheeks are puffed like a chipmunk’s. I watch while she pokes around in the can until she pulls out two broken muffins and a bag of biscuits. Again she reaches over to me, holding out one of the muffins, but I shake my head. “No, thanks.” I inch away and glide toward the alley. When I look back from the street, I see her squatting silently next to the row of garbage cans. “Thanks anyway,” I call out, but she doesn’t reply.

  With my stomach grumbling, I duck into a coffee shop and order a bagel (“cut in two halves, please, wrapped separately”) with cream cheese and one hot chocolate to go. I hate to spend the money, but I can’t eat from a garbage can.

  Walking out of the shop munching, I stuff the other half bagel, wrapped in paper, into my jacket. Jamming it in reminds me of Jimi, who always stuffs his pockets with treasures. He copies everything I do, yet I don’t want him to run away too, looking for me. I wish I’d brought him. I could’ve sworn him to secrecy about where we were going. What’s he going to do without me when he comes to Mom’s after school? Or at Dad’s? He could hurt himself while home alone. Or get caught by Tyrone, who might not be in a forgiving mood—he doesn’t look like that kind of kid—even though I took his stupid bike back.

  My throat aches with worry. But I shake my head, No, I can’t worry about Jimi now, I have to think about myself, and retrace my route, making my way up Powell Street along the same blocks I hobbled down last night.

  I have to get back to the bus terminal, but I know it’s way too early. The terminal’s probably not even open. Still, it’s too cold and windy to sit down, especially in my wet clothes. I have to keep moving.

  Two empty wooden benches up ahead in Union Square look inviting. I’d like to settle there for a while, but the fog has soaked even my hair. If I’m not on the move I might freeze to death. I abandon any thought of stopping until I’m next to the square and spot a navy blue blanket crumpled on the end of a bench.

  I spin around. The entire park is vacant. Has the blanket been abandoned? Did someone lose it? I smile; my luck is changing! I could lie down, wrap up, munch my bagel and sip my hot chocolate and pretend I’m home eating breakfast, with Dad cooking me a big, yummy pancake. I can almost smell it.

  But as I actually get close to the blanket and imagine the people who might have wrapped themselves in it—street people who hadn’t had a shower in weeks, or might be sick or have lice—I can’t do it. I’ll just have to count on the hot chocolate to warm my insides, and let my outside freeze. I try sitting there, but my butt’s way too cold on the bench to read, no matter how much I want the distraction of another chapter while I wait for the terminal to open. Instead, once I drain my drink and munch the last of my bagel, I stagger over to the warmth of a McDonald’s on the corner, slouch into the bathroom, and sit on the closed toilet seat to read one more chapter before I try to brave the bus station again.

  All I know right now is I’m no Sarah Armstrong.

  On the Run

  “Look for the lantern!” “Listen for the bell.” These phrases, whispered about the plantation, had become her watchwords, her hope of survival. But she should have seen the lantern by now, noticed its beacon in a house with a special quilt hanging on the line at night. The bird man had told her it would be three or four nights of walking. She’d missed it. Or could it all be a story? Perhaps he’d been sent as a cruel trick, tempting people to run away into thickets from which they never emerged. Maybe there never were any lanterns or bells, and no people who helped runaways. She might die in these woods after all.

  Still, she stared through the night at anything that might be a flicker of light. But as much as she squinted through wet eyelashes she saw no lanterns, and as much as she strained her soaking ears she heard no bells. As the night wore on toward morning, the rain stopped but fog rolled in, shrouding every tree and bush. It cloaked even the ferocious cries she’d heard earlier in the night.

  Stillness descended.

  Now fog blocked out the stars so she couldn’t read them for direction. Her compass confirmed that she was still heading the right way, but she began to stumble, and her sense of being absolutely alone, without any help, grew so acute she trembled. The shuddering took hold of her body until she wobbled on her feet.

  I should turn back now, she let herself doubt again. Before the hounds get me. Or pattyrollers. Or a wild animal. She shivered even more violently, remembering some of the sounds she’d heard in the night.

  Go back, the voice in her head murmured, growing louder. Let them whip you. So what? Later you can wrap yourself in a blanket and lie down and be warm.

  Her heart argued, Keep going. You can make it. You have to find Albert and Esther.

  But the nagging voice in her mind talked back, sounding wiser and wiser. This is foolishness! You’re only a girl, it said. You can’t go all this way alone. You’ll never make it. You’ll die of hunger or be eaten by a bear or a wildcat. No one will even find your bones.

  Tears trickled down her filthy face. Her throat was raw. She was so thirsty she thought she would faint. Finally, when she wanted to throw herself down on the path and give up, Sarah thought she saw a lantern. Could it be, this late? The fog, along with her fear and hunger, might be playing tricks on her eyes.

  As she moved closer, she saw the faint outlines of a house. She circled it at a distance. Yes, there was a light in the window. Her sense of time had grown vague, but she knew no farmer would be up this late. Or this early in the morning.

  Pray for guidance …

  Sarah crept closer until she stood just outside the lantern’s glow. Something large flapped in the night breeze, right next to the house. She put out her hand and felt damp material.

  Why was a quilt hanging on the line at night?

  Suddenly, through her terror, she remembered what she’d heard from the stranger on that miracle day up in the field. Sarah grabbed the soggy cloth and tried, in the dim light, to make out the pattern. There it was: a house with a smoking chimney design.

  The pattern that signified a haven.

  Sarah walked as quietly as she could around to the back door. She knocked softly three times, with her heart thumping as loudly as her knuckles on the wooden door.

  “Who’s there?” a low voice asked through the closed door.

  “A friend of a friend,” Sarah responded, just as the bird man had told her.

  Silence.

  Had she given the wrong answer?

  When the stillness continued, Sarah started to move away from the door, ready to run. But a firm arm cracked the door open a few inches and p
ulled her in.

  When Sarah saw a white-skinned woman holding on to her, and felt her big arms wrapped tightly, she shook so hard she thought her bones would break.

  Oh no, Sarah thought. She’s going to squeeze me to death. She’s a relative of Master Armstrong and the bird man sent me here to murder me. She kills runaways. Sarah’s terrified mind imagined this was her last moment alive, her final minutes on earth. She slumped in the woman’s grip.

  Then a hoarse voice said, “You’re freezing, child,” and the big arms rubbed against her thin ones, trying to warm her.

  Sarah felt faint. The last things she saw were black curls escaping from a bonnet and a round face with brown eyes staring worriedly at her. She felt the big arms catch her and she let herself slip away. As she drifted, she felt as if she were plunged into a pool of soothing, warm water. After days of vigilance, letting go was a relief.

  When Sarah came to she was lying on a small wooden bed, wrapped in two thick, brightly colored quilts. She looked around the small, sunny room. A loom stood near the doorway. Soft white curtains hanging over an open window blew lightly. In a moment the heavy face, joined by another older, darker version, hung over her.

  “You have to eat,” the first one said, while she propped Sarah up and forced hot soup through her chattering teeth. “I’m Miz Jackson.”

  Sarah, dazed, said nothing. But she guzzled the soup and felt the steam work its way down into every sore place inside. Her flaming throat relaxed and felt soothed the way it used to when Mama made soup; often short of salt, Mama would pull up a board from the smokehouse, where hams hung in the rafters. The board was soft, soaked with salt and grease that dripped from the hams. She’d drop a piece in the bean soup, cooking the salt and fat right out of that board. Tears smarted Sarah’s eyes when she remembered.

  “You lay down,” a second husky voice said. “Rest until we have to send you on your way.”

  Sarah slept and slept. When she woke it was night once more. The ache in her throat was hardly there.

  More soup, some chicken, hot milk, and corn bread slathered with lard and molasses. “It’s time for you to go,” she heard two quiet voices say. “We’ll tell you the way. When you come to the first fork, go left …” The first Miss Jackson squeezed her left arm, and held on for a minute. “That’s for the first fork …”

  Can’t I stay? Sarah thought. She lingered as long as she could over her meal, but then let herself be hustled gently into the dark. This time Sarah carried a bundle of biscuits, strips of smoked chicken, and a large piece of dried pork wrapped in her faded cloth. If she didn’t have the food to show for it, she would have thought this past night and day had been another in her series of bizarre dreams, so strange had it been. Hardly having a way to think about the extraordinary encounter, she put it away for future study. Later, she would try to understand who those women were, living in a house off by themselves, and why they did what they did. Now, she would put one foot in front of the other. Now, she would keep moving toward Esther and Albert.

  Sarah walked again through the night—this one clear and bright with stars—as each footstep continued to carry her farther away from all she knew.

  The moon that had shone so brightly her first night out was now half the size. She saw it glide low to the horizon, which meant she’d soon have to stop for the day, although she needed to cover a little more ground this night. She must be getting close to the refuge the women had told her about; it was supposed to be right after the circle of homes she was to avoid. But Sarah saw nothing. Had she taken a wrong turn?

  She had to be almost there. A low sun, near the horizon, peeped out behind dark clouds, and she lay down to rest.

  All day Sarah lay on moss near the river bank, waiting for the sun to slowly cross the sky, occasionally reading snatches from her mother’s small Bible. Finally she watched the ball of fire melt below the trees, listened to a racket of blue jays screeching, and prepared to resume her weary trek.

  Hearing no one about, Sarah let herself creep over to the still pool in the little inlet near her hiding place. As she bent over to scoop water onto her head and into her mouth, she stopped. A rippled reflection stared back at her: the face of her mother. Could she have grown so old since she’d last seen herself in a cracked piece of tin? She looked intently, while equal parts grief, longing, and delight warred inside her. She gazed solemnly at her mother’s features: the familiar high cheekbones, wide mouth, heavy brow. When she could stare no more, she drew a deep breath and splashed the cool river water all over her neck and shoulders.

  As twilight deepened and she began to move, Sarah felt her first peace in many months. Her mother was with her, after all. And tonight, with the clouds scattering, it should be clear; the North Star would confirm the shaky little needle in her compass.

  CHAPTER 13

  My stomach is gurgling in spite of the bagel—or maybe because of it—and both knees are stiff. When I look in the mirror I see that I’m crusted with leaves, the red, yellow, and brown bits sticking to me, covering my jacket and pants. No wonder the woman who took me into the alley knew in a flash that I’d slept on the street.

  While I’m brushing the dirt off and wiggling to fire up some body heat, I try to imagine what it must have been like to be Sarah stumbling through the woods, and I tremble, cold and fear coursing through me. After I slip outside, a shaft of sunlight breaks through the fog, warming my shoulders, so I stand at the corner of Market Street, basking, before I head up to Union Square to trot once around it before I go back down to the bus station. It’s early light, shining at an angle. Crumbs of dust float in the rays. The whole street looks like a stage that’s backlit. Even the rust-colored branches of the trees overhead on the square seem brighter. It’s the morning sunbeam, I guess. The edges of everything have a tiny shadow, and shafts of light are dancing in the wind. It’s a magical morning.

  At that moment, standing on the edge of the square, I have a divine insight; I take a deep breath, exhale, and suddenly know, in every cell, every joint of my body: Sarah was running to something—to freedom. She was brave. But I’m running away from my problems. Not solving a thing, as Mom would say. I might even be making things worse. Yeah, I guess she could’ve told me that a while ago, but I had to come to it in my own time, like she says too. “Every flower opens when it’s ready, not before.” Funny how Mom feels close to me now, even though I’ve been so angry with her.

  I see all this, clear, like the light, and it’s equally clear that I need to run home, not to San Luis Obispo. Then my other mind, the everyday one, jumps in arguing: If I go home, what would be different? Isn’t Dad going to be furious, and Mom too? Plus, I’d still have to choose between Jessica and Lavonn, if either of them even wants to be friends with me.

  For a second, the divine spirit returns: I can see they each have qualities I like, ways they act and talk and think that make me feel comfortable, like I used to feel at home. Is that what Saundra meant by a “big life”: being friends with everybody? Like those older girls I saw yesterday. Was that my future strolling by? Like one of the miracles in Sarah’s tale?

  Yet my mind argues persuasively: that’s impossible. Jessica and Lavonn can’t stand each other, and they’ve both made comments that show they’ll never get along. If I’m with Lavonn, Jessica and Claudette are going to harass me as “ghetto.” And if I even could hang with them, the black kids will diss me as “too white” and hate me. There’s no way to take charge, like Sarah told me to do in the dream. She doesn’t know anything about life today. It’s hopeless. I feel an urge to heave my suitcase, smash it. I want to break something, and as quick as it came, the clear moment slides away again and I’m only me: scared, shivering, confused, and angry.

  But there’s a spark of light left inside. I do get that there are different kinds of running away—one kind solves problems and the other makes them. That spark of light reminds me of Sarah just “knowing,” in Dad’s book. I’ve heard him call that the Divine Inte
lligence at work when he speaks about it. This must be how God speaks. I was asking for guidance, and now I got it—through Sarah, through the voice in my heart, and through the clearness in my mind. Even though I don’t completely want to listen. Going home still feels too tough. Yet traveling to Fran’s all day on the bus doesn’t feel so easy anymore either, and what would I do there when she goes to school on Monday morning? I hunch my shoulders and stand with my face turned up to the sun.

  “Jimmy!” I hear a woman’s voice behind me scream across the square. “Jimmy, wait up.”

  When I turn around to look, she’s running to catch a bent man hurrying ahead of her.

  “Jim!” she calls again. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

  But he steps quickly, and in her high heels and pencil skirt she can’t catch up. She’s tottering, carrying a giant black leather tote bag.

  “I’m sorry!” she screams, falling farther behind. “I won’t do it again. I promise!”

  He turns for an instant, shakes his head, and keeps on moving, never breaking his stride.

  “Please!” she bawls.

  He doesn’t stop.

  The woman, who I now realize is young, halts and stares across the square, calling out frantically, “Jimmy, don’t leave me here!”

  He doesn’t turn again, and soon disappears into a side street. She stands watching him go, still calling. Finally, after he’s out of sight, she throws up her hands and staggers toward the corner where he vanished, but I know she won’t catch him.

  I stand, paralyzed, as if I’ve watched a play on a set, acted only for me. What terrible thing had the woman done, and why was she so afraid to be left alone? The image of her wobbling off, whimpering, stays with me long after she’s out of sight.

  A picture of my Jimi flashes. I can’t imagine leaving him alone forever. He needs me to protect him. And even though he has friends now, in a couple of years he’ll be in high school, coming up against the same pressures I’m facing.