“That there be butter.”
“I know!” When she busted out laughing, I knew she was workin’ me. “So where am I supposed to put it?”
“Well, now that depends. Sometimes we got ice and use that icebox over there.” She pointed to a wooden cabinet sitting on the floor. It had small door on top and a bigger door beneath it. “But we ain’t got ice, so we use the springhouse.”
I’d seen a springhouse when our class went to tour an old plantation near Natchez. I couldn’t believe anybody still used one.
“Come on,” Eula said.
We took the butter crock and a quart bottle of milk down the hill behind the house a little ways. Eula kept reminding me to watch my step, not to trip over roots and whatnot. I finally told her I wasn’t a baby and had been in plenty of woods all by myself—which wasn’t exactly true, ’cause Patti Lynn had always been with me. But Patti Lynn knew I could figure out how to walk by myself.
Sure enough there was the springhouse, but it was smaller and more rickety than the one on that plantation. This one was shoved into the creek bank. Eula opened the door. It was so dark in there I couldn’t see for a minute. But it was so cool, I wanted to walk right in anyway, even if I broke my ankle stumblin’ in the dark.
“Wait here.” She took the butter crock from my hands and stepped inside. “Now, we best get back, else Wallace’ll worry.”
I nearly laughed at that one. Wallace had been sitting in his chair with his eyes shut for the past ten minutes. But he wasn’t there when we got back.
As we did the dishes, Eula lit an oil lamp ’cause it was getting dark. I got a cold spot right in the middle of my stomach. Right about now everybody back home was set up to see the fireworks, their blankets and folding aluminum lawn chairs all over the golf course waiting for full dark. Right about now the sparklers would be coming out, too. I never had any, even though I asked every year, but Patti Lynn always shared hers.
Back when I was four, before I even knew Patti Lynn, some kid left a hot sparkler wire in the grass. I stepped on it and burned my foot. Mamie yelled at me ’cause I’d taken off my sandals, but then she’d gone to every blanket near ours looking for someone who had a cooler with ice. She’d pulled me onto her lap and held the ice on my foot until the last red-white-and-blue firework melted from the sky. It had almost been worth the pain and the angry blister, being able to sit like that.
As Eula scrubbed the iron skillet from the corn bread, I heard Wallace walking back and forth in the living room. Every once in a while I’d hear him say stuff like “Woman gone done it now” and “Can’t see no other way.”
I leaned close and whispered to Eula, “Wallace still seems pretty mad,”
She gave me one of her real smiles and winked, so I figured there was nothing to worry about. “He always mad when he in the juice. Best jus’ stay outta his way.”
“Juice?”
She nodded toward the mason jar still on the table. “Moonshine. Hard liquor.”
“What you whisperin’ about in there?” the bear called. There was a thud like he walked into something. “Gawwwwddammit!”
“Jus’’bout the baby, Wallace,” Eula said sweet as pie. “You okay?”
“Shut up!”
I looked at Eula. I couldn’t imagine anybody, man or not, telling Mamie to shut up. But Eula just kept scrubbing that pan.
“That baby gonna kill us.” He mumbled some, then said, “If ’n you wasn’t so gawwwddamn stupid, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I shoulda got rid of you long time ago.”
Eula leaned close and said in a voice even lower than a whisper, “He don’t mean it. It the juice.”
“He in the juice when he give you that bruise?”I pointed to her arm.
She sighed. “Sometimes things happen tween a husband and wife. You see when you grown—”
“I said shut up!”
Eula shrugged and we stopped talking.
Back in the room with the stuck window, she made me a pallet on the floor. She unfolded a patchwork quilt and shook it out, letting it fall onto the pallet.
“My momma made this quilt,” she said, running her hand over it like she was pettin’ a kitten. “From old dresses given to her by the woman she a maid for back in the day. Momma used tell stories ’bout the different scraps, describe the dress it come from, tell if it was for a special occasion or holiday.” Eula stopped talking for a minute and I wondered if there was something wrong. “I don’t remember none anymore,” she said, real quiet and sad, like she’d lost something special.
How could scraps of old dresses that hadn’t even belonged to you be special?
“In Cayuga Springs?” I asked. “You lived there with your momma?”
“No, indeed. She worked in Jackson for a right prosperous family, a judge the husband was.”
“You work in Cayuga Springs now? Is that where James come from?” I was getting real curious about her, not to mention curious about who might be looking for baby James. I wanted to get away from here, from the cranky bear, but I sure didn’t want anybody from Cayuga Springs to find me and haul me off to jail. I wondered if the law had already come looking for me at Mamie’s house, found out I’d run off, and was putting out PPBs to other police like they do on Dragnet. Just the facts, ma’am. I bet Mrs. Sellers told them a lot more than that.
Then I thought, What if they send Eula to jail for kidnappin’ James? I sure didn’t want that.
“Best you don’t know where James come from.”
“You said nobody wants him.”
“That right.”
“But . . . all mommas want their kids.”
“That so?” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose. “Then what your momma doin’ up in Nashville while you been in Cayuga Springs?”
Since I couldn’t tell the God’s honest truth and it was getting hard to keep all of my truth stretching straight, I used one of Mamie’s answers. “It’s complicated and you don’t need no details.”There was never any arguing after Mamie said those words. I crossed my arms to say,That’s that.
Eula squinted at me from the corners of her narrowed eyes. “Well, now, I bet it is. Your momma even waitin’ for you? Or you done run away?”
Now she was making me mad. And I was just trying to keep her out of jail. My red rage took hold of my tongue. “How you gonna keep a white baby till he’s growed up without anybody findin’ out?”
“This baby left on the church steps, his momma don’t want him. Nobody want him. So the good Lord give him to me.”
“How do you know the good Lord didn’t want the preacher to have him?”
“’Cause he put me there to see it happen—me and nobody else.”
Guess I couldn’t argue that, it wasn’t Sunday or anything. Then a question popped in my head that should have before now. “Why would anybody leave a white baby at a colored church?”
She got stiff and looked away. “Was a white church.”
“Oh, no!”
Wallace had called her stupid, but she couldn’t be dumb enough to take a white baby from a white church!
She drew away a little and looked toward where James was sleeping in his basket. “I thought he was colored,” she said, her voice more prickly than I’d ever heard. “It was a colored girl who I see put him there.”
“Why didn’t you just leave him when you saw he was white? Somebody woulda taken care of him.”
“I didn’t see he was white at first.”
Now she was just making stuff up. “He don’t look at all colored to me.”
“He wrapped up tight as a caterpillar in a cocoon, face and all. They was a car comin’, so I pick him up and drive off afore I seed he was white.”
“Oh, Eula, you gotta take him back.”
She shook her head. “Too late for that.”
I considered for a bit. “Just go back tonight and leave him on that church step where you found him. Nobody will see you.”
“No!”This time her head was jerky as she shoo
k it. “No. Good Lord have a plan. Ain’t for nobody—even a white girl—to question.” She grabbed up a pillow and fluffed it, like that was all there was to say.
I was real mixed up about baby James. I just couldn’t believe his momma truly didn’t want him. Was Eula so crazy for a baby that she made that story up? But if it was true nobody wanted him, Eula would take real good care of him. How was a white baby gonna grow up in a colored house? In Sunday school they said we got to accept and be grateful for what God chooses for us. Did God want James with Eula? It was all too much to untangle in my head. Plus I had to make sure I was gonna get out of here tomorrow. So I decided to be agreeable— something Mamie said I didn’t even have in me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, real sweet. “Like you said, the Lord works in mysterious ways.” Still, it seemed to me that God giving her a colored baby made more sense.
She laid the pillow on the pallet and smoothed the case. “Sorry it ain’t a proper bed.”
“It’s okay. It’s only for one night anyway,” I said, real definite to remind her I was leaving in the morning.
I took off my Red Ball Jets and tucked my socks inside them.
“G’night, then.” She went to the door.
Maybe I’d just take off out of here tonight and not chance it with Wallace in the morning. I didn’t like the idea of walking around out there in the dark woods—what if I got turned around? What if baby James was kidnapped and I couldn’t tell the police how to find this place? It might be better to take James with me, but babies were probably particular tasty to bears and whatnot.
I waited, my heart skipping fast, hoping not to hear the lock.
The door rattled a bit, then I heard the skeleton key and clunky swick as the lock slid home.
It wasn’t a minute later when I heard them, Wallace and Eula. Rough, strained whispers muffled through the wall between the bedroom and kitchen, like talking through two cans and a string. For a while I couldn’t make out anything, then Wallace’s voice got a whole lot louder . . . and clearer. “Don’ argue with me, woman! There ain’t no other way.” Eula said something quiet that sounded like it had some begging in it. “We ain’t gonna talk ’bout it no more.”
Eula’s voice got some louder. “But, Wallace, they’s jus—” Her voice cut off like it had been snatched from her mouth. I thought of that bruise on her arm and wondered if he’d just added another one. Wallace seemed like a shaker to me. I’d had plenty of arm bruises myself from Mamie jerking me so hard my mouth snapped closed.
It got quiet then. I wondered what Wallace meant. It couldn’t be good if Eula had been begging like that.
I couldn’t believe my biggest problem this morning had been missing the fireworks. As I looked out that stuck window at the black night, hearing tree frogs and crickets that sounded big as cats, I wished I was back in my hot, sweaty bedroom in Cayuga Springs.
5
b
ack when I was in second grade, I come home from school and caught Mamie stuffing something in the trash barrel back by the alley. Usually I used the front door and heard Mamie call, “Go change your clothes,” even before the door closed behind me. I hated changing my clothes after school. Not so much the changing. It was more setting away shoes and putting my dress on a hanger, which was a real pain in the behind. That day I’d got a brilliant idea. If I just went straight to the backyard, I might be able to get dirty before Mamie saw me. And if I was already dirty, there wouldn’t be a reason to make me change.
I walked along the side of the house, crouched low in case she was looking out the windows. It was cold so they were closed and I didn’t have to worry about noise givin’ me away. Once I got to the back corner of the house, I made a run for the tire swing Daddy’d hung when I was fi v e .
That’s when I saw her by the trash barrel.
Well, she looked as surprised as I was. She jumped and squeaked, grabbin’ her chest like he heart was gonna leap right out. She hurried toward me and, with a hand on my shoulder, moved me toward the back door. She said I’d startled her, but she looked for all the world like she was doing something sneaky, something she didn’t want me to see. It was my job to take the trash out and Mamie never did my job, even when I had tonsillitis. I got even more suspicious when she sat me down in the kitchen before I’d changed my clothes, poured my glass of milk for me, and let me have two cookies—and they were the good ones Mamie bought for bridge club that I wasn’t allowed to eat.
As I ate my cookies, I got to thinking. If Mamie didn’t want me to see what she’d put in the trash, I was gonna have to be crafty like a fox in finding out what it was. If she knew I was suspicious and looking, she’d just make up something I was doing wrong and send me to my room—believe me, she’d done it before. She’d send me to my room all right, and then hustle right out there and either burn the trash (which wasn’t supposed to be done until the next day) or move whatever it was she’d been hiding. Either way, I’d never know.
I needed a plan.
For the rest of the afternoon I went around the house gathering up every scrap of trash I could find. There was a good stockpile underneath my bed. I took a grocery bag to my room and stuffed it with broken crayons, filled-up coloring books, two socks with holes in the toes, and wadded up Kleenexes. I even pulled out all of my gold-star papers from school; I’d been keeping them in one of my drawers so I could show Daddy when he came home to visit. All of the sudden it was more important to find out what was in that trash barrel than it was to show Daddy I could spell bakery and away, match a chicken to an egg, and tell the number of stripes on the American flag. There weren’t any arithmetic papers, ’cause arithmetic gave me fits.
I blew my nose ten times, just to make more Kleenexes. Mamie heard and told me to wash my hands if I was getting sick. In the living room, I found two old church bulletins and threw them in the bag. I sure hoped Mamie was done with them.
By the time we’d finished dinner, the trash can in the kitchen was filled to the top. I picked it up and headed out the door while Mamie was busy putting bonnets on the leftovers and finding a place in the refrigerator for them.
It almost seemed too easy. I couldn’t let myself be fooled; I’d been caught plenty of times when I’d thought the coast was clear.
On the path to the trash barrel, I glanced back at the closed door; no Mamie peekin’ out.
I checked again when I got to the alley.
Coast clear.
Real quick, I set down the trash can and stepped up on the cinder block Mamie had put there so I could dump the trash. The barrel was half-full. At the top, there was a lot of newspaper, all loose and crumply, not folded like newspaper is supposed to be.
I had to hurry. I held my breath, hoping there wasn’t any maggoty garbage in there and stuck my hands in the newspapers. Nothing squishy or squirmy got against my skin. Instead I found a brown cardboard box, a little smaller than the box Mamie had sent some cookies to Daddy in. On the outside of the box, under a long row of stamps, was my name and our address. The brown mailing tape had been slit.
Mamie had opened a box that had been sent to me! I only once got a box parcel post; it had been from Daddy on my birthday when he hadn’t been able to get home.
After another look at the house to make sure Mamie wasn’t stickin’ her nosy nose through the crack in the curtains, I opened the flaps on the box. At first I thought it was empty, then I saw the envelope—a big manila one like Mrs. Jacobi used at school to keep flash cards in. It had my name on it, with big x’s and o’s, and I knew it was from Momma.
I felt my red rage coming on, but did like Daddy told me and took deep breaths until it passed. I couldn’t let Mamie know I’d found what she’d hid.
The envelope was stiff, not bendy. The flap on it had already been torn.
I heard the rattle of the back-door knob; thank goodness that door sticks. I stuck the envelope up under my shirt and grabbed the trash can. By the time Mamie had the door open and was asking what was taking
me so long, I had the trash dumped and was on my way back to the house.
She looked at me real suspicious as she opened the screen and waited for me to come in.
“I saw a raccoon and chased it off,” I said before she could ask me more questions. Mamie hated raccoons in the trash. I just kept walking, afraid if I looked at her sneaky, package-opening face, my red rage would come barrelin’ back. “If it’s all right, Mamie,” I said real sweet, “I’m gonna go take my bath now. I don’t feel good.”
She reached out and put a hand on my forehead. “No fever. What’s ailing you?”
I had to think fast. What does Mamie hate as much as raccoons in the trash?
Me throwing up!
I grabbed my belly. “Uh-oh.” I ran straight for the stairs. “Oh,” Mamie called. “Let me know if you need me.”
Whenever I threw up, Mamie got all gaggy. I’d been throwing up on my own since I was three. It was just easier that way. Besides, wasn’t nothing Mamie could do but stand there and hold a cold cloth on the back of my neck—and gag. I could do both of those things myself. I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I pulled the envelope out from under my shirt and stood there just staring at it, at the way Momma made a big loopy S at the beginning of my name and surrounded it with stars, like it was special. I wanted to open it, but I didn’t want it to be over too fast. So I sat on the edge of the tub and held it against my heart.
Just to make sure Mamie stayed away I made some retching sounds and flushed the toilet.
Then I slipped my fingers under the torn flap and unfolded it. My stomach felt fluttery and my heart was beating fast and loud—maybe I was getting sick.
Pulling the envelope open, I looked inside.There was only one thing in there, a little record, one of them with the big hole in the center that only plays one song on each side. Patti Lynn’s sister, Cathy—we called her Fatty Cathy when we was mad at her—had a lot of them. Fatty Cathy’s records sat under her record-player stand in a wire rack that held them on their edges. They looked like a big, black Slinky. Patti Lynn and I wasn’t supposed to touch them. But we did.
Whistling Past the Graveyard Page 5