Memphis is bustling this day after Christmas. I’m surprised, but Opie explains, “Folks have to change what’s the wrong color or what they got two of or what’s too big in the seat.”
“But why today?”
“Something to do. Can’t just sit looking at a turkey carcass and a dead tree.”
“Opie, tell me something about Mama.”
“Well, she was the first person to call me Opie. She couldn’t call me Papa, so soon after losing her own. And I called her Dumpling—till she got big enough to ask me to stop.”
“I mean about her music and Aunt Laura and—”
“Whoa, there. One thing at a time.”
“How much older is Mama than Aunt Laura?”
“Hmm. Let me see. Some of those years were longer than others.” He studies the road.
“How old was Mama when you married Omie?”
“Who are you—some reporter from The Commercial Appeal?”
“I think she said she was three.”
“Sounds right.”
“So when was Aunt Laura born?”
“Well, there’s William, Lizzie, Anna May—I guess about thirteen years.”
“What?”
“Separating Rena and Laura. Laura’s the baby, as if you couldn’t tell.”
“That’s almost the same as me and Willie. I turned twelve just before he was born.”
“Step careful then. Your mama hung over Laura like a guardian angel. And Laura broke every string in her harp.”
“What do you mean?”
“Cried herself sick whenever Jim Perritt came courting. Didn’t want Rena out of her sight.”
“She didn’t like Daddy?”
“Only time he took her on his lap she bit him on the cheek.”
Seems like I shouldn’t laugh at that but I do.
“What about the music?”
“That’s different.”
We’re out of town now, turned onto a red clay road.
“How?”
“You get Omie to tell you about that.”
“Will she?”
“Don’t ask me. We’ve only been married thirty years.”
The road takes us out of trees and into big flatlands along the river.
“Just a couple more miles,” Opie, says. We ride in silence.
“Cotton, timber, pallets—all kinds of businesses latch onto the Mississippi. Like fleas on a dog. Here’s my flea.”
We drive through a gate into a graveled yard. The road goes between big stacks of lumber. I don’t see any sawdust, worksheds, or sawyers. Just a one-room building painted white.
“That can’t be the chowhouse.”
“Not hardly. I figured you’d seen plenty of sawmills, so I brought you down to the shipping yard. All we do here is fill the orders. Operate out of that office.”
Opie pulls up next to it.
“Well, come on in.”
The little room is full of dust and old pipe smoke. Penciled notes on different colored paper are taped on the desk, the filing cabinet, the wall.
“What are these?”
“My employees.”
“They write you notes? But they all look like the same hand.”
“Now you’re a detective. They are. They’re my notes.”
“But why?”
Opie rubs his forehead.
“Times aren’t hard just in Goose Rock. I’ve had to let my bookkeeper go and do it myself. The notes remind me what to do when.”
“Will that work?”
“I hope so. Business is slower, which gives me more time and fewer accounts.”
He shifts a ledger on the desk, reads one note. “We’re not working today.”
“I guess nobody returns Christmas boards.”
“That’s right.” He smiles. “Let’s go pay tribute to the river.”
Walking between stacks of sweet-smelling lumber, I think of Daddy. I forget how it was that he took just me up on Big Lick, but he did once, and we were walking like this.
“Mandy,” he said, “you’re breathing the smell of promise. This timber’s going to be houses, good houses for miners, put up by the Darby Coal. I’ve sold so much to the mines—roof beams and timbers—I’m glad to sell them something that won t go underground.”
“Are these houses, Opie?”
“What, child?”
“Are these lumber piles going to be houses?”
“I hope so.”
“Don’t you know?”
“And don’t you know when to stop asking questions? I swear, you’re as bad as Laura used to be.”
Opie smiles but I can tell he’s not entirely kidding. We walk on to the river without a word.
If you’ve never seen the Mississippi, you probably think like I did that a river is just a minor exception to land. Sometimes flooding, other times drying up, but still an exception. Not the Mississippi. It’s a fact. I can hardly see across it.
“Is this the widest part?”
“Not quite. It’s wider at the Delta.”
“Is the ocean like this?”
“I don’t think so. From what I hear, the ocean is blue and comes right at you.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Nope.”
“But Opie, you ought to. You’re getting old.”
I wish I could take that back as soon as I say it. What’s got into me?
But Opie chuckles.
“Old and hungry, that’s me. Let’s go home and see if there’s any meat left on that bird.”
20
We drowsed away the rest of yesterday. I read Keats’ “Nightingale” which is sleepy too. But today Aunt Laura has volunteered to take me sightseeing. I can’t wait!
“It’s a sight what you’ll see with Laura, that’s for sure,” Opie says over breakfast. “But you might like to look at this first.”
He hands me a letter from the stack of mail Omie brought in. It’s from Mama.
“And here’s yours.” He slides another one across the table to Omie.
I’ve never had a letter from Mama before. Miss Amanda Perritt: her handwriting, plain as day. Opie has already slit the envelope with his pen knife; I fish out the single sheet.
Sunday, December 21
Goose Rock
Dear Amanda,
Merry Christmas to my first daughter! I hope you are en joying your holiday and remembering your manners.
Your father put the tree up today—a handsome fir—so the house smells like the woods and he felt right at home.
Willie is trying very hard to roll over. Anna and Helen coax him, not knowing the work when he begins to crawl. You remember keeping up with Helen.
With school out this week, David and Ben have gone to help at the mill and the house is awfully quiet.
Kiss Omie and Opie for me and come home soon. We miss you.
Love,
Mama
Mrs. James D. Perritt
When I finish the letter, it’s a shock to be in Memphis. I feel like I’ve stood in the door at home.
Opie is drawing a map to the streetcar stop.
“Put in Johnson School,” Omie reminds him.
He does. Neatly. They debate about how much money I need. Finally, mid-morning, they let me set off.
I try to look like I’ve waited for streetcars all my life.
“Where are you visiting from, honey?” says a lady in a cranberry coat.
“Kentucky.”
“Daniel Boone’s country.
“Yes, ma am.
She probably thinks we wear coonskin caps and eat deer meat.
“Don’t worry about getting lost. The conductor will help you. We’re all friendly down here.”
“Thank you.” I dread more help.
But when the streetcar comes we get separated, so I don’t have to worry. I get off at Second and make my transfer for Catalpa with no problem.
I could pick out Aunt Lauras door even if I didn’t know the number. All the other houses have lace pane
ls behind the side glass. Aunt Lauras curtains are two shades of purple.
When she lets me in, I see there are curtains in the other doorways, too, tied or pushed to one side—yellow, orange, white.
“Your house doesn’t look like this,” Aunt Laura laughs.
“Not exactly.”
“You probably have furniture. Tables, chairs. If you do that, you have to decide which room is which.”
“Don’t you?”
“Sometimes this is the living room,” she says, as we walk into the room off the hall. It has bare floors, a rag rug, and one big straw chair.
“And we eat here sometimes.” She gestures to the next room, with a wooden card table in the center and big pink and gold pillows piled under the window. “We can sit on the floor, we can sit at the table. Or we can switch the two rooms around.” She makes it sound like great fun.
“But I do know where the bedroom is. Come back with me while I finish my face.”
I follow her down a narrow hall and through a doorway hung with beads. Really. They rattle as I walk through. She laughs.
“Mother says I’m a genius at furnishing doorways.”
Curtains are shut in the bedroom, so it’s dim despite the bright day. Aunt Laura waves toward a cloud of clothes heaped on the unmade bed.
“I’ve been going through things this morning, clearing out for the new year, and I wonder if there’s anything there you could use.”
I look at her. There’s a difference between having your clothes on and being dressed. She’s dressed: black chemise, red shoes, red beads, and fingernails red as fire. And her cast-off clothes will be for getting dressed, too. In Goose Rock you put your clothes on.
She sits down at her dressing table.
“Oh, Amanda, I forgot to take your coat. Just hang it on the bedpost.”
I do, and she gets to work, licking an eyebrow pencil, leaning intently toward herself. I sort out the delicate dresses, feeling like a chowhouse dish beside china. These aren’t for me—a yellow crepe scoop-necked shimmy, a lavender square-cut shift.
“At least try the red one.”
I untangle it and find buttons smaller than baby teeth, a straight skirt, a flounce to let you walk. Can you see me headed up the dirt road to school in this?
But she’s saying to try it on—
“No, you ninny, you have to take your clothes off first!”
I feel more naked standing here in my slip than bathing in the kitchen at home. I try to hurry, but the dress sticks at my shoulders, my hipbones. Finally I get it on, pull it straight.
Aunt Laura watches from the mirror.
“Not bad,” she says. “Come let me see.”
She tilts her head and studies me. Her red mouth curls.
“I used to look just like you.”
“You did not.” That pops out before I can stop it.
“I did too. I was tall and skinny, what they call a carpenter’s dream.”
“Pardon?”
“Flat as a board. And I slumped to apologize for taking up space.”
“Your face never looked like mine.”
“No, yours is stronger. And your eyes are like amber. The dress isn’t right but the color is. Amanda—”
I hate being inspected by someone so pretty. “What?”
“Did you ever have a doll?”
“I had Beverly.”
“And clothes for her.”
“All that Mama had time to make.”
“No matter what you put on her she looked the same, right?”
I nod. I didn’t come over here to talk about dolls.
“But people aren’t like that. They change. The doll is all on the outside.”
I wait for her to get to the point.
“So the outside has to be perfect. But what people have on the inside changes how they look. Of course, hairstyle helps and makeup—”
“What you’re saying is I’m not pretty but I’m nice.”
She laughs.
“You’re stubborn, I’ll say that. Like Mother and me and Rena.”
“Is that bad?”
“I’d say it’s good, the world being what it is. But that’s another story. I’m ready. You get your clothes on and let’s see what we can see.”
21
I feel so lucky to be going out with Aunt Laura. I don’t know where—maybe a play or a concert. You can’t even go to a picture show in Goose Rock. Besides, I want to see something on a stage. I want to sit in the dark and see something—
“Amanda!”
“What?”
“This is the streetcar stop.”
“Sorry.”
“You were a million miles away. Homesick, I’ll bet.”
I don’t say anything.
“You can’t tell me you don’t miss Duck Roost.”
The Number Eight car rattles up and we get in. We have to sit in front, right behind the driver.
“It’s Goose Rock. And no, I don’t. I miss Willie sometimes and maybe Helen.”
“And your little place by the hearth?”
“You missed Mama pretty bad when she started courting Daddy.”
“Trust Mother to bring that up.”
“It’s all right to miss people.”
“Not for me, Amanda. I’ve got to have them.”
“But Mama’s still your sister.”
“She’s no more mine than a toy that’s rolled out of reach.
Cress is my sister now.”
“Uncle Cress?”
“And brother and father and mother, and babies and Holy Confessor.”
“But Omie and Opie are right here in town.”
“They are not right here. They’re all the way over on Poplar.”
“But Aunt Laura—”
“Amanda, this is a silly topic for discussion. Let’s put it away. And pay attention now. The next stop is ours.”
We get off on Main Street, but not at a place I’ve seen before. Aunt Laura herds me across the pavement.
“Do you like sweet potatoes?”
“Pardon?”
“Yams, I mean. And trumpet music and straw hats?”
“Well, sure—”
“Good. That settles it. We’re going down Beale Street.”
She looks at me, waiting.
“You don’t know what that is?” “No.”
“We’ll fix that.”
Most of the people on the busy street are black. Small stores are jumbled together. One building says Manhattan Saloon right on it. Aunt Laura seems completely at home, but I feel funny.
“What do people do here?”
“Why, they buy shirts, Amanda. Shirts and beans and liquor, when they can get it. They go to the bank. See that building over there? That’s the first negro bank in Memphis. And more than that, on Saturday night, they make the best music in the world.”
“What kind of music?”
“Oh, not like anything you’ve ever heard. It’s wild and loud. Not a bit like white music.”
I didn’t know music came in colors.
“Come on, let’s see what’s in here,” Aunt Laura says, steering me into the nearest shop. Parrot-colored shirts, straw hats, and shoes spill over in the tiny space.
Aunt Laura slips out of her hard red shoes and into a pair of soft straw ones. She tries hats till she finds one that fits, then plops it on and poses, waiting for someone to admire her. We could be pieces of lint on the floor for all the black people notice. They’re talking and laughing and figuring their own purchases.
“How do I look?” Aunt Laura asks.
“Wonderful.”
“You try some, too, Amanda.”
“I wouldn’t have anywhere to wear something like that.”
“That’s not the point. Just try them for the fun of it.”
I do, but it hurts to see my face hard and worried underneath that happy hat. Aunt Laura looks like she’s never worn anything else.
I put the hat back in the big cardboard box.
&nbs
p; “Could we go now?”
“Oh, Mandy. You are a case.”
A case? What’s that supposed to mean? A case of measles? A case of canned goods?
“Let me at least get you a pair of straw shoes.” She rummages through another box. “Here. Try these.”
They’re like walking on a hay bale.
“Do they fit?”
“Yes, but—”
“What?”
“There’s nowhere I can wear them.”
“Let them be bedroom slippers. Wear them to the beach.”
“We don’t have a beach.”
“You used to. Used to be all ocean up there. That’s how you got the sandstone.”
“Mr. Aden told us about that.”
“So you see, you can wear them to the beach. You’ll just be a little late.”
I have to laugh at that.
Back on the street Aunt Laura strolls like the queen of the King Cotton parade. Never mind that the straw hat is silly in winter or that people look right through us. I try to stand up straight.
We’ve been walking for a couple of blocks when Aunt Laura points to a small sign across the street. SULTANNA’S it says, the name circled with a string of Christmas lights.
“Next stop,” Aunt Laura declares.
At first it seems cave-dark in the little restaurant, but as my eyes adjust, I see a bunch of tables, mostly for two or three people, and some stools around a long bar to the back. I know it’s a bar because I saw one at the Peabody. There’s no one buying drinks. Right now there’s a law against it.
Daddy says you might as well make a law against having babies as against buying liquor. I don’t see what babies have to do with it.
The unfinished floor makes me think of the Manchester Hardware. There are chipped black tables with fruit jar lids for ashtrays, and a loud sour smell on top of everything. Underneath is a good smell though, like cinnamon toast.
A coffee-colored woman comes over to our table.
“I’ll have a fizz,” Aunt Laura tells her. “And a plate of logs, please. Mandy, what would you like—a cherry Coke? a sarsapa-rilla?”
“A sarsaparilla.”
I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds good.
In a minute the kitchen door swings open and the waitress comes out with a tray balanced on her shoulder. That sweet smell comes with her. It’s yam slices, deep fried and rolled in cinnamon sugar! They’re good as doughnuts. And the sarsaparilla tickles my nose.
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