“Yes, Miss Parker.” I rose and began to walk to the door, moving backward. “Ma’am?”
“Yes, Nell.”
“I’m sorry about your daddy.”
“Thank you. It’s not something we’ll talk about again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Here, before you go—another book for you, To Kill a Mockingbird. I’ve shared this in class. The main character is a strong young girl called Scout. I think you’ll relate to her. And take this too, for all your books.”
She handed me a satchel. It was made from cloth that was faded with age and looked as if it had been a blanket at one time. The brown leather straps, stitched to each side, were worn smooth and had turned black in some spots, where fingers had found a steady home. A thin strip of cowhide was looped through a brass buckle to keep the bag closed, like a belt. Inside was one large section for books or papers, with a small zippered compartment for pencils. I sniffed the inside and smelled a thick aroma, full of history.
Chapter Three
WHEN I TURNED FIFTEEN A NEW MAN BEGAN TO visit the house. He’d sit on the front porch at least one evening a week and drink iced tea with my daddy and brothers. Being a newcomer, he didn’t say much except when he rose to leave. Then he’d wipe the sweat of the humid summer night off his brow with a handkerchief and say, “Good night.” This went on right up to my sixteenth birthday—almost twelve months of being with the men-folk on the porch without expressing an opinion of his own. After a while no one took much notice of him; he was just there, part of the assemblage passing the evening—until my sixteenth birthday.
That evening Momma had baked my favorite cake, dark chocolate with white icing, and brought it out to the porch with sixteen little wax candles shimmering on top. “This here’s a big day,” Daddy said. “Sixteen means you’re all grown up now, my Baby Girl.” He kissed me and gave me a small gift wrapped in potato-sack cloth. “You can keep all your special things in this.”
I opened my gift to find a hand-carved box with my initials engraved on top. Inside were a pair of Momma’s earrings. “You always playing with those,” Momma said. “Time you started to wear them as your own. You a woman now.”
I was admiring my gift and eating cake when Henry, the newcomer, sat beside me on the porch step and said, “Happy birthday, Nell.” His voice was a new musical vibration in my ears. Other men occasionally strung sentences together, but I never paid attention to what their voices sounded like. Hearing Henry’s that evening caught me off guard. It was filled with a smooth, comforting, and inviting rhythm that welcomed me into its circle. “I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and took out a shiny hair clip. “Thought this’d look nice in your braids.”
“Thank you,” I replied, not making eye contact with him.
“Will you look at me?” He gently moved my chin so my face was facing his. No man other than blood family had ever touched me. His fingers felt coarse but gentle. My cheeks began to burn, and a strange sensation moved down my body as I looked into his eyes. I wanted to run my finger over his cheeks. I’d never seen skin that looked like a root-beer float made with chocolate ice cream—creamy froth just floating on the top that you’d want to lick up. I expected him to appear as old as my daddy, but he seemed more the age of my big brothers, maybe ten years older than I was. He had clear, honest, brown eyes and narrow cheeks that led to an almost pointed chin. His nose was wide and his lips full of promise just for me. He smiled as we looked at one another. “You’re lovely, Nell. The prettiest girl for miles around. You have a special look, a look of someone who knows things.”
“I read. That’s how I know things. I always want to know more.”
“I see you with books all the time. How’d you come to be such a reader?”
“Miss Parker taught me to read—not just to read but to know people and places in books. She says a person can see the whole world by reading books. Do you read?”
“Not so much. Books weren’t something we had at our home. I started working the farm when I could handle a shovel. Never went to school.” He shrugged and threw a stone onto the path at the foot of the steps. “Would you like to live up North?” When he asked the question, he touched my back, tracing my spine with his fingertips. The tingling in my body got stronger, a strange but good feeling that made me press my legs tightly together.
“Why would I live there? My family’s here.”
Henry pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It wasn’t so hot that day. This was the time of year just after winter, before the harsh heat of the Louisiana sun burned through everything in its path. It was the best time of year to be outside, on the porch or in the fields or even in the kitchen; yet sweat rolled down his face, made a dark line on his collar and a wet stain beneath his armpits. He folded the handkerchief, placed it in his jacket pocket, took a deep breath, and said, “Nell, I’d like you to be my wife. We can start a family of our own up North. Another birthday gift for you.”
I looked over my shoulder to see if Daddy was listening to us. No one was on the porch but Henry and me. I noticed Momma spying out the window, but she backed away when I saw her. “Well,” I said. “I don’t know you. I’ve watched you come here and sit with the men. Seems like you get along with everyone. I could be with you, but what about love? Don’t married people love one another?”
Henry pulled me close to him; our bodies touched as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Nell, I don’t have much family left. I’ve been on my own for a time now. But I learned a lot from my parents. I watched them take care of one another, be kind and gentle. I think that’s what love is, how it works.” Then he kissed my cheek. I was torn between wanting to pull away from him and wanting more. I tugged at the hem of my cotton dress, smoothing it over my knees. That morning Momma had told me to put this particular dress on, the one I’d wear to church on Easter Sunday.
“I got family up North, in a place called Boston. It’s a big city. I’ve been to visit, and I know I can make a good life there.” Henry looked out at the road as he spoke, as if he were seeing something come alive in the dust. I could feel his longing and anticipation. It was the way I felt whenever I read my books. The place we sat was a good place, with family and the land to keep us alive, but I knew there was other air to breathe that wasn’t full of hog smell and dry dirt that got caught in your throat all day long.
“It all sounds good, you know, getting married, moving away. I know that’s what’s supposed to happen. I’m grown now. It’s just that—I think a girl should know the boy before she says yes. Don’t you want to know me better too?”
He just stared at me. A look came across his face like a cloud blocking the sun. His features were suddenly obscure. Then a crease formed in the corner of his lips, not quite a smile but the possibility of a smile. “I do want to know you. I thought that would happen once we got married.”
“Maybe we could do some knowing first.” I looked directly into his eyes.
“So I guess this means you want to be courted before you’ll give me an answer?”
Courted—I quickly searched my mind for this word, but I couldn’t find anyplace I’d ever seen it in a book or heard anyone use it. Courted—whatever it meant, it seemed to make Henry slow down. So I said, “Yes, I’d like to be courted.”
Henry massaged his forehead as if he were fighting off a headache. “All right, Nell, I’ll court you. Not what I was expecting, but I’ll come by at the end of each day to visit.”
“You’ll be coming just to be with me, not with Daddy and the other men?”
“Yes.”
“And we can talk, maybe go for walks?”
“All right.”
“And we can talk about books?”
“I don’t read books, Nell.”
“Then I can read to you. Would that be okay?”
“Yes, Nell.”
I could feel my face shining bright, my smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
“Well, I guess
I best be going,” he said, “It’s getting late.” As he stood to leave he reached for my hand and gently kissed my palm. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Nell.” He turned and slowly walked away, then stopped after a few steps and turned to face me. “Nell, just so you know, I’ve been coming here all this time because of you. Good night.”
He had a little swagger in his step, as if he were dancing on the balls of his feet. With each step he took, I imagined me walking beside him, holding hands, listening to the birds, each of us sharing our deepest thoughts. I imagined his lips on mine, his hands exploring my body.
HENRY CAME TO the house every evening that spring to visit. When he arrived, he would greet my daddy first, then Momma; then he would nod to my brothers; and then he would ask for me. Momma told me, “Never be outside waiting for Henry. Always let him ask to see you. Let him watch you arrive.” So I waited inside each evening, listening as Henry made pleasantries. When he’d shyly say, “Is Nell available to visit?” I’d glide in front of the screen door and stand there for a moment to make sure he could see me through the torn screen that never kept bugs or mosquitoes out. As soon as I pushed on the cracked wood frame, a loud squeak rose up from the rusted hinges—a trumpet announcing my arrival.
Henry’s face lit up as he fussed with the cap dangling in front of him. “Hello, Nell. Fine evening to visit some, if you’d like to.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
We’d sit in a quiet corner of the porch away from Daddy, my brothers, and the other men. Momma would hurry inside after offering cool drinks. They could all see us but didn’t pay much attention to our whispers and laughter or our touching and long, full, silences. If we were quiet for too long, though, sitting so close that air couldn’t make its way between our arms or hips, the sound of Daddy’s cough would prompt Henry to slide a few inches away from me. Every evening for two months our courtship unfolded that way. It was a new feeling to be with family on the porch, yet alone with Henry at the same time.
One evening Henry was fidgeting more than usual. When we sat down, he asked, “Nell, I hope you feel like you’ve gotten to know me over these months of courting. I have a good sense of who you are.”
“Who do you think I am?”
“Well, you’re smart, like to read, and know things. You’re easy to be with. I like sitting with you and just talking. You feel good, your skin is soft, your hands are firm yet gentle. It’s like you know how to work with your hands but take care of them too. I’m not sure you know your way around the kitchen, though. Your momma seems to be in control there.”
“I know my way around books better than the kitchen. But I can learn.”
“I’m sure you will—I suspect you can learn most anything.”
“What else do you sense?”
“I think maybe you like me, the way I like you.” He took my hand and opened my palm. He traced the dark lines on my hand, starting with the base of my thumb and moving up to the area just below my index and baby finger. I was fidgeting. He folded my fingers into my palm, making a soft fist with my hand, and asked, “What do you know about me now?”
“I know you’re gentle. I like the way you touch me.” He ran his finger over the top of my ear. “I like reading to you, I think you enjoy that. Do you?”
“Yes. Can’t say I understand the stories, but I love your voice.”
“Do you want me to explain the stories and the characters?”
“No. I can just listen.”
“But don’t you want to understand?”
“Not really, Nell. I’m more interested in stories of real life. I don’t need make-believe people.”
“Tell me one now, about your daddy.”
He stopped touching me, folded his hands together, and looked down, playing with the front of his trousers where a crease should have been, picking up a small piece of dirt and flicking it away. “My daddy was a poor man—we’re all poor in these parts, but my daddy was poorer than most. He didn’t have a way with the land and animals like your daddy does. He’d work the soil, plant seeds, water them, but nothing ever grew. He’d get a hog or chicken, any kind of farm animal that could provide food for the table, and he’d feed it, but eventually it would just die off. He tried to teach me farming, thought maybe he was just jinxed and things would be different with me, but it wasn’t so. You can’t teach someone else to be good at what you can’t do yourself.”
I tried to imagine men-folk not being able to work the land, care for animals, put food on the family’s table. I put my arm on Henry’s and slid a little closer as he continued.
“Daddy decided he had to do something to keep our home. Momma was doing laundry for white women, cleaning their sheets, pillowcases, and tablecloths. She starched and pressed all day and night, earned enough to buy food, meager basics that she could make stretch for a long time. Daddy took to fixing things for other farmers. He was pretty good with a hammer and knew his way around motors and farm equipment. He taught me how to fix equipment. I’m good at it too. That’s what I’ll do up North—be a mechanic.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Henry seemed to be gathering his thoughts.
“I’m an only child. Momma couldn’t get another baby to grow inside of her for some reason—only me. They were happy to have a son, but I always felt they missed the others.”
“My teacher, Miss Parker, became an only child too. There aren’t many families around here with just one child.”
“Yes, Mary is alone, like me.”
“Mary?”
“That’s her name, your teacher, Mary Parker.”
“You know her?”
“Everyone knows everyone in these parts.” Henry went on, “One day Daddy was working on a large tractor. Something went wrong—the brake wasn’t on or the tractor was at a bad angle. He was under it. It rolled over him. Crushed him. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. I was supposed to be with him that day, but I didn’t go—don’t remember why—but I should’ve been there.” Henry’s voice had begun to crack. He squeezed my hand and said, “Nell, it’s time for me to leave, make a place for myself in the North. Will you come with me, marry me?”
When Henry had agreed to court me, I hadn’t known how long it’d be before he asked me to marry him again, or what answer I’d give. Now it felt right, and I thought the prospect of a new adventure was intriguing. “Yes,” I said.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT SUNDAY MY BEST DRESS WAS CLEANED, ironed, and hung out for me to wear. I’d been properly washed and powdered, my hair done in braids with ribbons and my shoes shined bright as Daddy’s going-to-church pair. Momma made a veil using a plastic headband. She glued pretty flowing lace to the top, with enough hanging in front to cover my face. “I wore this lace when I married your daddy,” she told me as she adjusted the veil on my head. “A girl needs something old to wear on her wedding day, and this lace is yours. My momma gave it to me. One day your daughter will wear it.”
I only half heard her. Part of me was still laying in bed, savoring the first hours of the day when I’d had the morning to myself. I had awoken early. Daddy was getting ready to go out to the fields. Even though this was Sunday and my wedding day, there were things that needed doing on the farm. Daddy and Robert went about their chores. I lay in bed, listened to their movements, watched the thin rays of sunrise peek through the window. A solemn stillness overcame me. Morning always seemed like the hours of promise—when the quiet of night was letting go of darkness, just before the sounds of daily life consumed every corner of the house. This was the time to dream.
My mind wandered to thoughts of Henry as I stroked my skin beneath the quilt. Last night he had said my skin felt smooth. I imagined his fingers—slowly gliding down my arms, making circles on my stomach, touching my thighs, probing everywhere. Heat overcame me. I threw the quilt onto the floor and looked around the room, fearful that someone had seen me in such a state. I grabbed the book satchel from under the bed. Solace greeted me as I handled each book�
��my private family, who provided me with a direction different from what my blood family gave me. They would leave with me tomorrow, though I would take almost nothing else.
I held the books close to my chest and looked around my bedroom. Someone else would claim this as their room quicker than a grasshopper could jump from one spot to another. My quilt had been on this bed since I was old enough to sleep alone. It was a handmade creation, pieces of scrap fabric stitched together by Momma and other women. Momma told me that each piece of cloth had its own story. I loved the story about the pretty lace pieces that stood out against all the other prints, plaids, and rough potato-sack browns in the quilt. Momma told this story over and over. I could hear her voice as if she were in the room.
“My friend, Mrs. Sterling, worked for a white family, cleaning, washing, ironing, like most of us; but her important job was to keep the white woman’s lace curtains and tablecloths bright and pressed. One day my friend asked to go home early. Her youngest had taken ill, and she wanted to be with her child. The missus was having a special tea for her friends the next day and told Mrs. Sterling no, there was too much that needed to be done. My friend pleaded with her, but the missus wasn’t having anything to do with letting her go home to her family. Well, somehow all that pretty linen and lace ended up with mysterious brown spots on the edges, middle, everywhere you looked. The missus was so mad when she saw the mess, she took out some scissors and begun to scream and cut and tear her lace. She told Mrs. Sterling to get out of her house and never come back. My friend made like she had no idea what had happened. Maybe the water was bad…maybe it was the soap…maybe the iron needed to be cleaned. She begged the missus not to fire her, but it was done. Before she left the house, the missus told her to clean up the tattered lace and throw it out. Mrs. Sterling, with tears flowing down her cheeks, picked up all the lace, tied it into a bundle, and walked home with all of it.
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