At one point that night, it felt as though I were floating in clouds. Our bodies became rhythmic, moving in sync as though we were two instruments playing in harmony after years of practice and rehearsals. We formed one mass on the bedsheets that were twisted and damp from our heat. Henry whispered suggestions in my ear about how to touch him, how to move, what positions to take; I did whatever he said. My body was in a frenzy to get more of him.
I didn’t know how much time had passed that night before we were both so spent that we fell into a deep sleep, tightly wrapped in each other’s arms. When I did awake, it scared me to see blood on my legs and the sheets. I shook Henry. “Something’s wrong with me.”
“Blood the first time is a good thing,” he said. “Now I know I have a pure wife.”
The next morning we had sex again—didn’t bother to change the sheets, just kept pulling at one another, rolling and vibrating in the bed. I started to get comfortable with the things Henry told me to do. My body felt good when I relaxed into his rhythm.
I was awakened the second night with him on top of me, moaning, moving inside me. When he was done, he rolled off and went back to sleep. It wasn’t so bad. At least I didn’t have to guess about what to do.
However, on our third day in Boston and in bed, I began to feel real hungry and musty, the way my brothers used to be when they came in from the early-morning fields, ready for a hearty breakfast. “Henry, we need more to eat than snacks, and we should get cleaned up.” I slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom, thinking that it would be fun to take a bath—the first time indoors, with running water to soothe my sore and tired body.
“I’ll get some hot food and groceries, be right back.” He jumped out of bed, pulled his trousers and shirt on, and headed to the door.
“Wait,” I said. “I want to go too.”
“No—you take a bath, be all cleaned up, ready to eat and ready for more of me.” He kissed me and left. For a moment I wanted to protest and follow him out the door, but the prospect of being in the bathtub called out to me like the aroma of Momma’s warm breakfast biscuits wafting into my bedroom each morning.
I sank into the bath water all the way up to my chin and closed my eyes. Every inch of my body tingled from the hot, steamy water and from the lingering sensations of our love-making. During our few days together, sensitive spots on my body that I had never known existed began to speak to me, saying—more! A warm glow emanated from my pores even before the hot water brought a red hue to my skin.
When Henry came home I was sitting on the side of the bed, wrapped in a towel. In one hand he held a bag with hot food that smelled like fried chicken and mashed potatoes, which he placed on the tiny stove. Then he put a brown grocery bag on the lopsided wooden kitchen table. In it were greens, corn, milk, eggs, and ground beef. “Come here.” He took my towel, dropped it to the floor. “You look real pretty. I missed you.” His lips pressed against mine, the weight of his body forced me onto the table. My hunger for food began to fade as our movements knocked the groceries onto the floor. For a brief moment a stream of sunlight peeked through the window, casting brightness into the room. Then a dark cloud appeared, and a smattering rain kissed the glass like sorrowful teardrops.
I CLUNG TO Henry’s guidance as tightly as I held onto the words in my books. We walked the aisles of the local markets where chickens were already dead—feathers plucked, bodies washed, heads off, ready for seasoning and cooking. We picked out onions, peas, carrots, lettuce—all clean and some in packages. The rice came in boxes and cornmeal in cardboard containers, not in burlap sacks as they had at the general store. He showed me how to choose each item, looking for just the right freshness, color, and feel. I already knew how to cook—one of the many things I learned in Momma’s kitchen—but Henry had some favorite dishes that I had to cook just right. He was particular about his meatloaf and showed me how his momma had made the dish. He wrote it all down for me, but I didn’t mind; it was easier knowing that he was getting what he wanted, so I didn’t have to guess about things.
Henry took me to the library one day, while we were taking a stroll through the neighborhood. It was an enormous building, with rows of concrete steps leading up to tall pillars flanking brass-looking doors with long handles that you had to pull hard to open. Inside, it was quiet and peaceful. I lost my breath when I looked up and saw the stacks and stacks of books, neatly arranged on shelves reaching from the first floor all the way up to the high ceiling.
Henry smiled when he saw the look on my face. “What do you think, Nell?”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. “It’s beautiful.”
“Books really mean this much to you?”
“They do. I bet Miss Parker knows all about places like this, but this is mine. Can I read here, at these tables? Can I touch the books? How many do you think are here?”
“Lots.”
“I’ll want to read as many books as possible. When you’re at work, I’ll come here, choose a book, sit, and read. Right there, in that sunny window. That’ll be my spot.” I imagined I would spend many afternoons here while Henry was at work. This is where I’d learn about the world, find relief from our tiny apartment, discover instant companions in the characters whose lives and voices I’d come to know. This would be my sanctuary.
“I’ll bring you here so you can take books home to read. It’s better for you to read at home.”
“Why? This is a wonderful place. I’m alone at home. At least here I’ll see people, maybe strike up a conversation or two.”
“I want you home when I’m at work. That’s where you belong.”
“Can I take some books now?”
“You need a card for borrowing.”
“Let’s get the card.”
He hesitated for a moment, then filled out the paperwork.
“Here,” said the lady behind the desk as she handed me the card. “Show this whenever you want to check out a book.”
Henry grabbed the card before I could touch it.
I asked her, “Where can I find books like Their Eyes Were Watching God or Little Women?”
“In literature. Everything is listed by author.” She pointed to the section of the room near the sunny window I’d admired.
“Henry,” I said, “I’m going to find a book or two to take home.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“Please! Let me walk alone, I want to feel this space.”
“Okay, but I’ll be right in that chair. Stay where I can see you.”
The aroma of the library washed over me. It was as though I’d opened my satchel and sniffed the collection of books permanently residing inside. I ran my fingers over the spines of different volumes, turned my head sideways to read titles and author names, noticed that some had shiny jacket covers while others were older, with frayed edges suggesting that many hands had caressed the stories inside.
When I reached the end of the aisle, I turned to see if Henry was watching me. He had slumped down in the leather chair, his arms resting on his chest. His legs were stretched straight out and crossed at the ankles. I could see that his eyes were closed; his chin moved up and down from easy breathing. I slipped around the corner, out of sight.
The next aisle was as full as the first, with books of different shapes, sizes, and colors lined up in perfect order. I decided to take a book with very frayed edges; I thought it must be one of the best, since it was so well worn. Along the window wall were small desks, one behind the other. Young people were using several of the desks, surrounded by books—they were probably students doing research of some kind. I took a seat at the only available desk and immediately felt like a student again. The wood had been etched with initials and heart signs, just like our little wood desks in Miss Parker’s classroom. We had never been allowed to mark the desks, but somehow the signs of youthful love managed to appear, just as they had here. A warm ray of sunlight crossed over the desk, my face, and the open pages of the book. I closed my eyes and
let the cozy corner fill me with hope.
“Nell, I told you to stay where I could see you.”
Henry’s voice startled me out of my reverie. I jumped up, knocking the chair to the floor as the book slammed shut. Everyone looked up from their books and stared at us. “Sorry. I got caught up in the books.”
“Did you find what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
I picked up the book. As we sped down the aisle to the counter, I grabbed another one with a shiny cover. The lady asked for the library card. I turned to Henry, hopeful that he’d hand the card to me and that I in turn could give it to her. But he ignored my open hand as if it didn’t exist and gave the lady my card.
She stamped the due-date cards for each book and slipped them into the sleeves on the inside back covers. Then she purposefully handed the books to me and said, “Enjoy.” I saw her place my library card inside the sleeve with the due-date card.
“Thank you.” I said.
Chapter Seven
IN JUNE I REALIZED THAT I HADN’T HAD CRAMPS SINCE the bus ride, nor seen any red stains or had to rush to the toilet with a sick stomach. I liked the way my body felt because of our lovemaking. My scalp was tender to the touch, my ears tingled with the slightest head movement. I didn’t want to remember that frightful monthly pain that could force me into a fetal position for hours. Momma had told me I had the same monthly problems she had as a young girl; over time the pain would let up, once the babies started to come. I didn’t want a baby yet, and Henry had assured me that we could plan when the baby would come, no matter how often we had sex. But there hadn’t been stains in my panties since the first night we made love, in April.
“We need to see a doctor,” Henry announced, after I told him I’d missed my monthly. “I’ll ask around at church or work, find a good one.”
“I thought we’d be able to plan. This is too soon.” My head was spinning with the possibility of having a baby right away.
“A family is just what we need.”
“I’m not ready, Henry.”
“I am.”
MONTHS LATER, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror while Henry finished breakfast. My body had taken on strange proportions with pregnancy. The little bit of sausage and eggs I’d nibbled had already found the inside of the toilet bowl. Our apartment was small, but today the walls seemed to close in, making it impossible to breathe. I’d lost sight of my ankles in the swollen mass my body had become.
When I joined Henry at the table, he didn’t look at me but rubbed my stomach as though it were his own; placing his ear against me to discern sounds of his baby moving inside, he said, “He’s growing pretty fast.” His facial stubble scratched the tender skin of my belly. I winced but didn’t pull away. “Gotta go” were his only words to me as he sped out the door.
I spent the morning cleaning the breakfast dishes and making the lumpy bed. The old mattress held onto the indentations of our bodies like molded dough; my quilt fit at the foot of the bed as decoration. As I folded and smoothed it flat, the colorful patches of fabric, hand-sewn stitches, and white lace pieces felt heavenly against my fingers. I could see the faces of Momma and the other ladies, hear their voices as they sat on the porch, chatting and quilting away. One would tell a story about her missus, the others would chime in with their version of the same story. Momma would shush them, reminding everyone that we children were within earshot. “Some things children shouldn’t know about too soon,” she’d admonish them. But we heard and hung onto every word they shared about their lives working in white folks’ homes. These memories brought welcome comfort to the cold silence in my new home.
Once the uneven wood floor was swept, the bathroom sparkling clean, the dresser dusted, and my little box arranged in its rightful spot, I grabbed a book and sat by the only window blessed with a minuscule stream of sunlight to read. I had the books from my satchel and the books Henry borrowed from the library. I told him the type of story I wanted to read—about young people making their way through life, encountering adventure, overcoming obstacles, always learning and growing. I’d hoped he’d be able to convey this to the people at the library, so that they could tell him which books to borrow. Whatever he brought home I read. Some of the stories were good, others not, but I read them just the same. One day I asked him to bring home some newspapers, figuring there might be things going on in the neighborhood or the world that I could read about. He told me, “No, old books are enough to keep you company.”
I wrote letters home, just as I had promised my parents. It was odd writing the first letter. I didn’t know how to start it. Miss Parker had taught us what the salutation was supposed to be. Sometimes she had us write letters to each other in class, and I would write, “Dear Barbara” or “Dear Tom.” But how was I supposed to address my parents? I tried “Dear Mother and Father,” but that sounded formal, not like me at all. “Dear Momma and Daddy” sounded young, as if I were still a little girl sitting on the front steps, hair twisted in knots, random pieces of straw caught between my braids—not a married woman and soon-to-be mother. Finally I landed on “Dear Mom and Dad.”
In my first letter I wrote about our long bus ride to Boston, the glimpses I had of the countryside and then of the cities as we traveled south to north. It reminded me of our walks down the dusty roads from the farm to the city nearby; yet this was bigger, vaster. I stretched out the little I’d seen to form a blanket around a city I had yet to see. And in this way, too, I made my small walk from our flat to the library sound like an adventure. I spoke of the children playing in the fire-hydrant springs, the way they reminded me of the river back at home. I described the thick green leaves that blossomed on the oak trees, mentioning how much I missed the beauty and scent of our magnolias. I explained that hearing neighbors’ sounds had become part of the rhythm of our home—feet stomping overhead while loud music was playing, doors opening and slamming shut with children running in and out, the hallway filled with a cacophony of smells from different foods being cooked in each apartment.
It was easy not to share that I had seen the streets only a few times so far, and never alone, only with Henry; that mostly I sat in a chair by the window, looking out at the world through old curtains and cracked dirty glass, leaning on the chipped sill. I wanted to write about the red blotches that had mysteriously appeared on my face this morning, making me look as if a case of child measles were consuming me, about the insatiable urges that had suddenly overcome me last night, for food I didn’t even care for, about how I could be cold one moment and hotter than a hog in heat the next, with sweat pouring from my skin. I wanted to ask Momma what I should do to prepare for childbirth, how would I handle the pain, what it would be like to mother with no mother nearby to guide me. I didn’t dare speak about the unending hunger Henry had for my body, and the relief I had gained only now, with another life growing inside. I wanted to ask why it felt as if I must give up my dreams so that Henry could have whatever he wanted.
I knew my letters were for everyone—Daddy, the boys, their wives, and even family friends; they’d all get to hear about my adventure up North. So I wrote about the beauty of the tall, brick row-houses with steep steps leading up to painted wood doors, the black window boxes filled with colorful spring flowers, perfumed bouquets inviting elegantly dressed people strolling by to pause and enjoy the scent. I couldn’t write about my deferred dreams.
Miss Parker had introduced us to Langston Hughes’s poem “A Dream Deferred.” Its meaning had been obscure to us, even after she explained the impact of slavery and oppression on a person’s soul. But I remembered liking the sound of the words, the way Miss Parker had recited the poem without reading from the page, her eyes closed, and the long silence once she was finished. As children we had failed to grasp the import of the poem in our own lives. Sitting here now, alone, anxious to become the woman I thought I would be, the poem’s meaning began to rub against my heart and drift in and out of my c
onsciousness, like an echo bouncing off the walls of a great empty hall.
Sleep overcame me. It was then that my dreams could come alive.
The woman walked down the street wearing a freshly pressed dress, nice shoes, a purse dangling from the crease of her elbow, a stylish hat on her head, with her finely coiffed hair peeking out on her forehead and over her ears. She stopped to chat with the neighbors across the street, to say hello to the shopkeeper from whom she always purchased newspapers and writing materials. She patted the young child, who was bent over playing with marbles, and waved to a friend passing in a car, someone who would occasionally stop in for a cup of tea. This woman was on her way to the library. Once there she would find her place in front of the circle of small chairs where the children sat and begin to read. It was her job to spend several afternoons a week reading to youngsters from the story books in the children’s section. The children would sit quietly, giving her the same attention she had always given to her teacher. After answering the children’s questions, congratulating them on the few words she asked them to read, saying good-bye, and tidying up, she would sit by herself, in the sunniest spot in the library, reading the book she had chosen for the day. Hours passed, and the sun grew warm on her face, tickling the hairs on her arms. There was something hidden behind her visage of happiness.
The scratch of metal against metal as the key turned in the lock, the sound of footsteps entering the room, Henry’s voice bellowing, “Nell!”—all these shattered my dream into tiny pieces that tumbled to the floor like so many shards of broken glass. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Guess I fell asleep.”
“Where’s dinner?”
“I haven’t started yet.”
“My baby okay?”
“Yes, baby’s fine. I just…”
“You just what?”
“Henry, I’m tired and bored. I need something else. More than just cooking, cleaning, sitting here waiting for you to come home. This isn’t what I thought life would be.”
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