by Bette Greene
A car passed. Chrome hubcaps mirrored the sun’s rays. I began collecting those gray-white stones that were within lazy reach. Improve your aim. Hit the hubcap. Win a prize.
From some distance away, I heard a boy’s thin voice calling me. He was short-cutting across our yard, walking as though he wore springs on his feet, up-and-down Freddy Dowd.
The last time I saw Freddy, a week ago, we were playing marbles on the sidewalk and my best agate was at stake. Suddenly he appeared from inside our house, my father. “You get yourself in this house this minute!” As soon as I closed the front door, he was standing there, telling me that he didn’t ever want to catch me playing with that Dowd boy, not ever again. I didn’t understand why.
“But why can’t I? He’s very nice.”
“Are you questioning me?” my father demanded. “Are you contradicting me?”
I told him that I wasn’t, and after a while he cooled off and went back to the store. The crisis was over.
But later when I looked outside my bedroom window I saw Freddy was still there waiting for me. So I called down that I couldn’t come out anymore, not today, because it was getting close to suppertime; and Freddy nodded before slowly loping away. Later, though, I thought about it, wondering if he could have heard. Feelings are fragile too.
Freddy said, “’Lo,” and sat down next to me. “Hey, whatcha doing?”
“Ohhhh, I’m playing Hit the Hubcap, it’s a wonderful game I just invented. I’m having a wonderful time.”
“Hey, lemme play.”
“O.K., but first you have to gather up the ammunition.” I held up a smooth, gray pebble. “Ten for you and ten for me.”
Freddy wandered barefoot over assorted road gravel, searching out only the small quality stones he knew I would like. In winter Freddy wore denim overalls with a checkety shirt of faded red flannel, but now he was dressed in his summer attire—the same worn denims without the shirt.
He counted out the stones in a one-for-you and a one-for-me fashion and then sat down on the curb to play the wonderful game. When no car came along, we played Hit the Oilcan.
“Hey! Hey! There’s a car a-coming” shouted Freddy.
I called out last-minute instructions: “Dead center of the hubcap is bull’s-eye. Hundred points.”
Achoo-ey, Achoo-ey. From the sound of its motor it was a tired old thing that used sneezes as a means of power. The car moved slowly into firing range. Then small stones pinged against metal. A single stone revolved around and around the hubcap before firing upward against—crack! The Window!
From inside the car a family of faces turned to stare vacantly, like they had all experienced sudden, violent slaps across their faces.
I ran. Oh, God, now what have I done? I ran through our yard, behind our house, and to the field beyond. I ran until my heart warned that it was ready to explode. And then deep in the field I fell down and let the tall grass bury me.
After a while my heart slowed down. Nobody was hurt. It wasn’t exactly the crime of the century or anything. Just an accident that I caused, but an accident I could make right. Yes, if only I could find them again. I remembered their car. The sickly sound of it. The lackluster blackness of it. And there, sitting atop the hood, a silver swan with V-spread wings. I could find that car again. At this very minute it was probably parked in front of some Main Street store.
Ruth would loan me the money to pay those folks for a new window, I knew she would. I pictured the scene between the car’s owner and me—“I want you to know that it was an accident, and I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” The old farmer would slowly nod his head, taking it all in, before saying that I was a fine, honest girl. Maybe we would even shake hands before saying good-bye.
I got to my feet. Sticking to the front of my damp polo shirt was a layer of field dust and down my knee ran a single rail of dry, red blood. I couldn’t remember hurting my knee. As I walked through the field I could hear Ruth singing: “I looked over Jordan and what did I see-e?”
She didn’t just sing from her neck up like other folks I know.
“Coming for to car-ry me home. ...”
Her songs always seemed to come from a deeper, quieter place than that.
I swallowed down the sadness in my throat before going into the kitchen. She sat there at the white metal table shelling a small mountain of peas. Through squinting eyes she gave me a questioning look.
“Honey Babe, you is jest too pitiful-looking for the cat to drag in. You been fighting with Freddy? Now you tell Ruth.”
“We didn’t fight,” I said dully. “I never in my whole life had a fight with Freddy, and that’s a terrible thing to say, besides. You sound exactly like my father. Just ’cause Freddy’s poor and doesn’t dress up you think he’s not as good as anybody else. Well, he is, and it says so right in the Constitution of the United States of America: ‘All men are created equal.’”
Ruth shook her head. “I asks you if you had a fight and you gives me a history lesson. A person can shore learn a lot of things around here.”
I sat down next to her at the kitchen table, but not one more word did she say. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Gently, even against my will, Ruth was supposed to squeeze the information from me.
I realized it wouldn’t happen that way, so I just spilled it out. For a long while Ruth didn’t say anything. Then she sighed and asked, “Them folks, did you know them? Was they white folks or colored?”
“I don’t remember knowing them, but they were white folks from the country.”
Somewhere on her forehead a line deepened, and I knew it wasn’t so good that they were white. Ruth pulled down a brown simulated-alligator bag from the top of the refrigerator. “Did those folks know you is Mr. Bergen’s girl?”
“No—I don’t know. Maybe they did,” I said, remembering running towards the rear of our house. Not very smart.
She pushed aside a black eyeglass case and a Bible about the size of an open palm to bring out a red zippered change purse with the printed words, “Souvenir of Detroit, Michigan.” Inside the change purse some coins jangled, but all the paper money was pressed neatly into one small square. She opened the three one-dollar bills to their full size. Carefully she refolded them before placing the money in my hand.
“Now you ask the man how much a window costs ’fore you go giving him all your money.”
She would do all this for me? There between her neck and shoulders was the warm cove where a head could lie and rest. And there I would be home. Home safe.
Ruth’s eyes met mine. Could she know? Could she possibly know? There’s nothing to know! I’m not a baby and she’s not my mother. I ran out of the back door, letting the screen make a slamming noise.
As I walked toward downtown I noticed a breeze pushing a few elm leaves around without doing much more than promising to cool things off. Still, my thoughts began to tidy themselves up and I felt better. After all, wasn’t Ruth on my side? And wasn’t I even now going out to right a wrong?
It was then that I saw a green Chevy roaring down the street towards me. My father! For a moment I thought I was going to take off behind one of the houses or maybe hide behind the shoulder-high hedges that separated front yards from public walks. But I didn’t. Didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Didn’t anything.
The car passed me and then came backing up to a jerky stop. The door was opened and hurled shut. His face was frozen a bluish whitish color, like all the red blood had iced over. With long strides he came toward me. My back pressed against the hedge.
“Let me tell you what happened. Please!”
It was just noise to him. A mask cannot really hear. He kept coming toward me. I propelled myself backward, falling into and finally through the tight little branches. From across the protecting hedge he commanded, “Come here this instant!” At his temple a vein was pulsating like a neon sign.
“Please give me a chance to explain. It was an accident,” I said. “I was aiming at
the hubcaps.”
He pointed a single quivering finger at me. “If you don’t come here this instant I’ll give you a beating you’re never going to forget.”
Did that mean if I came willingly he wouldn’t hurt me? His face showed no sign of a thaw. Then I felt the warming spirit of Ruth. “The Lord gonna protect all his children.” Fingers crossed, I stepped through the opening in the hedge to stand soldier-straight before my father.
“Closer!”
Only one foot advanced before a hand tore across my face, sending me into total blackness. But then against the blackness came a brilliant explosion of Fourth-of-July stars. Red, yellow, blue, and then green. I never knew those stars were real; I had always thought they were only in comic books. The pain was almost tolerable when a second blow crashed against my cheek, continuing down with deflected force to my shoulder.
Using my arm as a shield, I looked up. I saw the hate that gnarled and snarled his face like a dog gone rabid. He’s going to find out someday I can hate too—“Ahhhh!”
Knees came unbuckled. I gave myself to the sidewalk. Between blows I knew I could withstand anything he could give out, but once they came, I knew I couldn’t.
Hands that were in the throes of a fit worked to unfasten his belt buckle. Rolling over, I hugged the hedges. He bent low to send the black leather flying. “Ahhhheeeeehh!” My God! Legs—on fire! After the first flash of piercing pain subsided, my hate roared up strong enough to keep the tears away.
“I’ll teach you to throw rocks at people!” he shouted, whipping the belt backwards through space.
“Nooo—ohhhh! Please!” I begged. Can’t stand more— can’t.
I heard the leather sing as it raced against the air—my eyes clamped closed.
And then they came, ugly and unexpected, those violent little cries that seem to have a life of their own. Short yelps of injury mingled with anger and defeat.
A car door opened and slammed shut. A motor gunned as though for a quick getaway and then roared off.
6. Frizzly Freak
WHEN SATURDAY CAME I was glad. Most country folks stop working about noontime, and by one o’clock Main Street starts jamming up with muddy pickup trucks filled with yellow-haired children.
And there’ll be lots of colored folks in town with their kids too, only difference is they’ll be all scrubbed and shiny-shoed like it was Sunday. Another thing that’s different about them, and I do a lot of listening in on other people’s conversations so I know, is how they speak to one another. So respectful and everything. It’s as though they try to give each other the respect that the rest of the world holds back.
I mean, if you’ll notice how the poor white people talk to one another, mostly they don’t even bother to call each other by name. But the colored are different, always remembering to give each other the title of Mr. Somebody or Miz Somebody except, and Ruth told me this, when they go to the same church and then it’s Brother Somebody or Sister Somebody.
Saturday has always been my favorite day because my father hires extra salesladies, and he never says a word when I pitch in to help. Working makes me feel useful for a change, and I get to talk with an awful lot of people. If you really, really listen, you can learn things. Sometimes you can learn things people don’t even know they’re teaching. Like the preacher’s wife, Mrs. Benn, who only last Saturday was talking about the greed of some people, always wanting things. And then in the very next breath complaining how the First Baptist doesn’t pay her husband enough so she can buy clothes or hire a Nigra.
From the corner closet, which I share with Sharon, I took out my light-blue middy dress. It happens to be my favorite and not only because I picked it out myself but because it has no sashes, no lace, and it isn’t pink. Within twenty strokes of the brush my hair came alive. And it’s just the right color hair too—not flashy red or dull brown, but auburn. Alive auburn.
Standing in front of the Victory Cafe, Mr. Blakey was talking to Mr. Jackson. Mr. Henkins pulled his black Oldsmobile into a narrow space, and before he was completely out of the car he called, “Hey, did y’all hear the news?”
“Sure did,” said Mr. Blakey. “Heard it on the radio not five minutes ago. Isn’t that something? Imagine the FBI catching those eight dirty Nazis ’fore they could do a nickel’s worth of damage.”
“Know whether they sunk the U-boats?” asked Mr. Jackson. “Sure hope they blew them to smithereens.”
“The radio didn’t say,” said Mr. Henkins. “But they caught all them saboteurs and that’s the important thing to remember.”
Mr. Jackson became aware of my presence, so I just said, “Hello,” while I brushed some imaginary dust from the skirt of my middy before walking into the store. I straightened the story out in a logical sequence so I could tell it in a businesslike way to my father.
He was leaning against the register, taking a long draw from a cigarette.
I walked over. “I came to give you some important news.”
“What news?” He blew out smoke along with the question.
“The news of the landing in the middle of the night of the German U-boats. Right here on the American coastline.” I was encouraged by his head which jutted forward as though he wanted to get closer to the source of information. “Now, the Germans thought they could land saboteurs and nobody would know, but the FBI, through very secret information, found out about the scheme and captured them, all eight of them!”
“Where did you hear that?”
“It’s the big news. It was on the radio not five minutes ago.” Snapping on the shelf radio, he gave me a look while waiting for the tubes to warm. I tried to figure out just what the glance meant: I’m too young and/or stupid to comprehend a news bulletin; I’m deliberately lying to him; or maybe I’m just having a childhood fantasy.
Finally the radio came on, and right away I recognized the voice of Lorenzo Jones apologizing to his wife, Belle, for buying fishing gear with money from the cookie jar. My father moved the dial—religious music. And again—a commercial for Pepto-Bismol.
“Just wait till the twelve o’clock news,” I said, already backing away. “You’ll hear about it then.”
My mother was busy taking ladies’ sandals from their boxes and placing them on a table where a boldly written sign stated: SPECIAL! ONLY $1.98. She worked hard in the store, you have to give her credit for that. And not just in selling or straightening up counters the way the other salesladies do but in thinking up ways “to turn a profit on the new and to get our money out of the old.” She was especially good at that because I think she likes the store better than anything else.
Mr. Blakey came into the store, throwing my father a wave. “Harry, didya hear the news? About the Nazi saboteurs? They were planning on dynamiting the Alcoa Plant in Alcoa, Tennessee. FBI caught them with their pants down. Carrying one hundred and fifty thousand bucks in bribe money.”
“Yeah, I heard,” answered my father. “Patricia told me all about it.”
“Patricia told me all about it” echoed in my brain. I had done something nice for my father, and he was pleased with me and he might never again question my honesty. And maybe I had even won the right to work in the store when it wasn’t Saturday.
Suddenly I felt greedy; I wanted my mother to be pleased with me too. “Hey, Mother,” I said. “Did you hear about the saboteurs the FBI caught?”
She stopped her work to see if I looked decent enough. “Did you and Sharon have lunch?”
I must have passed inspection. “Yes, ma’am.”
She went back to unboxing the shoes. “What did y’all eat?”
“Oh, we had some—some—Oh, I know. Leftover meat loaf, and corn on the cob, and some of those store-bought cookies you bought for dessert.”
“What’re Sharon and Ruth doing?”
“Well, Sharon went to Sue Ellen’s, and Ruth is taking all the dishes out of the cabinet. Are we gonna get busy today?”
“No. Why don’t you run along—go play with E
dna Louise instead of hanging around the store.”
Without her even trying, she could get me mad. “Because, like I’ve told you before, Edna Louise and Juanita Henkins and just about everybody I know have gone off to Baptist Training Camp. And I wasn’t planning to hang around; I was planning to wait on customers.” I thought of a few other things to tell her too. Things like if she doesn’t really want me then I’ll go along. She’d be sorry to lose such a good clerk on a busy Saturday. But I didn’t say it because I don’t think she’d care one bit if I left. Actually, I believe she’d prefer it.
I’ll tell her what a good saleslady I am. “Hey, Mother, you want to know something? Last Saturday I sold twenty-five dollars’ worth of clothes and stuff to just one customer! Did you know that?” Liar. My best sale was barely eighteen bucks. Damn it, Conscience, go away.
Mother stopped her work to look again at me. Probably she had no idea that I was capable of making such a big sale. “I wonder,” she said, more to herself than to me, “if Miz Reeves has time for you today.”
Miz Reeves? Miz Reeves from the beauty parlor! “Oh, no! My hair looks fine just the way it is, and I washed it myself only two days ago.”
She started walking towards the telephone as though she hadn’t heard a word I said. “Let’s see if she can take you now.”
I ran slightly ahead of her. “Mother, would you please for once in your life listen to me? My hair is the best thing about me. People are always telling me how lucky I am having such naturally wavy hair. And you know Mrs. Reeves can’t set hair. All she ever does is to make those tight, little-old-lady curlicues.”
She picked up the receiver and gave it a crank.
I pressed it down again. “Listen to me! Everybody makes jokes about Mrs. Reeves. They say she only thinks she can set hair because she fixes up the lady customers at the Spencer Funeral Parlor and none of them ever made a complaint. And that’s the truth!”
