by Bette Greene
Anton laughed. “You’ve been talking to my mother. Except she would have quoted the Bible, ‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’”
“A time to be born,” supplied Ruth. “And a time to die.”
Soon Ruth and Anton found a second point of agreement—that a good cook needs an appreciative eater or two. Then Ruth asked something a little surprising. It was something that she might have wondered out loud to me, but not to any other white person.
“How do they treat the colored folks there in Germany?”
“There aren’t any.”
Ruth’s face slowly turned incredulous. “Then how do you folks keep your houses clean?”
I watched Anton laugh without making a sound. “The German housewife treats dirt as her mortal enemy. Anyway, our houses are fine; it’s our politics and hearts that give us the trouble.”
“It ain’t only in your country, Mr. Reiker, no, sir! We’ve got plenty bad hearts right here in America. When I was jest a girl I ’members my mamma saying, ‘Things gonna be a lot better for my Ruth. My Ruth’s smart and she’s gonna grow up to be a teacher.’ But my mamma was wrong. She didn’t figger on them bad hearts. No, sir. And Mr. J.G. Jackson’s daddy was one of them.”
Ruth’s eyes rolled downward to the sun-speckled linoleum floor. “He’s gone on his reward now, Mr. Eugene Jackson. Well, back then he used to keep my mamma’s savings for her in his office safe. Every Saturday for so many years my mamma would go into Mr. Jackson’s office in the back of the cotton gin with fifty or seventy-five cents in her hand and tell him, ‘Put this in the envelope, Mr. Jackson. Put this away, please, for my girl’s education.’ Well, when the time come for me to go away to teacher’s school, there weren’t but three dollars and twenty-five cents in that envelope.”
Is it possible that the rich would steal from the poor? Why hadn’t she ever told me that story before? After all, that was my friend Edna Louise’s grandfather. “Ruth, how come you never told me before about what Mr. Jackson did to you?”
“’Cause telling bad stories ’bout the dead ain’t the best way to be spending time, and I ain’t proud of myself even if I did jest tell it for purposes of illustration.”
Then almost on signal we all began silently to watch the white dotted swiss curtains respond to the gentle change in the wind. The breakfast room was filled with lazy warmth, and I wondered if there was any better place to be than here. Here with my two favorite people getting to know each other.
Though after a while when you start to feel more the hardness of the chair than the softness of its cushion it would be good if just the two of us could get up and take a walk together down Main Street. I’d introduce him as my good friend, Anton. Anton Reiker. And when he’d look back at me and smile everybody would see, plain as day, that this beautiful man really liked me.
Ruth’s spoon sounded against the saucer beneath her cup. “When I had my boy, my Robert,” she looked over at Anton. “He’s ’bout your age now. I said, like my mamma before me said, ‘Things gonna be different for my child ’cause I ain’t gonna save no money in no white man’s private safe, no, sir!’ I put it all in the Rice County National Bank where Mr. John Rusk marked down every deposit in a little blue book. And so one fine day I saw my dream come true.
“On that day just before the sun come up Claude and me walked Robert down to the railroad station. And in his hand Robert was carrying all his things in a suitcase the church had given him the Sunday before. When they flagged down the Atlanta train, the one that was gonna take him to Morehouse College, I pulled out my handkerchief and Robert said, ‘Don’t you cry none, Ma. I leave here only a man, but I’m gonna come back to you a true minister of God.’
“And he would have been too ’cepting for the letter he got a few precious months later from Mr. Price Cook, the head man of the draft board. I went right down to Cook Brothers’ Furniture and Appliances store and I ’plained to him how this is Robert’s one chance in this world and I begged him to just let my boy finish up his schooling, let him become a true minister of the gospel. ‘Ruth, I’m surprised at you,’ he told me. ‘You oughta know I can’t do that. Why, this is your boy’s country too and he’s gotta do his share so this country will always belong to us Americans.’”
Funny, but Ruth never talked like that to me. Oh, sometimes she says just enough of something to let me know it is all a lie what the white folks keep saying. That lie they tell each other so often that they come to believe it’s true: “I understands these niggers; they’re happy and they don’t know no better.”
“Mr. Reiker.” She called his name slowly, thoughtfully. “You’re a smart man. I was wondering, do you reckon that this here world is ever gonna amount to much?”
“Call me Anton. Well, I’m not exactly overburdened by excessive optimism. For centuries men have believed that religion is the answer.” Ruth, as if by instinct, clutched the gold cross at her throat. “But I have seen the evil perpetrated by religious men. Did you know that before every battle Hitler calls upon God for victory?”
Anton paused to make sure his point had sunk in. “A lot of people today believe education can save the world. I used to believe that, but I became discouraged while watching the educated Germans express their enthusiasm for this war. To give you an example,” he said, looking from Ruth to me, “would one of you ask me what is the oldest tradition of the proud University of Göttingen?”
“What is their oldest tradition?” I asked, feeling like a parrot.
“Dueling. The landsmannschaft!” He stopped short like he had just run into a snag. “I don’t know if you have anything like this in your country or not. It’s a secret society. The word means ‘clan.’”
“We have the Klan, sure do,” responded Ruth.
“Well, the landsmannschaften would challenge each other to a duel on any pretext,” Anton continued. “Sometimes even the narrow sidewalk of Göttingen was disputed by students from opposing clans. It’s called ‘defending their honor.’”
“I think maybe good changes will come when our leaders are better and there aren’t any more evil dictators,” I said.
Anton nodded. “There are those who would agree with you. But leaders don’t usually spring forth to impose their will upon a helpless people. They, like department stores, are in business to give people what they think they want. So basically you always come back to people. How do you make better people?”
“I believes,” said Ruth, “the Lord himself would be mighty interested in creating better people. But if the Lord already knows how to do it then I don’t, so you jest tell me.”
“Maybe psychiatry?” I offered. “I read in the Reader’s Digest where lots of people are helped to be better by psychiatry.”
Anton’s lips pressed together. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Why can’t you believe it?” I challenged. “The Reader’s Digest wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t so.”
Anton grinned. He looked like a charter member of Our Gang Comedy. “Maybe you’re right, but maybe, just maybe, we all have an enormous capacity for believing in anything that will provide us with a bit of comfort.” Anton caught Ruth’s eye. “Haven’t you found this to be true?”
“I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Rei—Anton. Yes, sir, I’ve found this here a cold world, a mighty cold world, and a man and a woman, well, they needs a little comforting ’fore they freeze to death.”
“I can’t argue with that,” said Anton heavily, as though conceding to Ruth.
“You don’t believe in religion or education or psychiatry,” I said, holding up three fingers. “Is there anything at all you do believe in?”
“Of course.” Anton raised the coffee to his lips and when he replaced the cup, it was empty. “I believe that love is better than hate. And that there is more nobility in building a chicken coop than in destroying a cathedral.”
Ruth nodded in affirmation. “Ain’t it the truth.”
Suddenly I h
eard the crunch of driveway gravel over the low hum of a car motor. Ruth clasped her heart. “Mr. Bergen! Lordy, it’s him! Hide him, Patty, under your bed! Quick!”
As I led Anton to my bedroom I squeezed his hand so he’d know we would never betray him. Anton’s hand left mine as he slid under the maple bed.
Out in the driveway a voice called Ruth’s name. A woman’s voice! I cautiously lifted one slat of the Venetian blind to see Mrs. Henkins, little Sue Ellen’s mother, protruding her beauty parlor coiffure out of the car window. “Is it O.K. to take Sharon to Wynne City with us? I have to buy Sue Ellen a pair of tap dancing shoes.”
“Yes, Miz Henkins, I reckon it’ll be O.K. What time you figgering on returning?”
I didn’t hear Mrs. Henkins’ answer, but the car backed down the driveway and took off in the direction of Wynne City.
In the breakfast room we three sat totally absorbed in watching agitated curtains being egged on by a suddenly gusty wind. It was as though we were all waiting for something to happen.
After a while, Anton spoke. “About what happened—I’m sorry. There’s no reason why you both should have to take risks. Tonight when it’s dark I’ll go.”
“I’ll pack you up some food to take with you,” said Ruth with unaccustomed speed. “And I have a couple of dollars and some change you can have.”
Did she realize what she was saying? Did she understand that he meant to leave us for good? “We’re not afraid of anything, really. And it’s not safe for you to leave here. They’re all looking for you, Anton. Tell him, Ruth. Tell him!”
But Ruth didn’t say anything. She got up from her chair, letting her eyes sweep across the table as she picked up the empty coffee cups and carried them off to the kitchen.
13. Divided Loyalty
FROM OVER AT the button factory the five o’clock whistle blew, which didn’t mean a thing since quitting time wasn’t for another hour. I leaned back against the front stoop and tried to come up with the logic behind a five o’clock whistle.
But two men were all that I could think of. If I ever had to sacrifice one for the other which one would it be? The one who had fed and sheltered me, or the one whom I had fed and sheltered?
Sharon came out the front door, clutching her Baby Jane doll by the hair. Sharon, pretty Sharon, if I had been born that pretty maybe they would like me as much as her. And she’s going to be about as popular as Betty Grable. My father says that in a few years, “the boys will be swarming about, thick as flies.”
She sat down. “My baby has a boo-boo.” Sharon pointed to a dark smudge on the doll’s forehead.
“Rock your baby in your arms,” I told her, “and tell her that you love her.”
Sharon swayed back and forth and in a small voice began to chant: “I love you little baby, I love you little baby. I love you, love you, love you, little baby.”
Six o’clock came before my thoughts had congealed into plans. My father’s green Chevy pulled into the driveway and stopped inside the garage. How close were the two men now? In yards, feet, and inches, exactly how far above my father is Anton? Funny, but with just a little information from me my father could achieve an instant acceptance in this town. The kind that he has wanted all his life. And it would only take one phone call: “Hello? Sheriff Cauldwell? ... Yes, this is Harry Bergen. I’ve got your Nazi. ... Yes, he’s hiding in the rooms above my garage. Now here’s what I want you to do. ...”
Mr. Harry Bergen, prominent local merchant. His picture would be in all the newspapers. The President, or J. Edgar Hoover at the very least, would pin a medal on him, and the Jenkinsville Rotarians would call him a hero.
And then one evening after all the commotion had died down, I’d be sitting alone on the screened-in porch. In the twilight he’d come out and without saying a word, he’d sit beside me on the metal glider. After a while he’d casually drop his arm around my shoulder and say, “I haven’t been much of a father, have I?”
It would take me a couple of swallows before I could manage to say, “Oh, you’ve been all right, really.”
We’d just sit there for a while longer not saying anything. Every once in a while, though, he’d give my arm a couple of gentle pats to show how much he appreciated my help in apprehending the dangerous Nazi. Then probably he’d remark what a hot night it was, and maybe we ought to take a walk to the drug store for a cold Dr Pepper. “Oh, I’d like that, Daddy, I really would.”
From inside the house I heard Ruth calling us to supper. I stood up and wondered how to go about starting from the very beginning. All the bad things were in the past. This is now and I am his daughter and he will love me. They say Jesus lived a truly perfect life. If I tried, really tried, I too could be perfect, or at the very least, sweet like Sharon. As my hand reached out for the door, I saw Sharon’s Baby Jane doll lying face down beneath the rainspout.
“And I love you, love you, love you, little baby.” I sat down at my place, but immediately jumped up and cheek-kissed both my mother and father before sitting down again. Look at him now. Be sweet. “Hey, that’s an awfully nice tie you’re wearing, is it from the store?” He said it was. A compliment about the store, maybe that would please him more. “That sign you put up over the shoe department—the large red one that says, SHOE DEPARTMENT. What a good idea! Is it good for business?”
His head was bent. “Eat your dinner and don’t ask so many questions.”
“But did you know that this doctor from Boston, I read it somewhere, said pleasant conversation is good for the digestive system?”
“And I told you to shut up and eat your dinner!” His anger ended my flirtation with perfection. If there were questions or confusion before, they weren’t there anymore. I knew what I was going to do, and I knew why.
He lifted a fork overburdened with mashed potatoes, and I watched as the gravy started to roll down his chin. Across his mean, thin line of a mouth he smeared the paper napkin. It’s not even a contest leaving you, dear Father. I know it will be difficult for you, deciding what to tell people, but will you miss me?
And what about you, Mother? Will I miss you? And do you love me? I only know for sure that we’ve never liked each other. Anyway it’ll be easier loving you from a distance.
And Sharon. I’ll love you no matter where I am. Sharon and Ruth, that’s who I’ll miss.
Ruth came out of the bathroom wearing her blue rayon walking-home dress, and at the bottom of the V-neck was the rhinestone pin in a flower design that I gave her last Mother’s Day. In a brown grocery sack she carried the cotton house dress that always got a washing and an ironing every time it got a wearing.
“I’ll walk you a-ways,” I offered.
When we reached Nigger Bottoms, Ruth said that it was getting on towards seven and I’d best be turning back. “Well, before I go,” I said, wondering what I was going to say next, “I want to wish you a nice evening and—and good-bye.”
Ruth smiled and wished me a pleasant evening. Then her forehead wrinkled up and I expected that I was in for some kind of warning. “Now, Honey Babe, I don’t want you nowhere near that garage, you understand? Anton’s gonna be leaving after dark, and it won’t do nobody no good if the law catches him here. No Jewish girl and no colored woman needs that kinda trouble.”
I hated seeing her so heavy with cares. “Ruth, you oughtna worry. This doctor in Boston says that worrying makes you feel old before your time.”
“This here doctor from Boston you’re always talking about,” she said. “Did he say what you’re ’pose to do with your burdens? They got pills in Boston for that?”
When she gets sarcastic there’s not much I can think to say to her. But I didn’t want to leave her like that. I guess I didn’t want to leave her at all. “Well, now,” I said, grabbing her hand, “you be good now.” What a stupid, idiotic, last good-bye thing to say. Even for me. “Well, Ruth,” I said, trying again. “Good-bye.”
As I turned I caught a look on her face of surprise or suspicion. I walked
on, feeling a painful pinching against the hollow of my stomach. “Well, see you tomorrow,” I called out, and without even turning to look I knew her doubts were being laid to rest.
I found my bedroom in quiet shadows. I was aware of the room like you are when you look, I mean really look, at something for the first, or last, time. The twin maple beds with their matching yellow and blue chenille spreads, the linoleum with its pictures of the cat and the fiddle and the old lady in the shoe that had been a source of embarrassment for quite a few years now. I remember Edna Louise looking at that linoleum and saying, “I haven’t liked Mother Goose in years.”
The only thing that I really liked in my room was the desk my grandma had bought me. Inside was my simulated leather five-year diary. I wanted to record my life so I wouldn’t forget anything, but then I discovered there wasn’t much worth remembering.
For a while I tried to use my diary for self-improvement. I made three vertical columns down the page and marked the headings: DATE. CRITICISM. FROM WHOM. I thought if I could see them written down then correcting my shortcomings might not be all that difficult. I didn’t have to wait long for my first entry. “5/15/41—7:35 A.M.: ‘Get that hair out of your face.’—Mother. 5/15/41—7:45 A.M.: ‘Even when you comb it, it doesn’t look it. Can’t you get that dirty hair out of your face?’—Mother.”
Water began to drain noisily down the pipes. Sharon shrieked for a towel. Still time enough for packing. What did I need? Springy tennis shoes for jumping aboard slow-moving freight trains, polo shirts that never need ironing, blue jeans that save the legs from cockleburs, and a sweater for when the nights turn chilly. And, in case we go out together in some distant place, a dress.
