Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

  It’s Sunday. Sugar sees I’ve risen and lets go a cockle-doodle-doo.

  “Too late,” I tell the bird. “Where were you at dawn?”

  Sugar turns his backside to me and struts to the henhouse by the stables, where I spy a little head peering around the side. Sue Ann’s girl, Comfort, is watching me.

  “What’re you doin’?” I say. “Come over here and let me see you.”

  She comes around the side and skips to me.

  “Why’re you sleeping outside?” she asks.

  “Ain’t no room inside. Why’re you over here spying on me?”

  “I ain’t spying. I’m looking.”

  “Your mama know you’re here?”

  “She’s the one sent me to find out if you’re comin’ to Bible study today.”

  We’ve had no church sermons since Preacher and Odell left for market, just Bible study, but I ain’t gone. I reach out my hand, and Comfort takes it and pulls to help me up. I rock myself back and forth ’til I can get my feet on the ground. She pulls so hard her little behind hits the ground once I’m up and out.

  “Hoo, child, you’re strong,” I tell her. “I mighta been stuck there all day if you didn’t come along.”

  It takes me a minute to stand upright. Seems to take longer and longer these days to move without pain. I raise my hands up over my head and stretch.

  “You gonna be at the prayer meetin’?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “You gonna sing?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “What you gonna sing?”

  “Jesus loves me!”

  “You know he does!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she says. “He loves you, too.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  She giggles behind her hand.

  “Tell your mama I’ll be there.”

  She runs out the yard and down the street to deliver the news. When she is gone I steady myself against the porch rail and close my eyes before pushing myself up the steps to live in the day. Inside Alma and Mary fold their blankets and stack them on the floor. Edna’s got biscuits in the oven and coffee on the stove. There’s energy in this house. Mary runs and hugs me around the legs.

  “You slept late,” she said.

  “I sure did. Smells good, Edna.”

  These girls are good soldiers in their mama’s army.

  “Your mother up?” I ask Alma. The girl ain’t been away from her mama since they got here except to steal food and hide it on a back shelf in the stable. I’ve not said anything yet. What can I say to a hungry child with a sick mother and winter coming?

  “She’s awake,” Alma tells me, “but she ain’t getting up.”

  I cross to the kitchen and pour some black pepper in my hand and hold it tight in my fist so it don’t spill.

  “Time for that to change,” I say and Alma’s eyes light up. She races ahead to the bedroom door.

  “Let me do this,” I tell her. “Sick people are like rattlesnakes. They don’t like to be pushed or prodded.”

  I go into my bedroom where Gertrude lies awake on my side of the bed staring up at the ceiling wearing one of my old nightgowns. Even the blanket that covers her can’t hide how skinny she is. Her hipbones jut out so far, it’s a wonder they ain’t broke through the skin.

  “Why ain’t you out of that bed?” I ask her.

  She rolls over and turns away from me. I yank the cover from her with my left hand, but she catches hold and pulls it back up and under her chin, closing her eyes and pulling her knees to her chest. There’s strength there. I move to the side of the bed and blow the pepper in her face. She’s mad, but gets caught in a fit of sneezes. She’s got to sit up to clear her head.

  “It’s time to get up and start working on getting you back to where you belong.” I come alongside to help her stand. She pulls her arm away.

  Between sneezes she spits out, “Why’re you helpin’ me?”

  “Christian thing to do,” I tell her.

  She pushes herself off the bed, stands and says, “I don’t need no nigger friends.”

  I get right up in Gertrude’s face. “Don’t you ever call me that again.”

  She don’t look away, but finally says, “All right, I won’t.”

  “Seems to me you need any friend you can get, Gertrude Pardee. Now get your tail out to that table and sit down to eat with your children. You’re scaring them.”

  She weaves across the floor like a drunk, but I don’t reach out to steady her. She’s got to make her own way.

  * * *

  When I walk out of my house there’s a whole posse of turkeys in the field by the lane, eight in all. The Toms are preening. They got themselves worked up, spitting and booming trying to get the females’ attention, no notion Thanksgiving is upon them. Walking down the road to Sue Ann’s I am amazed all over again at how quick the good folks of Shake Rag have worked to clear the land. Trees are moved from the lane so all can pass through. Every roof and outhouse has been repaired or rebuilt, some already painted green to match the last of summertime grass. Save chimneys and outhouses blowing over, we weathered what come fairly well. Beyond us is another story all together. Telegraph poles have been moved from the road, but the lines, and all manner of debris, are so tangled in trees they hang like snakes from the branches. An automobile sits on its side in the field outside Shake Rag, and Mrs. Walker’s roof is half torn off. If her heart didn’t stop when it did, the hurricane most certainly would have killed her. Maybe it’s a blessing she didn’t have to suffer through this. I don’t know. Ain’t mine to see. How the other counties inward fared is my question, but they got to have done well enough for Mr. Coles to get through. If he can manage a journey at his age, then surely Odell, who is ten years younger, can too.

  I hear all the women in the house from the road as I come, singing me to the porch. I’m late to join eight Sisters present and ready for the spirit. Little Comfort stands in the middle singing the song, waving her arms like she’s leading a choir. Mabel and Myrtis share looks when I come through the door. It’s quick but I see. I’ve been the subject of talk. I join the end of the song as I make my way to the empty chair next to Sue Ann and do a little dance with Comfort as I go. Sue Ann smiles as I ease myself down. No husbands are here today. Roy has to work the railroad and will be gone the better part of the week. The rest of the men are either working or too tired from working, so their wives have come to be sure they got God’s ear if needed. When the song is done, Comfort goes to sit against the wall of the parlor with the rest of the children. They lift their legs one after the other as she comes through, making play out of it. Mabel nods her head to me from across the circle, and I respond in kind. Then Sue Ann asks us all to take up hands and leads us in prayer, thanking the good Lord for the day we find ourselves in, for the clear skies and good breeze, and for continued blessings on the good people of Shake Rag, particularly those in need.

  “Yes, Lord,” we say.

  She asks special prayers for Preacher and Odell, and I squeeze her hand in gratitude. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. She says amen, looks at me and smiles. Opening her Bible, Sue Ann says, “I ain’t no Preacher, Lord knows that. I’m just a woman in His service who wakes up afraid every day.”

  “I know that,” Myrtis says.

  “Afraid for my children, afraid for my husband, myself and afraid for Shake Rag.”

  “We’re gonna be all right,” I say. “We’re gonna be all right.”

  “How you know that?” Mabel asks me.

  All the Sisters get quiet. Sue Ann clears her throat but don’t go on. Even the children against the wall sit still. Looks like Mabel’s been put in charge; otherwise somebody would have something to say.

  “I ain’t the only one here knows my Bible,” I say. “That’s what the word tells us.”


  “You know the Garretts lost their boy over in Bowen to fever?” Mabel tells me. “Left behind a wife and two children.”

  I feel heat climb up my face. Across from me in a chair Dot Garrett is stricken by Mabel’s words, like her boy’s died a second time. She presses a handkerchief to her mouth.

  “Oh, Dot,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Thank you, Retta,” she whispers.

  “If you answered your door you would know these things,” Mabel said.

  “Let it go, Mabel,” Dot says. “Now she knows.”

  But Mabel ain’t done.

  “Why you close your door to me, Retta? Why am I sitting here telling you news near on two weeks after that boy was laid to rest?”

  I can only shake my head. My voice has left me.

  Sue Ann finally interrupts. “Psalm 46 has strengthened some of us, and I hope we will find food in that word and feed on it.”

  “No, Sue Ann. Let it wait,” Mabel says. Every woman in the room sits upright and holds her breath.

  “If I opened my door for you every time you come to me for something,” I say, “my legs would give out.”

  “You think you’re better than me,” Mabel says.

  The women shift in their seats, waiting for the answer.

  “I don’t think I’m better than you, Mabel. You’re the reason we all know who to help in time of need, who’s sick or needs to be fed. That’s a powerful service to the women here.”

  Dot pats her leg but Mabel don’t feel it.

  “Then why you turn your back on us?”

  She’s got her teeth in me now and won’t let loose.

  “Seems to me,” I tell her, “you want something more from me, Mabel. All the time you want and need something more. What is it this time?”

  The children get quiet and wide-eyed at the words. Children ain’t never still except in times of trouble.

  “I don’t want nothin’ from you,” she says.

  The women all look to one another, but nobody meets my eye.

  “Good. Anything else I need to know?” I ask the room.

  They shake their heads no.

  “Children,” I ask, “ya’ll got anything to say?”

  Comfort raises her hand.

  “I lost a tooth.”

  “Come over here so I can look.”

  She comes and stands in front of me and opens her mouth so I can see where a front tooth is missing, and I pull her up to sit on my lap. A child on a lap forces calm on everybody.

  “We want to know how long you’re going to have them white folks up in your house?” Mabel says.

  “Why ya’ll need to know that?”

  Sue Ann clears her throat and says, “There is worry about white folks moving into Shake Rag.”

  Here it is. Finally. They all been wondering what I’m up to.

  “This is our place, Retta,” Myrtis says.

  “When you lost your girl and Odell got hurt,” Mabel says, “all of Shake Rag was by your side.”

  Dot says, “Oh, Mabel, don’t.”

  But Mabel don’t pay her no mind.

  “And?” I ask.

  “And seems like all you got to worry yourself with is white folks and white folk problems. You remember you’re a colored woman, don’t you, Retta? You remember where you belong?”

  I look at each of these women ’cause I know Mabel says what all of them are thinking.

  “Shake Rag ain’t no pen for cattle,” I say. “You think you invented suffering? Times are hard everywhere. All you got to do is step out beyond the lane and see we aren’t the only ones hurting. Sorrow don’t know color. Ya’ll grown enough to know that.”

  Comfort busts into tears and says, “Why ya’ll fightin?”

  I rock her some. “You ever get mad at your brothers?”

  She nods and I say, “That’s all this is, baby, a family squabble.”

  I look at all the Sisters gathered ’round, and each nods in understanding. They know what I’ve said. All except Mabel, she won’t meet my eyes.

  30

  Gertrude

  My first day outside and I’m still winded from washing up at the pump, but the warmth of the sunshine is a welcome to me. My bones drink what heat there is and are warmed from the inside. Daddy would say this is potato weather, or close to it. The season’s turned. You can smell earth and wood mixed together in the air. All that’s missing is smoke from burning leaves.

  Alma stands behind where I sit on the porch swing and brushes the tangles out of my wet hair, yanking the brush so hard it feels like the hair is coming out of my head. I’m hardheaded, but even that’s got its limits. I squeeze the top of my head and tell her to brush from the bottom up. She changes direction but don’t go any easier. She’s trying to beat the knots out. I don’t remember the last time I took a brush to my girls’ heads, but Retta has. These girls are polished clean.

  When Alma finishes brushing, she takes the handle of the brush and divides my hair into three sections. She’s got small hands but is quick with a braid. Pulling two sides of my hair tight in each hand she lays them one over the other through the middle, pulling hard as she goes. When it’s finished, she ties my hair in a knot at the bottom and drops it like a rope so it falls to the center of my spine. She pushes me between the shoulder blades with three sharp fingers and tells me to get back in the house, acting like she’s the mama and I’m the child. When I don’t move, she comes and stands in front of me with her fists balled up at her sides and stomps her foot.

  Mary comes up from the porch steps and says, “You can’t tell her what to do.” She gives Alma a shove, and Alma shoves her right back so hard Mary flies backward off the porch and lands on her back. Alma jumps off the porch and is at Mary’s side, sorry as can be. Mary forgives quick, always has.

  “Alma,” I say, “what in the world has got into you?”

  She sits in the grass and scrunches up her face. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “You think I’d be sitting up and walking around if I was plannin’ on dyin’? You think I’d be talking to you right now?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  She hangs her head and cries, worn out from worry. I hold out my arms, and she comes up the steps and to the swing with Mary following behind. I rub her back while she cries.

  “She ain’t dead, Alma, it’s okay, she ain’t dead,” Mary says over and over while she pats her sister’s back. Alma looks at her and laughs through the tears.

  “I’m sitting right here talking to the two of you,” I say. “What a scare that would be if I was dead and gone and sitting up talking like I wasn’t.”

  They get the giggles, and we rock in the quiet of the day listening to the bobwhite call from the woods. You can’t tell a child some things are worse than death. It’s bad enough to carry that knowing as a grown woman.

  I missed my brother’s funeral. The Reverend found them. He buried them quick and then burned all the furniture in the bedroom. Weren’t no visitation or ceremony—just words said over dirt. Nobody asked what I wanted or what I thought. He didn’t bury Berns and Marie next to Mama and Daddy. Just set them out next to the Otts and Berrys where they don’t belong. The Reverend might be new to this town, but common sense ought to tell a person not to bury kin separate. Folks will think there was strain between us, but there never was. Now the family is split apart, and I got no way to put us back together. Not even a headstone will help even if there was money for one.

  A colored woman comes out of a yard from down the lane. She’s the only one I’ve seen in the street all day. Everybody else is gone to work. She’s got her daughter walking beside her. You can tell they eat good; they ain’t skinny like us. The little girl’s got her hair done up in cornrows. The woman keeps her eyes down until she gets in front of Retta’
s house, then looks up and says, “Hi do.”

  I give her a nod. Her little girl’s got eyes for Mary. She smiles and waves. Mary jumps up off the swing and waves back. The girl holds her belly and pretends to laugh and Mary does the same. Then Mary turns in a circle and the girl gives a jump and does the same. They’re showing off their dresses.

  “Stop that bragging,” I say.

  These children got more energy than they know what to do with. They’ve been cooped up watching and worrying after me.

  “Ya’ll go earn a nickel somewhere. I know there’s work to be had after that storm. Don’t take less no matter what they tell you.”

  Alma lifts her head. “What will you do?”

  “I guess I got to sit here ’til I’m better. Can’t do much else.”

  Alma jumps up and says, “I’ll get us a dime each.”

  “Go on then and don’t worry Edna. She’s got her own work to do.”

  They run wild through the grassy field by the road, racing each other down the lane with their hair flying behind them. Alma’s fast, but Mary’s close behind. In another two years it will be a fight to the finish. I get to my feet and make my way down the porch holding the rail as I go. I feel like I’m asleep and awake at the same time; it is an odd thing, but my feet put themselves one in front of the other until I am at the edge of the yard. Retta’s rooster follows at my heels. The air is as soft and mild as I ever felt. It laps at my face and I get strength from it, so I let it pull me along to the place we call home. Once I’m to the porch, I sit to rest before going to see the mess I know I’m to find inside. The view from here to the town has changed. Trees that once blocked the road from sight are gone or snapped like matchsticks near their tops where the wind was strongest. Horses and wagons and the occasional automobile drive through the crossroad of Main Street and onto places beyond. I wonder where they’re going. If we had enough money, we could go, too. Ain’t nothing holding us here no more.

  I pull myself to my feet and make my way up the steps. The screen door has been torn away, and the wood door is swollen shut from the wet. I put my shoulder into it and shove ’til it gives. There’s wasps in the kitchen, diving and burrowing together by the windowsill over the countertop. The place stinks of mildew. The rooster’s followed me inside, pecking at the grub worms that crawl along the floor. The cabinets and pantry still stand but the supplies inside have gone to rot. When I open one cabinet, wasps fly out in every direction. A jar of jam has exploded, likely busted open from the pressure of the storm. Wasps cover the remnants in swarms. Flour and rice are infested with boll weevils.