Tomorrow's Bread

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  “I don’t understand how come you are the way you are.”

  “I met you, Loraylee. I can’t say more than that. Just everything is different from what it used to be, since the day you walked into the S&W looking for a job.”

  He takes my hand. I can barely see him in the rising moon, but I can feel how serious he is.

  “Another thing they don’t know is that you got a colored girlfriend.” Even if me being black doesn’t matter to him, it would to his parents. That could change him. Suddenly I feel like I don’t know him at all.

  We sit there in the night sounds, the moon above the trees now. “You think I’ll ever meet them?”

  “If I have my way, you’ll never set eyes on my father.”

  We next to each other, but apart. The air smells of grass, flowers, the lake.

  He breaks off a piece of cheese. “My parents own all the land between here and the highway. A dairy farmer rents most of it, Mom and Dad live on the rest.”

  “So all this will be yours someday.”

  “I guess, but I don’t want to live out here, never again. I’m a city boy now, and they’ve got a vegetable garden, a milk cow, a bunch of dogs. Oh, and a henhouse.”

  “Uncle Ray has chickens.”

  Mr. Griffin pulls me to him. “I wish we could get married.”

  “Mr. Griffin, we need to talk about something else.”

  “Can’t you at least call me Archie when we’re alone?”

  “Not gon happen, any more than we gon get married.”

  We sit in the moonlight, eat our supper, drink our wine, then lay back on the blanket, the noises we make blending in with the sounds of the night.

  * * *

  I get home about midnight, come across the porch as quiet as I can, open the door, and there is Bibi, sitting on the sofa in the dark. “Bibi?” She doesn’t answer. I say her name again, louder, turning on the lamp on the end table.

  She’s in her nightgown. “Hey, Raylee.” She doesn’t seem startled. “You been out?”

  “Yes, ma’am, to dinner and a movie with a friend.” The lie comes easy.

  “What you see?”

  “Splendor in the Grass.” I saw the name of that movie when we passed the Manor Theatre coming back to town. I almost choke to keep from laughing.

  She say, “I’d love to go to the movies.”

  “I’ll take you soon. Why you sitting here with the lights off?”

  “Trying to think of something that woke me up. When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t remember what it was. I came in here to see if I could.”

  “You had a dream, most likely.”

  “Most likely.” She shake her head. “Didn’t seem like a dream.”

  “Let’s get you back in bed. You need to pee first?”

  “No, just did.” She stops. “I think I just did.”

  I’m hoping she’s right. Don’t want to deal with wet sheets in the morning.

  As I turn off the lamp by her bed, she say, “Glad you got to go out with your friend. Y’all need to do that more.”

  At first I think she doesn’t know it’s somebody special as Mr. Griffin, but then I think she does.

  After I get her settled, I try to sleep, but I’m wide awake, wondering what kind of father Mr. Griffin would be.

  We spent the night together, once, back before Hawk, when Mr. Griffin first moved into his apartment on Seventh Street. His roommate was out of town and Mr. Griffin say we’d have the whole night, him and me alone. First thing when we got there I looked around to see what he put in the apartment to make it home. Books everywhere. How’d he have time to read them? Pictures on the walls, some of them magazine pages he taped up, others in a frame. The only picture in our living room is Jesus standing in a field, feeding a sheep. Bibi loves that picture, but it has always bothered me that Jesus is white. She say it doesn’t matter. It matters to me, and someday I’m gon ask Pastor Polk about that.

  Mr. Griffin’s apartment only had one bedroom. “Where’s your roommate sleep?”

  He pointed to the sofa. “It opens out into a bed.”

  “No!”

  He lifted up the cushions. Sheets, a mattress folded up on itself. “But this isn’t for us.”

  He led me down a short hall, past the bathroom and into his bedroom. Had me sit on the edge of the bed while he lit two candles, his hand shaking, nervous as I was about getting into bed together. But then he started unbuttoning my dress. So slow I almost couldn’t stand it. I took his shirt off him the same way, one button, then the next. Even if I’d been with him in the back seat of his car, I’d never seen him totally naked, and before we lay down I ran my hands through the curls on his chest. Thick hair, even redder than on his head. The most handsome man I ever saw.

  That night he tells me he loves me. We in his bed wrapped around each other. He squeezes me. “I love you.” That simple. I’ve been knowing for a long time that I love him, but I haven’t said it out loud. I don’t have to, because he say, “And you love me, too.”

  “Okay,” I say. And that’s that.

  CHAPTER 19

  Eben woke at three a.m. to a pounding on his front door. “Fire!” Oscar yelling. “Fire!” He stood, groggy, peered through the blinds at St. Tim’s. The frame church—built in 1880, a potential tinderbox—was dark. He pulled on his bathrobe and slippers, padded to the front door to find his brother silhouetted by an unnatural dawn on the horizon.

  “Fire,” Oscar gasped, “least two dozen houses.”

  “Was anybody—”

  “Don’t know, don’t know.” Oscar bent double, breathing hard, holding his stomach.

  Eben stared at the strange glow in the sky. Caught a whiff of smoke.

  Sleet peppered the front windows.

  Oscar shook his head. “Morrow Street is bad. Real bad, what I heard.” A biting wind whipped through the open door.

  Dread swept over him. Much of Brooklyn was built of dried-out timbers, the roofs no more than tar paper. Row after row of dilapidated shacks standing like daddy longlegs on brick pilings where wind whipped through.

  He threw on slacks and a shirt, his clerical vest and coat, heavy shoes. In the living room he shoved his arms through the sleeves of his winter overcoat, snugged a hat down over his ears, yanked on fur-lined gloves.

  Oscar had on his ancient leather windbreaker over a T-shirt, not warm enough for such a night. Eben gave his brother a flannel shirt, knit cap, gloves, and scarf, and handed him the car keys. “Turn on the engine, the defrost. There’s an ice scraper under the seat. I’m going to unlock the church, turn up the heat.”

  The frigid air was heavy with the smell of smoke. He headed across the grass toward the church. His foot slipped on the icy steps and he landed on his bad knee, the pain stunning him. He pulled himself up onto the porch, dry under the overhanging roof.

  “You all right?” Oscar called from where he stood, scraping the windshield.

  “Yeah, okay,” he lied, flexing his leg. He opened the church, turned up the heat, flipped on the outside light. A yellow cone lit the porch, the steps. The front walk glistened; he chose the frosted grass instead, limping with care to the car.

  The engine ran sluggishly, the wipers scratching back and forth on the frozen glass, but Oscar had scraped enough for Eben to see directly ahead. “Horrible to be homeless on such a night.”

  Oscar looked past him at the church. “You gon leave it unlocked, the light on? Anybody can go right in.”

  “St. Tim’s is open to those who need shelter.”

  The car slid as he turned onto Third. He slowed to a crawl. People stood in scattered clumps watching as flames rose above the rooftops a block away. He pulled up at a rope across the street, a policeman standing guard. The inferno raged, contained, he hoped, by the creek. Water from fire hoses sent silver arcs through the flames. Sirens filled the night air. “More help is coming, thank God,” he said.

  “Took ’em long enough. Fifteen minutes ’fore the first one showed up.” Oscar
opened the passenger door and got out.

  Hoses saturated the roofs of nearby houses. “Hope that works,” Eben said.

  “Not gon keep the fire from jumping alleys.”

  Firemen crisscrossed the street, their bulky figures black against the blaze. One man holding a hose shouted to another, “Pressure’s bad. Not enough hydrants.” The second man shrugged.

  A car horn began to honk in a pattern he recognized instantly, though he hadn’t heard it since the war. Beep-beep-beep BEEP-BEEP-BEEP beep-beep-beep. The sound came from somewhere not far away.

  “Whus zat?”

  “SOS.”

  “I’ll go see can I find it.” Oscar ran into an alley toward Fourth Street.

  At a touch on his arm Eben turned to see Ben Stone. “Benjy, you heard? Not enough water pressure.”

  “They’ve got a lot of hoses going. Maybe that’s the problem.” Ben’s breath came out in cloudy puffs.

  “The water department is the problem,” he said. “Injuries, deaths, anyone—” he couldn’t voice the question.

  “Don’t know. People are missing, some houses on Morrow. Nobody’s allowed down there till the fire’s under control.”

  “How many houses?”

  Ben’s face showed the fear Eben felt. “Fifteen, twenty maybe. Probably started with a coal stove. Night like this, getting warm is all folks can think about. Those old burners, if they get too hot . . .”

  The honking continued without pause. “SOS. Oscar’s gone to see if he can help,” Eben said. His eyes began to smart, and smoke filled his nostrils. He pulled out his handkerchief, dampened it in runoff at the curb, put it over his mouth.

  “I’ll fetch Hildie, we’ll open the store. Folks can get what they need, pay us later,” Ben said. He headed up Third toward his grocery.

  People huddled together, their faces lit by the fire. “Preacher?” A woman stepped away from the crowd, walked toward him. She had on mismatched shoes, a man’s plaid shirt over a pink nightgown. Elmira Swinson from St. Tim’s, the choir, the women’s circle. Her face was anguished. “My sons live next door to each other down on Morrow.”

  He put his arms around her, felt her body trembling, touched her wet cheek. “The street’s closed off. Soon as we can get through, I’ll take you myself.”

  As if she hadn’t heard him, she said, “Both my sons. One of them married, two kids.”

  A man took her hand, “C’mon, Elmira, your sister’s looking for you.” They walked away.

  An approaching siren grew louder, wound down, ground to a halt. The SOS honking stopped abruptly.

  He walked toward the crowd milling in the street. Several people surrounded a woman who sobbed, “My husband, my babies.” He recognized her as he got closer. She worked in the Laundromat, married to a man who’d been arrested for breaking and entering. In prison, isn’t he? “Mrs. Mason?”

  She turned to him, tears tracking her ash-grayed face. “Oh, Pastor, they all gone, my man, my two young’uns.”

  “Your husband, isn’t he in—”

  “Paroled last week, started work yesterday.” She leaned into him. “Dear Jesus, we only had a couple days, the kids so glad to see they daddy.”

  How could he console such a loss? “There’s room at the parsonage. People will help. We’ll take care of you.” As she collapsed into his arms he realized how little she was wearing. A bathrobe, nightgown, slippers. He took off his overcoat and put it around her, gave her his gloves and hat.

  People in nightclothes stood in the street. Are they all burned out of their homes? The icy air bit into him. His knee throbbed.

  Oscar walked up. “That car horn. Man broke his leg jumping from a upstairs window, his wife in his arms. Dragged hisself to his car.” He coughed. “She not gon make it. Pregnant and burnt to a crisp. Ambulance took ’em away.” He looked at the crowd across the street. “You tell ’em the church open?”

  He felt a sudden fierce love for his brother. “Yes, of course, I must do that.” He wiped his face with the damp handkerchief.

  “Please, gather around, folks. St. Timothy’s is open, warm. There’s hot water, a shower in the upstairs bathroom. Food in the kitchen. More will come when word gets out.”

  “How we gon get to the church, Pastor?”

  “Is there a place my kids can sleep?”

  “Clothes? We freezing. Got nothing left.”

  “How many of us can you take in?”

  He called out above the voices. “Who has a car, a truck?”

  A man shouted, “I got a pickup, if it ain’t burnt.”

  Ben appeared at his side. “My van’s around the corner. Holds at least ten, maybe more. I’ll make as many trips as necessary.” He handed Eben a paper bag, whispering, “A sandwich, an apple, a Coke, set it aside for later. You gotta eat.”

  With a gigantic huff another house fell in on itself, sending out a great shower of sparks and a wave of hot air.

  A man grasped his hand, doubled over coughing, trying to talk. “Pastor, that’s our place just went.”

  He touched the man’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  “Willie Simpson. My wife, my son, my mother-in-law, we lost everything. I ain’t got a shirt to wear to work.” He stood barefoot in soot-streaked long drawers, a do-rag around his hair. As if realizing how little he had on, the man began to shake.

  Eben said, “Get your family and go to St. Tim’s. The church and manse are both unlocked. My bedroom’s in the manse, clothes, shoes, whatever you can find. Where do you work?”

  A woman behind him said, “He on a tree crew, Jones Construction.”

  “Are you his wife?”

  “Yes, sir, Preacher. Orabelle Simpson.”

  “Y’all go in Ben’s van over to St. Tim’s. He’ll be back for another load soon.”

  Adrenaline had fueled him, but now the biting wind slashed through his jacket as if he were naked underneath, penetrated his slacks. Even with his brogans on, he’d lost touch with his feet. Not yet five a.m. The sun wouldn’t warm the air for at least two more hours. The night felt endless.

  Oscar stood off by himself, looking bewildered. Not much he could do, on the edge of living in the street, only out of jail a month this time. Eben went to him. “Noah okay?”

  “Yeah, I hope he still sleeping.”

  When Ben came back, he returned Eben’s coat, hat, and gloves. “Mrs. Mason sent these, said someone else would need them.”

  Three more times during the next several hours, Eben gave his garments away and three more times they came back to him.

  * * *

  By early afternoon the fire was reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes. The smell of burning wood was replaced by a harsh acrid odor that filled Eben’s mouth with a foul taste. Firemen walked through the wet black mess, yellow helmets bright amid the ruined remains. Downed electric lines left half of Brooklyn powerless and freezing.

  Six city blocks remained roped off. He asked several people about the Swinsons, their houses, but no one knew anything.

  Members of St. Tim’s came to the church to offer temporary shelter, clothing, food. A woman from the Red Cross stopped Eben in the street. “We’ll coordinate with the Salvation Army, see about funds. Tell me what you need. I’ll see what we can do.” People showed up from St. Paul’s Baptist, the AMEs, the House of Prayer, eager to help.

  At eight in the evening he got back to the parsonage where he settled a family in the spare bedroom, several more in the living room. He’d left dozens on cots and pallets in St. Tim’s. He was weary to the bone, but more than that, angry. Low water pressure. Not enough hydrants. Firefighters slow to respond. He shook his head to prevent himself from screaming in rage.

  In the bathroom he shed his clerical vest and tossed it toward the hamper, where it landed on the rim, half in, half out. The collar, blackened by soot, was almost indistinguishable from the vest.

  He pushed everything into the hamper. Sat on the side of the tub, his head in his hands. Fourteen dead,
a dozen missing. Almost four blocks of Brooklyn in ashes, many more houses beyond repair.

  Nettie’s throaty voice came to him clearly. “We have to rise when we’re least able, and know the Lord is with us.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The news on the radio caught Persy’s attention as she sat at her desk in the kitchen, going over a shopping list: “Several blocks of Second Ward were engulfed in flames around one o’clock this morning. Firefighters have contained the fire to Third and Morrow Streets, along Sugar Creek. There are fourteen confirmed deaths, many yet unaccounted for. Property damage is extensive.”

  She called Blaire at his office.

  He answered, sounding breathless and impatient, as he often did when she reached him at work. “Yes, Persy, what is it?”

  “There’s been an awful fire, I heard on—”

  “What? What did you hear?”

  “On WBT, the morning news. A fire in Brooklyn, where—”

  “Yes, it’s horrible, and not unexpected.”

  “You expected a fire?”

  “No, no. I meant it was bound to happen with all those shacks, this freezing weather, decrepit coal stoves.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Of course, in a way the fire clarifies things—” She heard a woman say, “Mr. Marshall, a call on line three.” Blaire said, “Okay, in a minute. Sorry, Perse, I’m really busy. Anything else?”

  “I wanted to be sure you’d heard.”

  “Thanks. See you tonight.” Click. Dial tone.

  She stood there holding the phone. Clarifies what?

  Loraylee Hawkins lived near the creek. In the car coming home from the beach, she’d told Persy that in Brooklyn they call it Little Sugar. Persy remembered feeling there was a world she’d never known that existed less than two miles up the creek from her home in Myers Park.

  In the confines of the car during the drive from Windy Hill last summer, Persy and Loraylee in front, the little boy, Hawk, in the back, their conversation had at first been restrained. What Persy always thought of as who-are-you stories. After only a short time they became two women whose lives had been incredibly different, even living so near to each other, and they talked a lot about Charlotte. One memory jumped out. When Persy said that Freedom Park was behind her house, Loraylee told her about taking Hawk there on the bus, last year. They would have been right across the creek from Persy and Blaire’s backyard. But Loraylee said they only stayed in the park for an hour. “Not a single other colored person there. No signs saying we couldn’t be in the park but I felt it.” Hawk, oblivious to what this implied, said, “I liked the teeter-totter in that Freedom place.”