TWELVE
Hard Winter
* * *
SEPTEMBER passed and the corn-stalks in the garden were cut. There were no more apples left on the trees, and chilly rains came to beat down the falling leaves from the maples and the elms. Cold and drearily wet October passed, too, with no hint of Indian summer or golden forests. And as yet there was no word from the departed Jimboy. Annjee worried herself sick as usual, hoping every day that a letter would come from this wandering husband whom she loved. And each night she hurried home from Mrs. Rice’s, looked on the parlor table for the mail, and found none. Harriett had not written, either, since she went away with the carnival, and Hager never mentioned her youngest daughter’s name. Nor did Hager mention Jimboy except when Annjee asked her, after she could hold it no longer: “Are you sure the mail-man ain’t left me a letter today?” And then Aunt Hager would reply impatiently: “You think I’d a et it if he did? You know that good-for-nothin’, upsettin’ scoundrel ain’t wrote!”
But in spite of daily disappointments from the postal service Annjee continued to rush from Mrs. Rice’s hot kitchen as soon after dinner as she could and to trudge through the chill October rains, anxious to feel in the mail-box outside her door, then hope against hope for a letter inside on the little front-room table—which would always be empty. She caught a terrible cold tramping through the damp streets, forgetting to button her cloak, then sitting down with her wet shoes on when she got home, a look of dumb disappointment in her eyes, too tired and unhappy to remove her clothes.
“You’s a fool,” said her mother, whose tongue was often much sharper than the meaning behind it. “Mooning after a worthless nigger like Jimboy. I tole you years ago he were no good, when he first come, lookin’ like he ought to be wearin’ short pants, an’ out here courtin’ you. Ain’t none o’ them bell-hoppin’, racehoss-followin’ kind o’ darkies worth havin’, an’ that’s all Jimboy was when you married him an’ he ain’t much mo’n that now. An’ you older’n he is, too!”
“But you know why I married, don’t you?”
“You Sandy, go outdoors an’ get me some wood fo’ this stove. . . . Yes, I knows why, because he were de father o’ that chile you was ’bout to bring here, but I don’t see why it couldn’t just well been some o’ these steady, hard-workin’ Stanton young men’s what was courtin’ you at de same time. . . . But, chile or no chile, I couldn’t hear nothin’ but Jimboy, Jimboy, Jimboy! I told you you better stay in de high school an’ get your edication, but no, you had to marry this Jimboy. Now you see what you got, don’t you?”
“Well, he ain’t been so bad, ma! And I don’t care, I love him!”
“Umn-huh! Try an’ live on love, daughter! Just try an’ live on love. . . . You’s made a mistake, that’s all, honey. . . . But I guess there ain’t no use talkin’ ’bout it now. Take off yo’ wet shoes ’fore you catch yo’ death o’ cold!”
On Thanksgiving at Mrs. Rice’s, so Annjee reported, they had turkey with chestnut dressing; but at Aunt Hager’s she and Sandy had a nice juicy possum, a present from old man Logan, parboiled and baked sweet and brown with yams in the pan. Aunt Hager opened a jar of peach preserves. And she told Sandy to ask Jimmy Lane in to dinner because, since his mother died, he wasn’t faring so well and the people he was staying with didn’t care much about him. But since Jimmy had quit school, Sandy didn’t see him often; and the day before Thanksgiving he couldn’t find him at all, so they had no company to help them eat the possum.
The week after Thanksgiving Annjee fell ill and had to go to bed. She had the grippe, Aunt Hager said, and she began to dose her with quinine and to put hot mustard-plasters on her back and gave her onion syrup to drink, but it didn’t seem to do much good, and finally she had to send Sandy for Dr. McDillors.
“System’s all run down,” said the doctor. “Heavy cold on the chest—better be careful. And stay in the bed!” But the warning was unnecessary. Annjee felt too tired and weak ever to rise, and only the mail-man’s whistle blowing at somebody else’s house would cause her to try to lift her head. Then she would demand weakly: “Did he stop here?”
Hager’s home now was like a steam laundry. The kitchen was always hung with lines of clothes to dry, and in the late afternoon and evenings the ironing-board was spread from the table to a chair-back in the middle of the floor. All of the old customers were sending their clothes to Hager again during the winter. And since Annjee was sick, bringing no money into the house on Saturdays, the old woman had even taken an extra washing to do. Being the only wage-earner, Hager kept the suds flying—but with the wet weather she had to dry the clothes in the kitchen most of the time, and when Sandy came home from school for lunch, he would eat under dripping lines of white folks’ garments while he listened to his mother coughing in the next room.
In the other rooms of the house there were no stoves, so the doors were kept open in order that the heat might pass through from the kitchen. They couldn’t afford to keep more than one fire going; therefore the kitchen was living-room, dining-room, and work-room combined. In the mornings Sandy would jump out of bed and run with his clothes in his hands to the kitchen-stove, where his grandmother would have the fire blazing, the coffee-pot on, and a great tub of water heating for the washings. And in the evenings after supper he would open his geography and read about the strange countries far away, the book spread out on the oilcloth-covered kitchen-table. And Aunt Hager, if her ironing was done, would sit beside the stove and doze, while Annjee tossed and groaned in her chilly bedroom. Only in the kitchen was it really bright and warm.
In the afternoons when Sandy came home from school he would usually find Sister Johnson helping Hager with her ironing, and keeping up a steady conversation.
“Dis gonna be a hard winter. De papers say folks is out o’ work ever’ where, an’, wid all dis sleet an’ rain, it’s a terror fo’ de po’ peoples, I tells you! Now, ma Tom, he got a good job tendin’ de furnace at de Fair Buildin’, so I ain’t doin’ much washin’ long as he’s workin’—but so many colored men’s out o’ work here, wid Christmas comin’, it sho is too bad! An’ you, Sis Williams, wid yo’ daughter sick in bed! Any time yo’ clothes git kinder heavy fo’ you, I ain’t mind helpin’ you out. Jest send dis chile atter me or holler ’cross de yard if you kin make me hear! . . . How you press dis dress, wid de collar turn up or down? Which way do Mis’ Dunset like it?”
“I always presses it down,” returned Hager, who was ironing handkerchiefs and towels on the table. “Better let me iron that, an’ you take these here towels.”
“All right,” agreed Sister Johnson, “’cause you knows how yo’ white folks likes dey things, an’ I don’t. Folks have so many different ways!”
“Sho do,” said Hager. “I washed for a woman once what even had her sheets starched.”
“But you’s sure got a fine repertation as a washer, Sis Williams. One o’ de white ladies what I washes fo’ say you washes beautiful.”
“I reckon white folks does think right smart of me,” said Hager proudly. “They always likes you when you tries to do right.”
“When you tries to do yo’ work right, you means. Dey ain’t carin’ nothin’ ’bout you ’yond workin’ fo’ ’em. Ain’t dey got all de little niggers settin’ off in one row at dat school whar Sandy an’ Willie-Mae go at? I’s like Harriett—ain’t got no time fo’ white folks maself, ’ceptin’ what little money dey pays me. You ain’t been run out o’ yo’ home like I is, Hager. . . . Sandy, make haste go fetch my pipe from over to de house, an’ don’t stay all day playin’ wid Willie-Mae! Tote it here quick! . . . An’ you oughter hear de way white folks talks ’bout niggers. Says dey’s lazy, an’ says dey stinks, an’ all. Huh! Dey ought to smell deyselves! You’s smelled white peoples when dey gets to sweatin’ ain’t you? Smells jest like sour cream, only worser, kinder sickenin’ like. And some o’ dese foriners what’s been eating garlic—phew! Lawdy!”
When Sandy returned with the pipe, the conversa
tion had shifted to the deaths in the colored community. “Hager, folks dyin’ right an’ left already dis winter. We’s had such a bad fall, dat’s de reason why. You know dat no-’count Jack Smears passed away last Sunday. Dey had his funeral yesterday an’ I went. Good thing he belonged to de lodge, too, else he’d been buried in de po’-field, ’cause he ain’t left even de copper cents to put on his eyes. Lodge beared his funeral bill, but I heard more’n one member talkin’ ’bout how dey was puttin’ a ten-dollar nigger in a hundred-dollar coffin! . . . An’ his wife were at de funeral. Yes, sir! A hussy! After she done left him last year wid de little chillens to take care of, an’ she runnin’ round de streets showin’ off. Dere she sot, big as life, in front wid de moaners, long black veil on her face and done dyed her coat black, an’ all de time Reverend Butler been preachin’ ’bout how holy Jack were, she turn an’ twist an’ she coughed an’ she whiffled an’ blowed an’ she wiped—tryin’ her best to cry an’ couldn’t, deceitful as she is! Then she jest broke out to screamin’, but warn’t a tear in her eye; makin’ folks look at her, dat’s all, ’cause she ain’t cared nothin’ ’bout Jack. She been livin’ in de Bottoms since last Feb’ary wid a young bell-hop ain’t much older’n her own son, Bert!”
“Do Jesus!” said Hager. “Some womens is awful.”
“Worse’n dat,” said Sister Johnson. . . . “Lawdy! Listen at dat sleet beatin’ on dese winders! Sho gwine be a real winter! An’ how time do pass. Ain’t but t’ree mo’ weeks till Christmas!”
“Truth!” said Sandy’s grandmother. “An’ we ain’t gwine have no money a-tall. Ain’t no mo’n got through payin’ ma taxes good, an’ de interest on ma mortgage, when Annjee get sick here! Lawd, I tells you, po’ colored womens have it hard!”
“Sho do!” said Sister Johnson, sucking at her pipe as she ironed. “How long you been had this house, Sis Williams?”
“Fo’ nigh on forty years, even sence Cudge an’ me come here from Montgomery. An’ I been washin’ fo’ white folks ever’ week de Lawd sent sence I been here, too. Bought this house washin’, and made as many payments myself as Cudge come near; an’ raised ma chillens washin’; an’ when Cudge taken sick an’ laid on his back for mo’n a year, I taken care o’ him washin’; an’ when he died, paid de funeral bill washin’, cause he ain’t belonged to no lodge. Sent Tempy through de high school and edicated Annjee till she marry that onery pup of a Jimboy, an’ Harriett till she left home. Yes, sir. Washin’, an’ here I is with me arms still in de tub! . . . But they’s one mo’ got to go through school yet, an’ that’s ma little Sandy. If de Lawd lets me live, I’s gwine make a edicated man out o’ him. He’s gwine be another Booker T. Washington.” Hager turned a voluminous white petticoat on the ironing-board as she carefully pressed its emroidered hem. “I ain’t never raised no boy o’ ma own yet, so I wants this one o’ Annjee’s to ’mount to something. I wants him to know all they is to know, so’s he can help this black race o’ our’n to come up and see de light and take they places in de world. I wants him to be a Fred Douglass leadin’ de people, that’s what, an’ not followin’ in de tracks o’ his good-for-nothin’ pappy, worthless an’ wanderin’ like Jimboy is.”
“O, don’t say that, ma,” Annjee cried weakly from her bed in the other room. “Jimboy’s all right, but he’s just too smart to do this heavy ditch-digging labor, and that’s all white folks gives the colored a chance at here in Stanton; so he had to leave.”
“There you go excitin’ yo’self agin, an’ you sick. I thought you was asleep. I ain’t meant nothin’, honey. Course he’s all right,” Hager said to quiet her daughter, but she couldn’t resist mumbling: “But I ain’t seen him doin’ you no good.”
“Well, he ain’t beat her, has he?” asked Sister Johnson, who, for the sake of conversation, often took a contrary view-point. “I’s knowed many a man to beat his wife. Tom used to tap me a few times ’fo’ I found out a way to stop him, but dat ain’t nedder here nor dere!” She folded a towel decisively and gave it a vigorous rub with the hot iron. “Did I ever tell you ’bout de man lived next do’ to us in Cairo what cut his wife in de stomach wid a razor an’ den stood ovah her when de doctor was sewin’ her up moanin’: ‘I don’t see why I cut her in de stomach! O, Lawd! She always told me she ain’t want to be cut in de stomach!’ . . . An’ it warn’t two months atter dat dat he done sliced her in de stomach agin when she was tryin’ to git away from him! He were a mean nigger, that man were!”
“Annjee, is you taken yo’ medicine yet? It’s past fo’ o’clock,” Hager called. “Sandy, here, take this fifteen cents, chile, and run to do store an’ get me a soup bone. I gwine try an’ make a little broth for yo’ mother. An’ don’t be gone all day neither, ’cause I got to send these clothes back to Mis’ Dunset.” Hager was pressing out the stockings as she turned her attention to the conversation again. “They tells me, Sister Johnson, that Seth Jones done beat up his wife something terrible.”
“He did, an’ he oughter! She was always stayin’ way from home an’ settin’ up in de church, not even cookin’ his meals, an’ de chillens runnin’ ragged in de street.”
“She’s a religious frantic, ain’t she?” asked Hager. . . . “You Sandy, hurry up, sir! an’ go get that soup bone!”
“No, chile, ’tain’t that,” said Sister Johnson. “She ain’t carin’ so much ’bout religion. It’s Reverend Butler she’s runnin’ atter. Ever’ time de church do’ opens, there she sets in de preacher’s mouth, tryin’ to ’tract de shepherd from his sheep. She de one what taken her husband’s money an’ bought Reverend Butler dat gold-headed walkin’-cane he’s got. I ain’t blame Seth fer hittin’ her bap on de head, an’ she takin’ his money an’ buyin’ canes fer ministers!”
“Sadie Butler’s in my school,” said Sandy, putting on his stocking cap. “Reverend Butler’s her step-father.”
“Shut up! You hears too much,” said Hager. “Ain’t I told you to go on an’ get that soup bone?”
“Yes’m. I’m going.”
“An’ I reckon I’ll be movin’ too,” said Sister Johnson, placing the iron on the stove. “It’s near ’bout time to be startin’ Tom’s supper. I done told Willie-Mae to peel de taters ’fo’ I come ovah here, but I spects she ain’t done it. Dat’s de worse black gal to get to work! Soon as she eat, she run outdo’s to de privy to keep from washin’ de dishes!”
Sandy started to the store, and Sister Johnson, with on old coat over her head, scooted across the back yard to her door. It was a chill December afternoon and the steady sleet stung Sandy in the face as he ran along, but the air smelled good after the muggy kitchen and the stale scent of Annjee’s sick-room. Near the corner Sandy met the mail-man, his face red with cold.
“Got anything for us?” asked the little boy.
“No,” said the man as he went on without stopping.
Sandy wished his mother would get well soon. She looked so sad lying there in bed. And Aunt Hager was always busy washing and ironing. His grandmother didn’t even have time to mend his stockings any more and there were great holes in the heels when he went to school. His shoes were worn out under the bottoms, too. Yesterday his mother had said: “Honey, you better take them high brown shoes of mine from underneath the bed and put ’em on to keep your feet dry this wet weather. I can’t afford to buy you none now, and you ain’t got no rubbers.”
“You want me to wear old women’s shoes like Jimmy Lane?” Sandy objected. “I won’t catch cold with my feet wet.”
But Hager from the kitchen overruled his objections. “Put on them shoes, sir, an’ don’t argue with yo’ mother, an’ she sick in de bed! Put ’em on an’ hush yo’ mouth, till you get something better.”
So this morning at recess Sandy had to fight a boy for calling him “sissy” on account of his mother’s shoes he was wearing.
But only a week and a half more and the Christmas vacation would come! Uptown the windows were already full of toys, dolls, skates, and sleds. Sandy wanted a Gold
en Flyer sled for Christmas. That’s all he wanted—a Golden Flyer with flexible rudders, so you could guide it easy. Boy! Wouldn’t he come shooting down that hill by the Hickory Woods where the fellows coasted every year! They cost only four dollars and ninety-five cents and surely his grandma could afford that for him, even if his mother was sick and she had just paid her taxes. Four ninety-five—but he wouldn’t want anything else if Aunt Hager would buy that sled for Santa Claus to bring him! Every day, after school, he passed by the store, where many sleds were displayed, and stood for a long time looking at this Golden Flyer of narrow hard-wood timbers varnished a shiny yellow. It had bright red runners and a beautiful bar with which to steer.
When he told Aunt Hager about it, all she said was: “Boy, is you crazy?” But Annjee smiled from her bed and answered: “Wait and see.” Maybe they would get it for him—but Santa Claus was mean to poor kids sometimes, Sandy knew, when their parents had no money.
“Fifteen cents’ worth of hamburger,” he said absent-mindedly to the butcher when he reached the market. . . . And when Sandy came home, his grandmother whipped him for bringing ground meat instead of the soup bone for which she had sent him.
So the cold days passed, heavy and cloudy, with Annjee still in bed, and the kitchen full of garments hanging on lines to dry because, out of doors, the frozen rain kept falling. Always in Hager’s room a great pile of rough-dried clothes eternally waited to be ironed. Sandy helped his grandmother as much as he could, running errands, bringing in coal and wood, pumping water in the mornings before school, and sitting by his mother in the evenings, reading to her from his Nature Story Reader when it wasn’t too cold in her bedroom.
Not Without Laughter Page 11
