Finally Pansetta peeped through the curtains of the glass in the front door. Then she opened the door and smiled surprisingly, her hair mussed and her creamy-brown skin pink from the warm blood pulsing just under the surface. Her eyes were dark and luminous, and her lips were moist and red.
“It’s Sandy!” she said, turning to address someone inside the front room.
“O, come in, old man,” a boy’s voice called in a tone of forced welcome, and Sandy saw Jimmy Lane sitting on the couch adjusting his collar self-consciously. “How’s everything, old scout?”
“All right,” Sandy stammered. “Say, Pansy, I—I— Do you know— I mean, what is the subject we’re supposed to write on for English Monday? I must of forgotten to take it down.”
“Why, ‘A Trip to Shakespeare’s England.’ That’s easy to remember, silly. You must have been asleep. . . . Won’t you sit down?”
“No, thanks, I’ve— I guess I got to get back to supper.”
“Jesus!” cried Jimmy jumping up from the sofa. “Is it that late? I’m due on bells at six o’clock. Wait a minute, Sandy, and I’ll walk up with you as far as the hotel. Boy, I’m behind time!” He picked up his coat from the floor, and Pansetta held it for him while he thrust his arms into the sleeves, glancing around meanwhile for his cap, which lay among the sofa-pillows. Then he kissed the girl carelessly on the lips as he slid one arm familiarly around her waist.
“So long, baby,” he said, and the two boys went out. On the porch Jimmy lit a cigarette and passed the pack to Sandy.
Jimmy Lane looked and acted as if he were much older than his companion, but Jimmy had been out of school several years, and hopping bells taught a fellow a great deal more about life than books did—and also about women. Besides, he was supporting himself now, which gave him an air of independence that boys who still lived at home didn’t have.
When they had walked about a block, the bell-boy said carelessly: “Pansetta can go! Can’t she, man?”
“I don’t know,” said Sandy.
“Aw, boy, you’re lying,” Jimmy Lane returned. “Don’t try to hand me that kid stuff ! You had her for a year, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Sandy slowly, “but not like you mean.”
“Stop kidding,” Jimmy insisted.
“No, honest, I never touched her that way,” the boy said. “I never was at her house before.”
Jimmy opened his mouth astonished. “What!” he exclaimed. “And her old lady out working till eight and nine every night! Say, Sandy, we’re friends, but you’re either just a big liar—or else a God-damn fool!” He threw his cigarette away and put both hands in his pockets. “Pansetta’s easy as hell, man!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Chicago
* * *
CHICAGO, ILL.
May 16, 1918
DEAR SANDY:
Have just come home from work and am very tired but thought I would write you this letter right now while I had time and wasn’t sleepy. You are a big boy and I think you can be of some help to me. I don’t want you to stay in Stanton any longer as a burden on your Aunt Tempy. She says in her letters you have begun to stay out late nights and not pay her any mind. You ought to be with your mother now because you are all she has since I do not know what has happened to your father in France. The war is awful and so many mens are getting killed. Have not had no word from Jimboy for 7 months from Over There and am worried till I’m sick. Will try and send you how much money you need for your fare before the end of the month so when school is out in june you can come. Let me know how much you saved and I will send you the rest to come to Chicago because Mr. Harris where I stay is head elevator man at a big hotel in the Loop and he says he can put you on there in July. That will be a good job for you and maybe by saving your money you can go back to school in Sept. I will help you if I can but you will have to help me too because I have not been doing so well. Am working for a colored lady in her hair dressing parlor and am learning hairdressing myself, shampoo and straighten and give massauges on the face and all. But colored folks are hard people to work for. Madam King is from down south somewhere and these southern Negroes are not like us in their ways, but she seems to like me. Mr. Harris is from the south too in a place called Baton Rouge. They eat rice all the time. Well I must close hoping to see you soon once more because it has been five years since I have looked at my child. With love to you and Tempy, be a good boy,
Your mother,
Annjelica Rogers.
A week later another letter came to Sandy from his mother. This time it was a registered special-delivery, which said: “If you’ll come right away you can get your job at once. Mr. Harris says he will have a vacancy Saturday because one of the elevator boys are quitting.” And sufficient bills to cover Sandy’s fare tumbled out.
With a tremendous creaking and grinding and steady clacking of wheels the long train went roaring through the night towards Chicago as Sandy, in a day coach, took from his pocket Annjee’s two letters and re-read them for the tenth time since leaving Stanton. He could hardly believe himself actually at that moment on the way to Chicago!
In the stuffy coach papers littered the floor and the scent of bananas and human feet filled the car. The lights were dim and most of the passengers slumbered in the straight-backed green-plush seats, but Sandy was still awake. The thrill of his first all-night rail journey and his dream-expectations of the great city were too much to allow a sixteen-year-old boy to go calmly to sleep, although the man next to him had long been snoring.
Annjee’s special-delivery letter had come that morning. Sandy had discovered it when he came home for lunch, and upon his return to the high school for the afternoon classes he went at once to the principal to inquire if he might be excused from the remaining days of the spring term.
“Let me see! Your record’s pretty good, isn’t it, Rogers?” said Professor Perkins looking over his glasses at the young colored fellow standing before him. “Going to Chicago, heh? Well, I guess we can let you transfer and give you full credit for this year’s work without your waiting here for the examinations —there are only ten days or so of the term remaining. You are an honor student and would get through your exams all right. Now, if you’ll just send us your address when you get to Chicago, we’ll see that you get your report. . . . Intending to go to school there, are you? . . . That’s right! I like to see your people get ahead. . . . Well, good luck to you, James.” The old gentleman rose and held out his hand.
“Good old scout,” thought Sandy. “Miss Fry was a good teacher, too! Some white folks are nice all right! Not all of them are mean. . . . Gee, old man Prentiss hated to see me quit his place. Said I was the best boy he ever had working there, even if I was late once in awhile. But I don’t mind leaving Stanton. Gee, Chicago ought to be great! And I’m sure glad to get away from Tempy’s house. She’s too tight!”
But Tempy had not been glad to see her nephew leave. She had grown fond of the boy in spite of her almost nightly lectures to him recently on his behavior and in spite of his never having become her model youth. Not that he was bad, but he might have been so much better! She wanted to show her white neighbors a perfect colored boy—and such a boy certainly wouldn’t be a user of slang, a lover of pool halls and non-Episcopalian ways. Tempy had given Sandy every opportunity to move in the best colored society and he had not taken advantage of it. Nevertheless, she cried a little as she packed a lunch for him to eat on the train. She had done all she could. He was a good-looking boy, and quite smart. Now, if he wanted to go to his mother, well—“I can only hope Chicago won’t ruin you,” she said. “It’s a wicked city! Goodbye, James. Remember what I’ve tried to teach you. Stand up straight and look like you’re somebody!”
Stanton, Sandy’s Kansas home, was back in the darkness, and the train sped towards the great center where all the small-town boys in the whole Middle West wanted to go.
“I’m going now!” thought Sandy. “Chicago now!”
A
few weeks past he had gone to see Sister Johnson, who was quite feeble with the rheumatism. As she sat in the corner of her kitchen smoking a corn-cob pipe, no longer able to wash clothes, but still able to keep up a rapid flow of conversation, she told him all the news.
“Tom, he’s still at de bank keepin’ de furnace goin’ an’ sort o’ handy man. . . . Willie-Mae, I ’spects you knows, is figurin’ on gettin’ married next month to Mose Jenkins, an’ I tells her she better stay single, young as she is, but she ain’t payin’ me no mind. Umn-unh! Jest let her go on! . . . Did you heerd Sister Whiteside’s daughter done brought her third husband home to stay wid her ma—an’ five o’ her first husband’s chillens there too? Gals ain’t got no regard for de old folks. Sister Whiteside say if she warn’t a Christian in her heart, she don’t believe she could stand it! . . . I tells Willie-Mae she better not bring no husbands here to stay wid me—do an’ I’ll run him out! These mens ought be shame o’ demselves comin’ livin’ on de womenfolks.”
As the old woman talked, Sandy, thinking of his grandmother, gazed out of the window towards the house next door, where he had lived with Aunt Hager. Some small children were playing in the back yard, running and yelling. They belonged to the Southern family to whom Tempy had rented the place. . . . Madam de Carter, who still owned the second house, had been made a national grand officer in the women’s division of the lodge and many of the members of the order now had on the walls of their homes a large picture of her dressed in full regalia, inscribed: “Yours in His Grace,” and signed: “Madam Fannie Rosalie de Carter.”
“Used to be just plain old Rose Carter befo’ she got so important,” said Sister Johnson, explaining her neighbor’s lengthy name. “All these womens dey mammy named Jane an’ Mary an’ Cora, soon’s dey gets a little somethin’, dey changes dey names to Janette or Mariana or Corina or somethin’ mo’ flowery then what dey had. Willie-Mae say she gwine change her’n to Willetta-Mayola, an’ I tole her if she do, I’ll beat her—don’t care how old she is!”
Sandy liked to listen to the rambling talk of old colored folks. “I guess there won’t be many like that in Chicago,” he thought, as he doubled back his long legs under the green-plush seat of the day coach. “I better try to get to sleep—there’s a long ways to go until morning.”
Although it was not yet June, the heat was terrific when, with the old bags that Tempy had given him, Sandy got out of the dusty train in Chicago and walked the length of the sheds into the station. He caught sight of his mother waiting in the crowd, a fatter and much older woman than he had remembered her to be; and at first she didn’t know him among the stream of people coming from the train. Perhaps, unconsciously, she was looking for the little boy she left in Stanton; but Sandy was taller than Annjee now and he looked quite a young man in his blue serge suit with long trousers. His mother threw both plump arms around him and hugged and kissed him for a long time.
They went uptown in the street-cars, Annjee a trifle out of breath from helping with the bags, and both of them perspiring freely from the heat. And they were not very talkative either. A strange and unexpected silence seemed to come between them. Annjee had been away from her son for five growing years and he was no longer her baby boy, small and eager for a kiss. She could see from the little cuts on his face that he had even begun to shave on the chin. And his voice was like a man’s, deep and musical as Jimboy’s, but not so sure of itself.
But Sandy was not thinking of his mother as they rode uptown on the street-car. He was looking out of the windows at the blocks of dirty grey warehouses lining the streets through which they were passing. He hadn’t expected the great city to be monotonous and ugly like this and he was vaguely disappointed. No towers, no dreams come true! Where were the thrilling visions of grandeur he had held? Hidden in the dusty streets? Hidden in the long, hot alleys through which he could see at a distance the tracks of the elevated trains?
“Street-cars are slower, but I ain’t got used to them air lines yet,” said Annjee, searching her mind for something to say. “I always think maybe them elevated cars’ll fall off o’ there sometimes. They go so fast!”
“I believe I’d rather ride on them, though,” said Sandy, as he looked at the monotonous box-like tenements and dismal alleys on the ground level. No trees, no yards, no grass such as he had known at home, and yet, on the other hand, no bigness or beauty about the bleak warehouses and sorry shops that hugged the sidewalk. Soon, however, the street began to take on a racial aspect and to become more darkly alive. Negroes leaned from windows with heads uncombed, or sat fanning in doorways with legs apart, talking in kimonos and lounging in overalls, and more and more they became a part of the passing panorama.
“This is State Street,” said Annjee. “They call it the Black Belt. We have to get off in a minute. You got your suit-case?”
She rang the bell and at Thirty-seventh Street they walked over to Wabash Avenue. The cool shade of the tiny porch that Annjee mounted was more than welcome, and as she took out her key to unlock the front door, Sandy sat on the steps and mopped his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. Inside, there was a dusky gloom in the hallway, that smelled of hair-oil and cabbage steaming.
“Guess Mis’ Harris is in the kitchen,” said Annjee. “Come on—we’ll go upstairs and I’ll show you our room. I guess we can both stay together till we can do better. You’re still little enough to sleep with your mother, ain’t you?”
They went down the completely dark hall on the second floor, and his mother opened a door that led into a rear room with two windows looking out into the alley, giving an extremely near view of the elevated structure on which a downtown train suddenly rushed past with an ear-splitting roar that made the entire house tremble and the window-sashes rattle. There was a wash-stand with a white bowl and pitcher in the room, Annjee’s trunk, a chair, and a brass bed, covered with a fresh spread and starched pillow-covers in honor of Sandy’s arrival.
“See,” said Annjee. “There’s room enough for us both, and we’ll be saving rent. There’s no closet, but we can drive a few extra nails behind the door. And with the two windows we can get plenty of air these hot nights.”
“It’s nice, mama,” Sandy said, but he had to repeat his statement twice, because another L train thundered past so that he couldn’t hear his own words as he uttered them. “It’s awful nice, mama!”
He took off his coat and sat down on the trunk between the two windows. Annjee came over and kissed him, rubbing her hand across his crinkly brown hair.
“Well, you’re a great big boy now. . . . Mama’s baby—in long pants. And you’re handsome, just like your father!” She had Jimboy’s picture stuck in a corner of the wash-stand—a postcard photo in his army uniform, in which he looked very boyish and proud, sent from the training-camp before his company went to France. “But I got no time to be setting here petting you, Sandy, even if you have just come. I got to get on back to the hairdressing-parlor to make some money.”
So Annjee went to work again—as she had been off only long enough to meet the train—and Sandy lay down on the bed and slept the hot afternoon away. That evening as a treat they had supper at a restaurant, where Annjee picked carefully from the cheap menu so that their bill wouldn’t be high.
“But don’t think this is regular. We can’t afford it,” she said. “I bring things home and fix them on an oil-stove in the room and spread papers on the trunk for a table. A restaurant supper’s just in honor of you.”
When they came back to the house that evening, Sandy was introduced to Mrs. Harris, their landlady, and to her husband, the elevator-starter, who was to give him the job at the hotel.
“That’s a fine-looking boy you got there, Mis’ Rogers,” he said, appraising Sandy. “He’ll do pretty well for one of them main lobby cars, since we don’t use nothing but first-class intelligent help down where I am, like I told you. And we has only the best class o’ white folks stoppin’ there, too. . . . Be up at six in the mornin’, buddy, and
I’ll take you downtown with me.”
Annjee was tired, so they went upstairs to the back room and lit the gas over the bed, but the frequent roar of the L trains prevented steady conversation and made Sandy jump each time that the long chain of cars thundered by. He hadn’t yet become accustomed to them, or to the vast humming of the city, which was strange to his small-town ears. And he wanted to go out and look around a bit, to walk up and down the streets at night and see what they were like.
“Well, go on if you want to,” said his mother, “but don’t forget this house number. I’m gonna lie down, but I guess I’ll be awake when you come back. Or somebody’ll be setting on the porch and the door’ll be open.”
At the corner Sandy stopped and looked around to be sure of his bearings when he returned. He marked in his mind the sign-board advertising CHESTERFIELDS and the frame-house with the tumbledown stairs on the outside. In the street some kids were playing hopscotch under the arc-light. Somebody stopped beside him.
“Nice evening?” said a small yellow man with a womanish kind of voice, smiling at Sandy.
“Yes,” said the boy, starting across the street, but the stranger followed him, offering Pall Malls. He smelled of perfume, and his face looked as though it had been powdered with white talcum as he lit a tiny pocket-lighter.
“Stranger?” murmured the soft voice, lighting Sandy’s cigarette.
“I’m from Stanton,” he replied, wishing the man had not chosen to walk with him.
“Ah, Kentucky,” exclaimed the perfumed fellow. “I been down there. Nice women in that town, heh?”
“But it’s not Kentucky,” Sandy objected. “It’s Kansas.”
“Oh, out west where the girls are raring to go! I know! Just like wild horses out there—so passionate, aren’t they?”
“I guess so,” Sandy ventured. The powdered voice was softly persistent.
Not Without Laughter Page 22
