Blue

by Joyce Moyer Hostetter

  “If Charlotte couldn’t do no better by coloreds than putting them in a tent, then why did they shut down our Hickory hospital? That place was a pure miracle.”

  Miss Jane tugged on my leg and said, “I know all about your ‘Miracle of Hickory.’ It’s been in all the magazines. And the movies even. But I didn’t shut it down.”

  “Well,” I said, “I know it ain’t your fault, but could you do me a big favor?”

  Miss Jane didn’t make me no promises. She just waited for me to ask.

  “Imogene Wilfong is my friend,” I said. “I wrote her a letter. Would you take it to her for me? And get one from her too, on account of I know she wrote me.”

  Miss Jane started shaking her head before I even finished. “I never go to the colored ward,” she said. “They got their own help over there.”

  I begged and pleaded and promised to work hard and get out of there real fast if she did. But all my begging didn’t do me one bit of good. Miss Jane just shook her head.

  I knew I was going to have to find another way to get to Imogene.

  26

  The President

  April 1945

  My letters to Imogene piled up on the table beside my bed and slid off on the floor. I asked nurses and even the doctors to deliver them. But it seemed like everybody was just too busy. Or else they didn’t care.

  I thought maybe if none of them white people was going to help me, at least a colored person might. But the only colored person I ever seen was that one orderly named Harvey who walked in on me while I was in the bathroom. And I tried not to see him. Every time I heard his whistling coming my direction, I turned my face away.

  I kept thinking if I was going to get my letters to Imogene I was going to have to ask him. But I kept hoping to find someone else.

  Then one day something happened that changed everything. It was April 12, 1945, and I will never forget it as long as I live. It was late in the day when I heard a big commotion at the nurses’ station. I was stuck in my bed, but I could tell something important had happened in the world. The nurse at the other end of the ward went rushing out of the room, saying, “Oh, dear God in heaven. What will America do now?”

  All the staff was out in the nurses’ area, listening to a radio which they had turned up so loud I could almost make out what it was saying. Almost, but not quite. I seen through the door to where them nurses was crying on each other’s shoulders. Whatever the news was, I knew it wasn’t good.

  My heart sagged. It must be something about the war. Was it another bombing like at Pearl Harbor? Just when we thought it would soon be over?

  The girls in the ward started to holler out. “What happened? Tell us.”

  I was sliding out of my bed, fixing to get into that wheelchair, when Harvey stepped into the room. His lips was trembling, but he put his finger over them and we all got quiet. I seen his Adam’s apple sliding up and down in his neck and I knew something had really upset him.

  Finally Harvey spoke. “It’s our president,” he said. “Mr. Franklin Delano Roosevelt died this afternoon at his polio place in Warm Springs, Georgia.”

  And then Harvey’s face twisted, and he walked away quick before we seen him cry.

  The whole ward got so quiet we really could hear the radio in the hall. Only thing was—now we wanted it shut off. Now I wanted to rush out in my wheelchair and smash that radio.

  How could it be? What would we do without our president? All of America looked to Roosevelt to lead us out of this war.

  A deep sadness settled over the hospital. Church bells rung all over town, and it felt to me like the whole town was crying.

  People said it was a shame the president didn’t live to hear them bells announce the end of the war. They said it could be over any day now.

  The aides tiptoed around our beds, and Harvey didn’t whistle his cheerful hymns like always. Instead he hummed a song Imogene used to sing sometimes when we was getting those Kenny packs.

  Nobody knows the trouble I see,

  Nobody knows my sorrow;

  Nobody knows the trouble I see,

  Glory hallelujah!

  I hadn’t felt this alone since my daddy left. I needed Imogene in the bed beside me. I needed her people’s wisdom to comfort me.

  But Imogene was in the colored tent.

  I didn’t eat none of my supper that night. I just kept thinking how I come so close to seeing the president. So close to going to Warm Springs and eating Thanksgiving dinner with him or being in one of them talent shows.

  I should’ve known it was too good to be true. It was too much to believe that a poor country girl like me could get anywheres close to the president of the United States—especially one as great as Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

  The next day, the radio announced that Roosevelt’s body was coming north on a train. Some of the nurses said they was going out to the train station that night. I asked one of them could she please take me with her. But I knew it wasn’t possible.

  It just didn’t seem right that none of us with polio could pay our respects. I knew Roosevelt would not be happy about that. He would want us lined up by the train tracks in our wheelchairs and iron lungs.

  But nobody asked me what I knew about it.

  It was pure quiet in the ward that night. Nobody moved around unless they had to, and then it was like they felt it was a desecration if their heels clicked on the floor or they bumped into something by accident.

  I think we was all listening for the sound of that train going through Charlotte.

  The next morning one of the nurses walked into our ward with a bouquet of flowers and started handing one to every patient. “This flower was bought by the Lions Club to honor the president,” she said to each one. “It was in the train station when he went through last night. They sent it just for you.”

  That’s when I knew that someone really did understand about us. I sucked in the sweet smell of that yellow rosebud, and it spread a sadness and a joy over me all at the same time. I thought how I would keep that rose till the day I died.

  I’d show it to Peggy Sue and Junior Bledsoe and Reverend Price. I’d say, “Don’t feel sorry for me on account of I had polio. Look here what I got. I got one of the president’s roses. That’s one thing polio done for me.”

  When a hospital volunteer finally brought me a newspaper, I read all about the president’s body coming through Charlotte. The paper said the president would have liked them giving the flowers to us polios. It said Roosevelt would have called that grand.

  I read how thousands of people come out to meet him. And how a group of singers sung “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” And everyone stood in silence and cried when the casket went by real slow.

  The paper said Negroes were down at the other end of the station, singing spirituals. It said they looked upon Roosevelt as the best friend they ever had in the White House.

  And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I got to wondering—did anyone take the president’s flowers to the colored tent?

  I thought I knew the answer to that question. And then I knew what I had to do.

  I wanted that yellow rose. I wanted to take it home and put it in the little cedar box my daddy made me last Christmas. Whenever I needed extra courage, I would take it out and think about the man with polio who become the president.

  But I kept thinking how Imogene didn’t have one of the president’s flowers. And if anyone deserved to have one, it was Imogene Wilfong for sure.

  But didn’t I deserve it too? After putting up with them hot packs, and exercising my muscles for months, and missing my family the whole time?

  And then I thought how Imogene went through everything I did. It was Imogene that got me through them hot packs in the first place. And wasn’t it Imogene who told me that God keeps my tears in a blue bottle all my own?

  I knew that with Roosevelt dying, Imogene was over there in the colored tent making tears for that brownand-rainbow-colored bottle that God was keep
ing on her. Imogene had brought comfort to me when I needed it. Now it was my turn to comfort her.

  I felt empty just thinking about my little cedar box without that yellow rose. But my head was full of voices. I heard President Roosevelt saying in his great radio voice, The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I heard Daddy saying, If Roosevelt can be president and he can’t even walk, you can handle anything that— Then Imogene’s voice butted in: It mostly hurts at first. After a while it starts to feel better.

  Well, right that minute it was sure hurting. And I didn’t have no one to give me the courage to do what I had to do. Not my daddy or my momma and not even Imogene. All I had was a yellow rose.

  I figured every man and woman in the country would give their right arm to have one of the president’s roses. They’d be proud to put that yellow rose in a little box on their mantelpiece. Then when company come around, they’d open the box and say, “Look at what I got—a rose from when the president’s funeral train went through Charlotte.” And their friends would say, all hushed and reverent, “How about that! That’s something you don’t see every day.”

  If I give that rose up now, nobody would believe I ever had it.

  But if I kept it, it would always remind me how I didn’t have the courage to do what I needed to when I had the chance.

  Well, I knew I couldn’t count on the nurses to run it all the way out to the colored tent. There was only one person who might do it.

  The next time I heard Harvey whistling, I fixed my eyes on that yellow rose and called his name real quick before I could change my mind.

  Harvey looked up from the floor he was mopping in our ward. “Yes, miss?”

  “I was wondering, could you do me a favor?”

  Harvey stood quiet and said, “Yes, miss, I’m sure I would be glad to.”

  I pointed to the rose that was in a cup of water. “I need you to take this rose to someone.”

  Harvey whistled softly. “Is that the president’s rose you giving away?”

  “I want you to take it to Imogene Wilfong,” I said. “She’s in the tent for colored polios.”

  Harvey shook his head like he was trying to figure out if he heard me right. Like he was shaking some confusion out. “You giving the president’s rose to a colored girl?”

  “I don’t figure they give any of the president’s roses to the colored patients.”

  “No, miss,” said Harvey. “I don’t reckons they did.”

  When Harvey reached for the rose on the table he seen my stack of letters to Imogene. “You want I should take these too?” he asked.

  “The letters! Of course. I almost forgot.”

  “Well, I think I’m gonna need me a sack,” said Harvey. And then he took off looking for one. When he come back, he put all the letters in a brown paper bag. “I’ll come back for everything later,” he said. “When I gets off work, I’ll come and get it.”

  I wrote one more letter to Imogene.

  Dear Imogene,

  I reckon you heard the sad news. I reckon everyone has heard. They give us each a rose that was bought just to honor the president when his train come through town. I want you to have mine. Yellow roses always dry real nice, so I know it will keep for a long time. Keep it forever and always think of me and the best president this country ever had.

  Your friend,

  Ann Fay Honeycutt

  I hoped if Imogene seen the teardrops on the letter, she would think it was because of the president and not worry about me being sad to give up my rose.

  When Harvey come for the rose, I sucked in its smell one last time—long and hard—till it filled me with courage.

  Harvey stood there so quiet and respectful with his hand on his heart, like I was holding the president’s funeral or something. Which I reckon I was, if you want to know the truth.

  I told Harvey how to find Imogene. “She’s the pretty one with the green eyes,” I said.

  Harvey just grinned and walked away with my bag of letters and the president’s yellow rose. He was singing, “There’s a yellow rose in Texas that I am going to see …”

  It seemed like that Harvey had a song for everything that happened in this world.

  27

  Victory!

  May–June 1945

  At first when our president died, I wondered if we could win this war without him. But I reckon he still led us through. Things ended quick, just like people was saying they would. The last day of April, Hitler killed himself—which was a sure sign the war wasn’t going his way. Then about a week later the Germans surrendered.

  Church bells rung all over town, and for a minute you didn’t know whether to be sad because of Roosevelt not getting to hear them or happy because it meant the war was over. But the happiness took over, and then you should’ve heard the noise in the polio ward. Such a whooping and a hollering! We all started talking how our daddies and brothers would be coming home.

  Harvey stopped whistling and humming and went to outright singing.

  I ain’t gwine study war no more,

  Ain’t gwine study war no more,

  Ain’t gwine study war no more …

  I started thinking my daddy was coming home. But then people said our boys wasn’t coming home right away. They still had work to do in Europe, cleaning up after the war and helping lost people find homes again. And some of them would be shipped to islands in the Pacific Ocean to fight the Japanese, who was doing their best to take what part of the world Hitler hadn’t got his hands on.

  The war wasn’t really over yet. Not until the Japanese surrendered too.

  I prayed my daddy wouldn’t have to go to the Pacific. If he couldn’t come home, I prayed he would get to help rebuild Europe. As much as he hated the killing, maybe now he could do something he felt good about. I give up on the idea of seeing him soon, and I tried hard not to be selfish about it.

  I put all my attention to seeing Momma and the girls. My physio said I could go home soon. My left leg was still weak, but I promised to do my exercises every day. And with a special brace and crutches, I was learning to walk. It wore me plumb out, but I practiced every day. I was determined to get out of that hospital.

  I decided that after I was home awhile I would probably still go to Warm Springs. Dr. Bennett come to Charlotte to check on us every so often, and he was still making plans for me to go.

  It wouldn’t be the same as going while Roosevelt was alive. But I had a feeling that just being in Warm Springs, breathing the air he breathed—just that would give me the courage to face anything that come my way.

  Imogene went home before the war was even over. It seemed like just when we got Harvey to deliver our letters, she left me. I was happy for her. Of course I was. But me, I was lonelier than ever. Well, at least I had her address. And I was going to write for sure. And she had already sent me one letter.

  Dear Ann Fay,

  See why I picked you out a blue color for your bottle? Because of you being true as the sky above. When that Harvey told me that yellow rose was the president’s flower, I told him to take it right on back to you. But he said that would be a slap in your face, and I knew he was right.

  Well, I tell you what—I cried when I heard our president was dead, and I cried even more when I got that rose. I reckons that brown-and-rainbow-colored bottle on God’s windowsill is full and running over.

  I’m home now and my momma is trying to fatten me with biscuits and fried chicken and all other kinds of home cooking.

  I put that rose in my momma’s china cabinet with the glass door. No one can touch it. But everybody who sets foot in this house has to look at it if I have anything to say about it.

  I won’t ever forget the one who gave it to me. Your friend,

  Imogene Wilfong

  When I read Imogene’s letter, I decided that the minute I got home I would put it in my little cedar box in the place of the president’s yellow rose.

  Finally, right before the Fourth of July, the hospita
l sent a letter to Momma telling her to pick me up on the weekend. I knew Junior would have to bring her. I was anxious to see him again too. And his mother and Peggy Sue and the Hinkle sisters and Reverend Price and just everybody.

  That Saturday morning was sunny and hot. I was awake before daylight and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I thought I would jump plumb out of my skin, waiting on Momma and Junior to get there. My bag of letters and personal items was packed and ready. But I was still wearing a hospital gown because I had to wait on Momma to bring me some clothes.

  It made me sad to think how they took my overalls off and probably burnt them when I went to the Hickory hospital. Them overalls was a sign of strength to me. They made me want to do for my family so Daddy would be proud. I could hear his voice plain as yesterday, saying, “I expect you to be the man of the house while I’m gone.”

  My daddy’s voice never left me. It was what got me through all that work in the garden, taking care of my sisters while Momma and Bobby was at the hospital, and struggling to walk again.

  I stood at the window, straining to see my daddy’s truck outside. I kept looking for Momma and Junior to come across that parking lot, but I didn’t see them.

  Then I heard a voice behind me. “Ann Fay Honeycutt, are you coming home with me or not?” And it was his voice. It was my daddy’s voice. It scared me so bad to hear it like that, so unexpected. I was afraid to look because I knew I must’ve heard it in my head.

  But I turned and there he stood—and not in his uniform neither. He was wearing black Sunday pants and his longsleeved blue shirt with the sleeves rolled half up. His eyes was the color of overalls. And truth. And faithfulness.

  And wisteria blossoms.

  I couldn’t run to him but I forgot that I couldn’t, so I tried to. And I went crashing to the floor. Then my daddy run to me. He sunk to his knees and pulled me to him. “Daddy,” I said. “Why are you here? I didn’t know. Oh, Daddy, I didn’t expect you.” We sat on the floor and both of us cried till his shirt pocket was all wet.