by Lois Lenski
“I dunno,” said Mama Hattie. She busied herself at the kerosene stove, stirring a pot of stew. “I ain’t used any. Canned milk’s what I use.”
“Somebody’s drunk it all up,” stormed Miss Vennie. “You said we’d have ice-box privileges. I s’pose you meant your kids would have the privilege of takin’ what food they want, even if it don’t belong to ’em.”
“Why don’t you keep your vittles in your own room?” asked Mama Hattie.
“I did hide my milk and cream in my room,” said Miss Vennie, “but it got sour. It’s gotta be on ice. Now, every day, somethin’ of mine gets stoled. Somebody takes it.”
“Well, give and take’s the best policy,” said Mama Hattie comfortably. “If somebody drank your milk, that jest makes up for all them hot biscuits and sweet-’tater pies o’ mine you-all’s been eatin’.”
“Jest wait till I gits my hands on whoever done it,” threatened Miss Vennie darkly.
“Maybe Lonnie drank it,” said Mama Hattie, “or maybe Eddie. The boys worked hard today trimmin’ my hedge. Maybe it made ’em thirsty. But they won’t come in for their supper until you-all gits done and retires to your private bedroom.”
“I don’t think it was the boys,” said Miss Vennie. She looked at Lula Bell. “I ain’t sayin’ who it was, but …”
Lula Bell took her place at the table quietly, waiting for her supper. Old Uncle Jim came shuffling in and sat down trembling. Myrtle came in too, with the big baby-doll in her arms. She sat down opposite Lula Bell and stared at her. Lula Bell folded her hands in her lap and looked down. She refused to look at Myrtle.
“That milk was intended for my little girl,” Miss Vennie went on. “Myrtle’s not strong and she might even have T. B. So the doctor said she should have plenty of milk. Fresh milk is 23¢ a quart now. We can’t afford it, but my little girl’s health has got to be considered. No, I don’t think it was the boys who drunk Myrtle’s milk.”
Lula Bell could feel the woman’s eyes upon her. She kept on looking at her hands in her lap and said nothing. Then Miss Vennie’s attention was diverted to a new channel of grievance by Uncle Jim’s loud fit of coughing. She turned to the old man.
“Did you buy yourself some vittles today, Uncle Jim?” she asked.
“No, Vennie,” said Uncle Jim. “You didn’t give me no money.”
“You got to earn your board, you know that,” said Miss Vennie sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Miz Arnold didn’t need me today,” said Uncle Jim. “She say her grass don’t need cuttin’. It been too dry—grass ain’t growed none.”
“Then you got to be smart and find some other work,” said Miss Vennie. “You got to earn your money and buy your own food and I’ll cook it for you. I’m payin’ for your room here at Miss Hattie’s, but I can’t afford to feed you. You know that.”
Miss Vennie had been cooking at the stove too. She filled little Myrtle’s plate full of pork and vegetables and set it down before her.
The old man looked at the plate longingly. “That shore smells good,” he said. He shuffled out onto the steps back of the kitchen and sat down. He kept on shaking his head and saying: “I shore is hungry, but Vennie’s the hard-headedest woman ever I did see. There’s no goin’ agin Vennie. She always wins.”
Lula Bell watched the old man go outside. She saw a stray dog come up and sniff at the old man’s knee.
“If I had any supper, doggie,” said Uncle Jim, “I’d shore give some to you. You’s as hungry as old Uncle Jim. Tomorra you and me’s gonna find us a job and git us some change and go buy us a great big pork chop—the biggest pork chop in the whole world.”
Lula Bell looked on in astonishment as young Myrtle gobbled down her big dinner. Then she watched Miss Vennie do the same. Lula Bell wondered why Mama Hattie was so slow about filling her own plate. She waited and waited, but Mama Hattie kept on fussing over the stove. “Tain’t done yet,” she kept saying. Lula Bell heard Lonnie and Eddie out in the yard, but Mama Hattie did not call them in. Miss Vennie and Myrtle had chocolate éclairs out of a paper bag for dessert.’ They ate them quickly, then went into their bedroom and closed the door.
Mama Hattie seemed to be waiting until they were gone. She called the boys in at once, and dished out the stew. The boys began to eat. Mama Hattie put a big plate of hot biscuits on the table and drew a deep breath before she sat down. She made the boys stop eating while she asked the blessing.
Lula Bell picked up the full plate that Mama Hattie had set down before her. She put a fork on it and three biscuits on top. She got up from her chair and started for the back door.
“Where you goin’? What you doin’ girl?” asked Mama Hattie quickly.
Lula Bell did not answer. She pushed open the screen, went down the steps and handed her dinner to Uncle Jim.
“Here’s some dinner for you, Uncle Jim,” she said.
The stray dog looked up with sad eyes.
“Can I give him jest a bite?” asked Uncle Jim.
“Yas sir,” said Lula Bell. “Two bites.”
“I shore do thank ye,” said the old man. “You’s a mighty good little girl. The Lord will bless you for bein’ kind.”
The next minute Lula Bell was back at her place at the table.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Mama Hattie in a low but stern voice. “I can’t have you messin’ in. I don’t want trouble with my boarders. The rent they pay is the only steady and sure income I got. If Miss Vennie gits mad and leaves, we don’t eat.”
“I don’t care,” said Lula Bell. “It’s not right.”
“If Miss Vennie didn’t do that, Old Jim wouldn’t do a lick o’ work,” said Mama Hattie. “He’d set around all day and be a nuisance. Even if he’s 85, there’s still work left in him. She knows how to manage him. He’s a good Negro—he was born in the year of the Surrender, 1865. Not many of them old ones left now.”
“I don’t care,” said Lula Bell stubbornly. “It’s not right.”
“There’s no stew left,” said Mama Hattie. “I scraped out the bottom of the kettle. You done gave away your whole supper. You’re the one’s got to go hungry now.”
“I don’t care,” said Lula Bell. “I couldn’t eat a bite if you handed me a feast. It would choke me goin’ down.” She looked at her grandmother hard. “Since when you been lettin’ people go hungry, Mama Hattie, with plenty of good food in the house?”
“Jest since Miss Vennie come,” said Mama Hattie lightly.
She looked at Lula Bell and smiled. “Lula Bell, I won’t call you baby no more,” she said. “I believe you’re growin’ up. You never used to have that much sense.”
CHAPTER X
The Looking Glass
Josephine, Geneva and Lula Bell stopped on the corner by the Chicken Shack on their way home from school.
“Lula Bell!” called Mama Hattie from her porch. “Come here and git Myrtle. She wants to play with you-all.”
Lula Bell turned to the girls and said, “It’s that kid from Chicago. We don’t want her, do we? She plays with dolls all the time. What’s more, she’s sleepin’ in my bed and her mother’s driving us out of our own home. They’re boarders—but they act like they own it.”
“We don’t even know her,” said Josephine. “She ain’t ever come to school.”
“I’ll send her right over,” called Mama Hattie.
As Myrtle came slowly across the street, the three girls looked her up and down. Their unfriendly glances made Myrtle stop halfway.
“We don’t want you!” said Lula Bell coldly.
As she said the words, she saw a shadow of worry pass over Myrtle’s face. Her own words had a familiar ring to Lula Bell. They took her back to a crowded street in a northern city. A group of children there had said: We don’t want you. Lula Bell’s heart began to pound, and she felt very guilty. Why, Myrtle must feel the same way right now to hear that she was not wanted. Lula Bell felt ashamed of herself inside, but decided not
to show it.
After all, why should she care how Myrtle felt? Myrtle could find her own friends. The three girls watched Myrtle turn around, go back home and sit on the porch again. She picked up her baby-doll and hugged it tight. Mama Hattie was indoors now.
“Maybe Myrtle’s O. K.,” said Geneva. “That’s a nice doll she’s got. It cost a lot o’ money.”
“I tell you she stoled my own bed that I slep’ in all my life,” repeated Lula Bell, “and her mother’s cranky and mean. She won’t feed that old man. She’s lettin’ him starve, while she and Myrtle eat all they want.”
Josephine looked at Lula Bell. “You don’t sound like Lula Bell at all,” she said. “I thought you hadn’t changed, but now I see …”
“How have I changed?” demanded Lula Bell, frowning.
“Oh, in little things … jest in little things,” said Josephine. “For instance, you won’t climb up in the old chineyberry tree any more.”
“It’s blown down,” said Lula Bell. “It’s no fun to climb up in a broke-down old tree. And besides, I got my school dress on.”
“Go put on your jeans,” said Geneva Jackson. “Then you won’t have to be careful.”
“Aw, come on,” called Josephine. “Let’s see how high up in it we can go. That cross limb would make a good seat to sit on. Floradell will be here in a minute.”
Lula Bell was bored, but she followed the others, stepping from one limb to another. Near the top of the fallen tree, the three girls sat down on a cross limb. Geneva began to shake it.
“What’s fun about this?” grumbled Lula Bell.
“We’re on top o’ the world!” cried Josephine. “If we had wings like angels, we could fly up in the clouds!”
“If we had wings like seagulls,” said Geneva, “we could fly out over the sea.”
“Oh phooey!” cried Lula Bell. “Don’t be silly.”
Suddenly a loud commotion was heard inside the Chicken Shack. Men’s angry voices rang out, dishes clattered, and heavy thumps were heard. The door flew open with a jerk and a man was kicked out bodily onto the sidewalk.
“You git outa here and don’t you never come back!” shouted Andy Jenkins. The door closed with a loud bang, and a key turned in the lock.
“Yes ma’m, we can see everything!” cried Lula Bell. “Too much, I say. Let’s get down outa here.”
The girls slipped hurriedly down from the tree. Lula Bell looked with the others at the man lying on the sidewalk. A crowd of younger children gathered. Lula Bell recognized the Pearson boys. Suddenly little Popsicle began to cry out. His cry turned into an open-mouthed bawling.
“It’s my daddy!” he wailed. Little Shadow cried too.
“Let’s go away from here,” said Lula Bell. “I can’t stand this awful Hibiscus Street. Why they got to have taverns right on our corner, I can’t see! That awful Mr. Andy and his Chicken restaurant …” She took Geneva by the arm and pulled her along. Josephine followed. “Oh, those terrible people!” cried Lula Bell.
“What terrible people?” asked Geneva.
“Who you talkin’ about, anyhow?” asked Josephine.
“That Pearson family,” said Lula Bell. “Luke Pearson lying there dead drunk. And Big Ethel his wife—so loud-voiced you can hear her a mile off. Those little brats, Popsicle and Shadow, always in the way … taggin’ after us. They never stay at home where they belong.”
“It’s not very pleasant at their home,” said Josephine slowly. “They like to come out on the street just to have a little fun.”
“Poor little kids!” said Geneva. “I’m gonna buy them some popsicles.” She darted into Miss Lena’s store.
“I wouldn’t spend a penny on kids like that,” Lula Bell called out. “I wouldn’t associate with people like that. My mother wouldn’t let me.”
Josephine looked at her in astonishment.
“Is Miss Imogene gittin’ snooty now that she’s livin’ up north?” she asked. “It’s only Popsicle and Shadow …” but somehow she knew Lula Bell would not understand. “Popsicle jest loves popsicles …”
Geneva came out with two big double sticks of bright green frozen flavored ice. She ran over and gave one each to the Pearson boys. Other children had broken limbs off the big tree and were poking at the drunkard. The man raised himself and leaned against the shoe-black stand. He opened his eyes and tried to snatch at the sticks. Lula Bell watched with disgust.
Down the street came a young girl of about fourteen, wearing a red hibiscus in her hair, and a red sweater over a purple dress. Her long thin brown legs came dancing down the street, as she sang lustily:
“‘If I’d a knowed you was a-comin’
I’d a baked a cake …’”*
Now and then she stopped and struck a posture, as if pleased with herself. At first, Lula Bell wondered who it was. Then she saw that it was Floradell. She looked different, she had grown so tall in the last six months. Then she remembered that Floradell was the older sister of Popsicle and Shadow.
After Floradell called “Hello!” she looked over and saw the man. At once all her spirits faded. Her whole figure seemed to droop. She walked over and helped the man to his feet.
“Come on home, Pop,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “See you later, girls.”
A duty had to be done, and Floradell did it. She guided her father down the street to the two-story house, half-hidden behind the trees. Popsicle and Shadow followed, sucking on their ices. It was a sad little procession. When they turned in at the gate, the loud voice of Big Ethel could be heard.
Suddenly Geneva and Josephine said, “We got to be goin’ home.”
“If you-all go, I ain’t got anybody to play with,” said Lula Bell.
“There’s always little Myrtle!” the girls answered, laughing. “Little Myrtle and her doll-baby!”
They ran off up the street and Lula Bell came slowly over to Mama Hattie’s house. Here, the smaller children were making sand-pies on the sidewalk. They had collected jar-lids and filled them with dampened sand. Dozens of pies were spread out over the walk. Lula Bell jumped in the middle and kicked them in all directions.
“You spoiled our pies! You spoiled our pies!” cried Clarence Hobbs and the others. “You’re mean—we don’t like you.”
The little girls began to cry. Lula Bell chased them around to the back of the house and told them to stay there and keep quiet.
Mama Hattie and Myrtle were sitting in two chairs side by, side on the porch. As Lula Bell came up, Myrtle quickly put her baby-doll down on the floor back of her chair.
“Set down, Lu-Bell,” said her grandmother. Lula Bell started to open the screen door to go in. “Come back here and set down, I said!” repeated Mama Hattie sharply. Lula Bell sat down.
All of a sudden she heard the little children crawling under the house, making loud noises. “I tole those crazy kids to be quiet,” she said. “What they doin’ now?”
“They’re playin’ hogses,” said Mama Hattie, smiling. “They can root jest like big ole razorback hogses. You used to do that when you was little, you and Floradell and Josephine.”
Lula Bell turned up her nose. “We don’t play hog-games up north,” she said.
“What do you play?”
The question came from little Myrtle, who seldom said a word. As Lula Bell remembered the Trick Shop tricks, pain hit her in a flash. That was one thing she would never tell anybody. She stared coldly at Myrtle and said, “None of your business.”
“Lula Bell!” scolded Mama Hattie. “Myrtle asked you a civil question. Give her a civil answer.”
“Oh, we have lots of games of our own up north,” she said. “Quite different from here. They never heard of the backwoodsy games the kids play down south.”
She had forgotten that Myrtle was not a southern child. It surprised her when Myrtle said: “In Chicago we played Miss Sally Walker and My Bread Is Burning. Do you play those?”
Mama Hattie went indoors, hoping the two girls might become friends
more quickly alone.
“No, girl,” said Lula Bell, “they’re too babyish.” Deciding to put on a few airs before Myrtle, she began to brag: “I’m gonna git a two-wheeler bicycle for my birthday. My father and mother are rich. They live up north. Not in Chicago, but near New York. They sent me down here for a short vacation. My mother told me she’d git me anything I want, and I chose a two-wheeler bike. I bet your mother ain’t got money enough to buy you one …”
Myrtle said nothing.
“That’s a fine story,” said Mama Hattie coming out. “I hope Myrtle’s got sense enough not to believe you.”
Myrtle’s mother called and the little girl went in. Their bedroom faced on the porch and the window was open. Lula Bell knew they were sitting in there listening. She and Mama Hattie did not say anything. They sat glumly side by side.
One day Lula Bell came home with a store package under her arm. She opened it up and showed a pretty wall looking glass. “I bought it at the Variety Store,” she said. “It cost $1.98.”
“A lookin’ glass!” Lonnie and Eddie laughed.
“Wants to look at herself,” said Lonnie.
“She’ll be puttin’ on lipstick next,” said Eddie.
“Where’d you git the money?” asked Mama Hattie quickly.
“I … er … well …” Lula Bell began to stammer.
“I missed some money from my pocketbook,” said Mama Hattie. “I been keepin’ it under my pillow. But I found it layin’ out on my dresser and some of my change was gone. If you want money, why don’t you ask for it?”
“Cause you never got none to give me,” snapped Lula Bell, “I know that before I ask you.”
“There ain’t one of my six children I can’t trust,” said Mama Hattie. “They know I only got a little and got too many places for it. Sometimes if there’s some left over after I pays for the groceries, Lonnie or Eddie goes and takes a quarter. They says: ‘I taken a quarter, Mama,’ and that’s O. K. They never been sneaky.”
“So you think I been sneaky!” Lula Bell flared up. “If you’d give me 50¢ a week for spending money, like Daddy Joe did up north, I wouldn’t have to help myself.”
