by Lois Lenski
“I can’t, honey, I ain’t got it to give,” said Mama Hattie. “Joe can throw his money away if he wants to. I got to hang onto mine.”
“I need a two-wheeler,” said Lula Bell, “so I can ride to school. You gonna buy me one?”
“No, girl,” said Mama Hattie. “Your legs gittin’ weak?”
“You bought bikes for both the boys,” said Lula Bell.
“They had to have ’em to git out to the Golf Links to git their Saturday change,” said Mama Hattie. “They earned the money and bought ’em second-hand. You don’t need a bike.”
“I got to have some spendin’ money,” insisted Lula Bell. “If you won’t give me none, I purely got to help myself. You know what you’re doin? You’re makin’ a thief outa me, that’s what you are.”
Swiftly Mama Hattie’s hand flew out. It gave the girl a resounding slap on the side of her face. “Don’t you git fresh with me, girl!” she said.
Lula Bell was too astonished to cry. Her grandmother had never slapped or whipped her when she was little. She had left all that to Imogene. Now, the blow left a sharp sting, a sting of pain and of injustice.
“I’m gonna git me a job and have my own money!” she threatened.
“I hopes you will, in a few years from now,” said Mama Hattie. “Ten’s a little young.”
“Right now, I mean!” cried Lula Bell. “I’m gonna run away from here and git me a job … I’ll go back up north and live with my mother and Daddy Joe. The Greyhound bus will take me six blocks from Aunty Ruth’s apartment house. I know the way and I’m goin’.”
“All right, Lula Bell. Good-by.” Mama Hattie offered her hand.
At first it was only bragging. Then Lula Bell was surprised to find she was putting her words into action. She dashed into her grandmother’s room and began to pack her clothes. She soon had her suitcase filled. On top of her clothes she put the new looking glass. She had bought it with Daddy Joe’s money she had saved up. She had not taken a penny from Mama Hattie and she never would. She’d starve first. It just showed how little Mama Hattie understood her.
She put on her hat and coat, the ones she wore on the bus coming down south. She picked up the pocketbook Aunty Ruth had given her. Suitcase and pocketbook in hand, she marched out of the bedroom, through the front room and out on the porch. Mama Hattie and Uncle Jim and Miss Vennie and little Myrtle were all sitting out there now. They did not say a word. They just watched her go. All the way up Hibiscus Street they watched. Then she turned a corner and was hidden from their view.
Nobody called her back. Nobody said, “We want you to stay here,” or “We’ll miss you if you go.” If Lonnie and Eddie had been at home, they’d have said something. They’d have laughed and joked to make her stay home. But not Mama Hattie or the Bradleys and not even old Uncle Jim who’d eaten that good dinner of hers and let her go hungry. They didn’t care. They just wanted to get rid of her. They preferred that miserable little Myrtle. Well, she’d get out of their way, and let them have Myrtle. This knowledge added to her bitterness.
Lula Bell headed for the Greyhound Bus Station and went in and sat down. She rested until her anger subsided a little. The man at the ticket window called out: “You takin’ this next bus? Hurry up if you want a ticket. Bus’s goin’ out in a minute.”
Lula Bell did not answer.
She opened her pocketbook, but she knew it was empty. She had spent $1.98 for the looking glass, and 11¢ for the show the Saturday before. There was only 3¢ left. She could not travel very far on 3¢.
“Did you come to meet somebody?” called the ticket man. “That bus went out—it’s goin’ up north. There’s no more buses either way today. Were you trying to meet them people who come from Miami?”
Still Lula Bell did not answer. She was faced with a problem. She had run away from home, but she knew she had to go back. How could she do it? The man wanted her to leave, so he could lock up. She picked up her suitcase and hurried out.
Where now? She started off in the direction of Aunty Irene’s house cross-town. But she would meet people she knew over there. If Irene saw her with a hat and coat on, carrying her pocketbook, she would have a hard time explaining. She turned toward Main Street. With only 3¢, she couldn’t even go to a show.
She walked along slowly, and nobody paid any attention to her. She went in all the stores—the grocery, hardware, variety, department, dime store, in all of them. She looked at things for sale and thought what she would like to buy if she had a little money. The worst thing about living with Mama Hattie was never having any money to spend.
Why couldn’t she get a job at a store, selling things? That would be fun. She asked a clerk at the dime store about it. This clerk had sold her many things in the past and she looked upon her as a friend. But now the clerk frowned and said: “You’re too little. You have to be sixteen. And besides, they don’t hire colored people for clerks here. They’ve got a colored boy who scrubs the floor at night after we close up.”
Lula Bell’s heart sank. She had never thought of it before. None of the stores on Main Street had colored clerks. They were all white. The stores were closing now. The man in the dime store hustled her out. It was getting dark. A chilly north wind was blowing. She buttoned her coat.
Suddenly she thought of Miss Lena Patton and her store on Hibiscus Street. She had never thought of Miss Lena as a prospective employer before. She had hated Miss Lena and teased her and thrown chinaberries at her and called her names, but she had never before wanted Miss Lena to do her a personal favor. She made up her mind to go quickly and ask her for a job.
Miss Lena did not close up at six like the Main Street stores did. She even left her store open while she went in her house next door to eat her supper. She often stayed open until nine or ten o’clock—as long as her customers wanted anything. From 7 A. M. until 10 P. M. was too long a day for any woman. Lula Bell would tell her that. Miss Lena was getting old now. She must be forty already. She needed an assistant. Lula Bell walked back down Hibiscus Street and came to Miss Lena’s store.
Miss Lena stared at Lula Bell’s suitcase and pocketbook.
“Goin’ somewheres, girl?” she asked.
“No ma’m,” said Lula Bell.
“What you want?” Miss Lena asked. “Bread?” She laughed and added: “Without salt?”
But Lula Bell was in no mood for jokes. She was never more serious in all her life.
“I’d like … I’d like to work in your store, Miss Lena,” she blurted out. “I could come in after school and clerk while you’re out to supper.”
“You could, could you?” Miss Lena looked down her long nose at the girl. “You got big ideas since you been up north, ain’t you, girl? I reckon you think you could eat all the candy you want, and hand out a lot more to all the fifty kids on the street. No, girl, I still got a little sense.”
“I could sweep the floor and wait on customers and make change,” said Lula Bell meekly.
“How old are you, girl?” asked Miss Lena.
“I’m ten goin’ on eleven,” said Lula Bell. “My birthday’s next month.”
“Come back in five years and I’ll think about it,” said Miss Lena.
Lula Bell stepped quickly out on the sidewalk. It was dark now, and darkness enveloped her, body and soul. She was more unhappy than she had ever been in her life. She stood in the middle of the street uncertainly.
She’d have to go back, she knew that. She couldn’t run away, she couldn’t get a job. She’d have to go back and be Mama Hattie’s girl again. She’d have to be bossed around and told what to do and what not to do. She’d have to go and live with her grandmother. Her parents were off up north—they had deserted her. They did not care what happened to her. Home—Mama Hattie’s rickety old house was the only home she had. She’d have to go back.
Well, she wouldn’t tell anybody where she had been or what she had done. It was her affair, not theirs. She would keep her mouth shut. She would not talk to anybody.
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Strengthened by a resolution to get it over with quickly, she marched in the front door. They were all sitting in the front room talking—Uncle Jim and the Bradleys, Mama Hattie and the boys. She went through without saying a word, her chin sunk low on her breast. Before she closed the bedroom door behind her, she heard Lonnie say with a laugh: “Well—the cat came back!”
It was cruel. It was a mean thing to say. She hated Lonnie, and she hated the whole world. She sank down on the bed and had a hard, silent cry. In the darkened room, she stifled her sobs in the pillows, so they would not hear her. In a short time the passionate storm was over and she got up. She turned on the light, unpacked her suitcase and hung up her clothes under the curtain in the corner. She found a nail and hung up the new looking glass. She was standing in front of it, staring at her reflection, when Mama Hattie came in.
“I thought you was takin’ the bus and goin’ back up north,” said Mama Hattie gently.
Lula Bell did not answer. All her anger was spent now. She felt only sadness. A big lump was in her throat.
They both began to undress. The room was very quiet. Lula Bell sat on the edge of the cot and kicked off her shoes. Her back was toward her grandmother and she faced the wall.
“You didn’t even care when I went away,” she said at last.
“Of course I cared,” said the old woman. “My heart ached for you. But I thought you should have a chance to see how hard life is, when you are all alone out in the world. You learned a lot in four short hours. I knew you would come back.”
“Comin’ back was harder than goin’ away,” said Lula Bell. “I was so mad then.”
“You ran away once when you was about four,” said Mama Hattie. “You ran around the house, and under every open window you stopped and called out: ‘I’m runnin’ away now.’ You wanted me to say, ‘Oh please come back,’ but I didn’t. I wanted you to be ready to come back—before you came.”
Lula Bell jumped up from the cot. She ran to her grandmother’s arms. Mama Hattie kissed her and held her close. They sat down on Mama Hattie’s bed.
“I won’t run off and leave you again,. Mama Hattie,” said Lula Bell. “I’ll stay here and take care of you.” She cried a little and Mama Hattie wiped the tears off her cheeks with her nightgown.
Lula Bell got up and went over to the new looking glass. She looked in and studied her own face. “Rose Marie said I’m almost as light as a white girl,” she announced.
“Who’s Rose Marie?” asked Mama Hattie.
“My girl-friend … in school up north,” said Lula Bell. “A white girl. She said I look sort of Spanish.”
Mama Hattie did not say anything.
“I wish I wasn’t colored,” Lula Bell went on. “I liked those white girls in my school.”
“So that’s what’s botherin’ you,” said Mama Hattie. “Come, stop lookin’ at yourself and crawl in bed here with me. Turn out that light. I’m glad you are here with me now—and not off somewheres alone.”
Lula Bell got in the big bed. She felt warm and contented, secure in her grandmother’s love, as she listened to her soothing voice.
“You may as well be proud to be a Negro,” said Mama Hattie. “You can’t pretend to be something else when you’re not. You have to be what you are, what the good Lord made you, and you might as well be satisfied.”
“Rose Marie said colored people are bad and tough and are always makin’ trouble,” said Lula Bell.
“There’s good and bad people, both colored and white,” said Mama Hattie, “but most people are good. Even the bad ones have good in them, though sometimes it’s hard to find. There’s a few bad ones in both races that cause most of the trouble. There’s nothin’ better in this world than a good colored woman, and that’s what I want you to be. You’re growin’ up fast now, and there’s lots of things you got to try to understand. I’ll help you all I can.” She paused, then went on. “Maybe that’s why the Lord didn’t take me when I was so sick, all ready to go. He still had work for me to do—to help you to git growed up and make a fine woman out of you.”
Her voice died away into the silence of the room.
“Mama Hattie, that was Daddy Joe’s money I used to buy my lookin’ glass,” confessed Lula Bell. “I didn’t take a penny outa your pocketbook.”
“That’s good, honey,” said Mama Hattie sleepily. “Why didn’t you say so?”
* Courtesy of Robert Music Corporation.
CHAPTER XI
Outside the Circle
“Lula Bell! Lula Bell!”
The girl turned over in bed, then she heard it again.
“Lula Bell! Lula Bell! Git up and light the fire in the kitchen stove.” It was Mama Hattie’s voice. “Put the teakettle of water on to heat. I can’t git up—I’s got a misery in my back this mornin’.”
Lula Bell rose sleepily and stumbled to her feet.
“Don’t leave the burner turned up too high,” said Mama Hattie.
Lula Bell paddled out to the kitchen, and the linoleum was cold on her bare feet. She found a match, turned on the kerosene and lighted the stove. She filled the kettle with water at the sink, and set it on the burner. She stumbled back to her bed. She and Mama Hattie were soon sound asleep again.
“Miss Hattie! Miss Hattie! Where you at? Come quick!” A man’s voice resounded through the small house.
“Who that? Who callin’?” The old woman raised herself on her elbow. “There’s a man in the house! What do I smell? Somethin’s happened … Go quick, Lu-Bell, see what’s the matter. What you close the door for? Oh Lordy, I can’t even git outa bed. I’m stiff in every blessed joint.”
Loud thumps and shouts came from the kitchen. More voices could be heard, Miss Vennie’s, Uncle Jim’s and the boys’. Lula Bell pulled on a sweater and threw open the door. The kitchen was filled with black smoke.
“The house is on fire!” screamed Lula Bell. “The house is burnin’ up!”
The kerosene stove was enveloped in flames, reaching to the ceiling. Andy Jenkins was there with a bucket, throwing water, trying to put the fire out. Lonnie and Eddie filled cooking pots with water at the sink. They threw the water on the walls to keep them from catching fire.
“Oh Lordy!” groaned Mama Hattie. “The house on fire and me so lame in bed I can’t even raise myself up. Help me, Lula Bell. Help me to git up …” Lula Bell tried to raise her, but her grandmother’s body was a dead weight. “No, I’ll jest stay here,” said Mama Hattie. “I mustn’t git excited or my heart will act up. Oh Lord, help Mr. Andy and the boys to put the fire out, so I won’t burn up in my bed.” She began to moan and cry and pray. “‘Oh Lord, hear us when we cry to Thee …’”
Lula Bell looked into the kitchen, and her cries were mingled with her grandmother’s.
“Miss Hattie! Miss Hattie!” Vennie Bradley rushed into the bedroom, with little frightened Myrtle clinging to her bathrobe. “The house is afire! The house is burnin’ up. What we gonna do? Where we gonna go?”
Miss Hattie began to give orders. “Go save your clothes and the furniture. Go, set everything out in the yard. Go, phone the fire department, somebody. Tell ’em to come quick. Lula Bell, carry all our clothes outside. Save the radio, save the settee, save my electric washer …”
“What’ll I take first?” asked Miss Vennie, bewildered.
“Lord, save us! Lord, save us!” prayed Uncle Jim.
“Go on back to your room and git dressed,” called Lonnie. “The fire’s out. Mr. Andy and us boys put it out. ’Twas only the kerosene stove flarin’ up.”
“Lucky you come runnin’ in, Mr. Andy,” said Eddie. “You come jest in the nick of time.”
“‘The Lord is good and His mercy is everlasting …’” prayed Uncle Jim in a loud voice.
“When I come out on my doorstep ’fore day,” said Andy Jenkins, “I seen Miss Hattie’s house in flames. Right through the glass in the front door I seen flames a-rarin’ right up to the ceiling, and nobody knew it ’cause you-all was
fast asleep. I busted the lock right open and in I come …”
“We shore do thank ye, Mr. Andy,” called Miss Hattie from her bed.
Andy opened the door and windows to let the smoke out, then went back to his tavern across the street. Out in the kitchen, Lula Bell stared at the damage. Walls and ceiling were charred black, and so was the white enamel on the end of the stove. The teakettle was coal black too. The sight made her feel sick. She sat down at the foot of Mama Hattie’s bed.
“I always was afraid my old oil stove might explode,” said Mama Hattie, “and set the house afire. I never thought this purty new one would do it.”
“It’s ruined now,” said Lula Bell. “It’ll never be white and purty again.”
“The enamel’s spoiled?” asked Mama Hattie.
“It’s burnt plumb black across the end,” said Lula Bell.
“The man I bought it from said that enamel would last a lifetime,” said the old woman. “Ruined already and not half paid for. $7 a month to pay, and I still owes $70 on it.”
“I left it turned too high,” said Lula Bell, crying again. “I was so sleepy, I forgot to turn it down.”
“I ain’t a-blamin’ you, honey,” said Mama Hattie. “It coulda happened to anybody.”
Lula Bell went to school without any breakfast that morning, and she had only a dime for a sandwich at noon. After school, she went on some errands with Geneva Jackson, so it was nearly dark when she came in. Before she entered the door she smelled fried fish. The smell made her hungrier than ever.
“Yummy! Fish for supper!” she cried happily. “Somebody musta fixed the stove. Do it burn all right?”
Miss Vennie was at the stove instead of Mama Hattie. She was frying fish in deep fat. She had a great platter already piled high.
“Huh! Your fish, I suppose!” said Lula Bell.
“There’s plenty for everybody,” said Miss Vennie, unexpectedly gracious. “Lonnie and Eddie went fishin’ after school and caught us a big mess.”
“I thought the stove was ruined,” said Lula Bell.
