Night on Fire

by Ronald Kidd

  “So, what am I like?” asked Janie.

  Grant gazed at her thoughtfully. “Smart. Nice.”

  There was a bump and a crash behind us, and Mr. Forsyth strode over toward the canned goods. We followed and saw a young Negro man about my age. I was surprised because we didn’t usually see many Negroes in our neighborhood.

  He was kneeling in the soup aisle, with cans on the floor, and I realized immediately what had happened. Mr. Forsyth’s motto was “One-Stop Shopping,” which meant he stuffed his shelves with as many different products as they could hold in hopes that people really would do all their shopping at his store. People didn’t, but they did bump into the overloaded shelves, like I had a dozen times. Obviously that’s what had happened to the young man.

  I heard someone behind me and turned to see Bubba Jakes. Behind him, Mrs. Todd squinted through her thick glasses. I had smiled when I’d seen them before, but no one was smiling now.

  “What are you doing, boy?” Mr. Forsyth demanded.

  I happened to know that Mr. Forsyth was a softy deep down inside, but he sometimes put on a gruff front, especially if he thought it might impress one of his regular customers like Mrs. Todd.

  “Sorry, sir,” the young man mumbled. “I’ll get it.”

  Janie pushed past us and crouched down beside him. “I can help,” she said.

  Mr. Forsyth grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Let him do it.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Bubba told the young man. His voice was low and gruff, as if he was trying to act grown up, the way he’d been doing when he shopped for safety razors.

  “Why not?” said Grant. “It’s a free country.”

  Bubba grunted. The young man looked up at Grant, then gazed at me, as if he had a question but couldn’t ask it. His face was open like a book, full of words and feelings if you knew how to read them. I tried to imagine what he was thinking but couldn’t. It was like there was an invisible wall between us—white on one side, black on the other. It might seem strange to some people, but in Anniston we were used to it. That’s just the way things were.

  I wanted to tell him that. Grant was my friend, but part of me agreed with Bubba. Go home, I thought. This is our neighborhood, not yours.

  The young man turned back to the pyramid, carefully placing creamed celery on chicken gumbo, old-fashioned tomato on vegetable beef. When he finished, he got to his feet and nodded awkwardly.

  “I’ll be careful next time,” he said.

  “There won’t be a next time,” said Mr. Forsyth. “Leave, and don’t come back.”

  The young man watched Mr. Forsyth. I saw something in his eyes—an impulse, a feeling—but I couldn’t tell what it was. The two of them stared at each other for a long time, and finally the young man looked away. He turned, shoulders slumped, and left the store.

  Mr. Forsyth shrugged, almost an apology.

  “Personally, I don’t mind them coming here,” he said. “But they might bother some of my customers.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  She always kissed the baby first.

  He was cute, I admit, but what about me? I was cute too, if you looked at me just right.

  “Hi, Mama,” I said.

  “Hello, dear,” she answered, barely looking up.

  Mama had arrived home from the army depot, just down the hill and around the corner, where she worked as a secretary. She was wearing a suit with a neatly pressed blouse and scarf. To me, the suit looked stiff and scratchy. Mama didn’t seem to mind though, about the suit or the work. If a job had to be done, she would do it. It was that simple.

  Mama was like that. She didn’t tell jokes and carry on like Daddy. He would be out in front, making noise and taking chances. She would come along behind, cleaning up, making things right, doing what needed to be done. With a strong jaw and clear blue eyes, she wasn’t exactly pretty, but something about her was beautiful, especially when she set her mind on something. Her hair was the color of chocolate, and her smile, when she showed it, was surprising, like one of those warm spring days that come along sometimes in the winter.

  She had started at the army depot after my father changed jobs with an insurance company in Anniston. I’d never been quite sure what had happened to my father’s job. One day he was working at a desk in town, and the next he was out in the countryside, selling insurance to poor families, the way he’d done years ago when I was little.

  I was embarrassed to ask Daddy about it, so I’d gone to Mama. That’s how it was in my family. Daddy made things happen, and Mama explained, or tried to.

  “Your father is good with people,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded. Daddy was always laughing and telling stories. If you wanted to find him, you just looked for where the people were.

  “He did so well at sales, he was promoted to a desk job,” Mama told me. “He sat in the office all day, shuffling papers and going to meetings. Hated it. Just hated it. One day he blew up in a meeting and yelled at his boss.”

  “Really? In the meeting?” It was hard to imagine Daddy blowing up at anybody, let alone his boss.

  Mama nodded. “I think he planned it so he could get out of that office and back in the field. His boss was glad to oblige. People around town called it professional suicide. They shook their heads. Some of them laughed. Daddy didn’t mind though. He was back on the road, meeting people, telling stories. Being Daddy.”

  “And you got a job.”

  “I like to keep busy,” she said.

  Now, arriving home, Mama set her purse on the rug and got down on her hands and knees, where the baby was squirming on a blanket. She pressed her lips against his bare stomach and blew, making a rude noise. I suppose it was adorable.

  The baby’s name was Royal. That’s right, Royal. As in his highness. It happened to be my mother’s maiden name, Mary Lou Royal, but that didn’t make it right.

  “He’s a good little baby,” said Lavender. “But, Lord, can he eat.”

  Lavender Jones stood by, watching. She was a large woman with coffee-colored skin and eyes that took in everything. Lavender had been our maid for fifteen years. She cleaned the house and cooked, and when I came along, she took care of me.

  As far back as I could remember, Lavender had been there watching me, holding me, comforting me. She was Mama’s extra pair of hands, extra smile. Daddy would go off on sales trips, leaving Mama, Lavender, and me. The three of us had our own little world. Then Daddy would come home, and the world shifted. I was happy to have him back, but Lavender wasn’t. Daddy treated Lavender differently from the way Mama did. Mama asked; Daddy told. Mama helped; Daddy gave orders. Mama listened; Daddy looked away.

  Lavender seemed distant when Daddy was around. She didn’t smile or sing the way she did with me. She didn’t hum to herself when she was cooking or tell stories when she was folding clothes. But Lavender always smiled when she saw Royal, even when Daddy was home. She loved that boy. She was like his second mother. Which was fine, except that I wanted her to be my second mother.

  A few nights before, when Mama and Daddy thought I was asleep, I had heard them talking about Lavender.

  “Can we afford to keep her?” Mama had asked.

  “We’re not poor,” Daddy had replied.

  “I think she’s worried about her job,” Mama had said finally.

  “I’m working as hard as I can.”

  “I know, Charles. We both are.”

  I’d pictured Mama taking his hand and squeezing it the way you’d put pressure on a wound. He was quiet after that.

  I lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. They were talking about Lavender as if she was an employee. I knew better. She was family.

  Mama kissed Royal’s chubby cheek, then handed him to Lavender and headed for the bedroom to change. She came out a few minutes later wearing a sundress and sandals.

  “Billie, did you finish your homework?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Math and Latin, my
two favorite subjects.”

  “Don’t be a smart aleck, dear.”

  I heard a car pull up and hurried outside. Daddy drove a beat-up DeSoto that he’d bought from one of the neighbors. He was just climbing out, lugging his big briefcase. I wondered what he carried in there. Books? Bricks? A bowling ball?

  I threw my arms around him, and he gave me a hug.

  “How’s my girl?” he asked.

  “Tired of smelling diapers.”

  He chuckled. “Get used to it, sweetie.”

  I pulled back and looked at him. “You seem tired.”

  “I drove two hundred miles today. Insurance is a tough game.”

  Walking across the lawn, he shared his latest jokes with me. It was a little ritual we went through when he got home from work.

  “What did one wall say to the other wall?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s meet in the corner. Why do cows wear bells?”

  I shrugged. He grinned.

  “Because their horns don’t work.”

  Daddy got jokes by the dozen at Clyde’s Hair Heaven, the barbershop where he went on Saturdays for his weekly trim. Most of the jokes weren’t very good, but he said they helped to break the ice with customers. Besides, he enjoyed telling them. Daddy loved making people laugh.

  “Make ’em laugh; then sign ’em up,” he always said.

  He spotted a football on the grass. Setting down his briefcase, he picked up the ball.

  “Go long,” he said.

  I took off across the lawn, running as fast I could. He lifted a spiral high into the air. I ran under it, and the ball dropped into my hands. I turned and lofted it back toward him. He snagged it, then flipped it back and forth from one hand to the other.

  “I thought you were tired,” I said.

  “I’m insurance tired, not football tired.”

  Daddy had his quirks and faults. I guess we all do. But there was something that made most people like him. They gathered around, the way you would at a campfire on a chilly night. They sought him out, shared a joke, asked about the family, and left feeling better about themselves. Mama said it was a gift. Whatever it was, I was glad to be his daughter.

  He set down the ball and picked up his briefcase. I came up beside him, and he put his hand on my shoulder. We walked across the lawn toward the house.

  “So, Billie, are you helping your mama?”

  “Sir?”

  “She has a job now,” he said. “She could use your help around the house.”

  “We have Lavender, don’t we?”

  “Lavender has plenty to do. Will you help out, Billie?”

  “Yes, sir. I guess so.”

  As we crossed the porch, he stopped for a minute. Glancing at the door, he whispered, “Oh, and have you thought about Mother’s Day?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It’s a week from Sunday. You’re a big girl now. You should do your own shopping. Buy something for your mama.”

  He opened his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Next week sometime, go into town and pick out a present from you and Royal. While you’re at it, get a card for me.”

  He pressed the bill into my hand, then planted an awkward kiss on my forehead. “There’s my girl.”

  The minute we walked through the front door, Daddy made a beeline for the baby. He took Royal from Lavender and held him up like a prize pig.

  “Will you look at this little guy?” asked Daddy.

  Royal waved his arms and demonstrated what he did best—slobber. I swear, if you took him to the army depot, that kid could lubricate a tank.

  Mama wiped the baby’s mouth with a handkerchief.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  Lavender smiled, and I saw a glimpse of the face she saved for Mama and me.

  “His day was like most days,” said Lavender. “Eat and poop.”

  Mama giggled. “I meant Mr. Sims.”

  “Me too,” said Daddy. “Eat and poop. That pretty much says it all.”

  He gave the baby to Lavender, then set down his briefcase and eased into the La-Z-Boy recliner. Cranking the lever, he leaned back.

  “Insurance is brutal,” he said to no one in particular.

  Mama came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders. I brought him the paper.

  “Colavito hit a home run,” I told him. “The Tigers won.”

  Besides Alabama football, Daddy and I followed the Birmingham Barons and their major league team, the Detroit Tigers. The Tigers had finished sixth the year before, but this season, led by their slugger Rocky Colavito, they were challenging the Yankees.

  I knelt next to the La-Z-Boy, propped my elbow on the arm of the chair, and glanced through the paper with Daddy. The Anniston Star was published in the afternoons and on Sunday morning. Today it had stories about trouble in a place called Laos and about Alan Shepard, who was scheduled to be the first American in space if the weather in Florida would cooperate.

  The first thing I always looked for, though, was the local articles. Sure enough, there was one about Anniston teachers holding a meeting downtown. I wasn’t interested in the article as much as the name at the top: Tom McCall, Grant’s dad, the reporter who covered most of the local stories. Seeing his name there made me feel good, like I knew someone important.

  Lavender gave the baby a hug, set him on her hip, and headed for the kitchen.

  Daddy asked her, “What’s for supper?”

  “Fried chicken,” she said.

  “Again?”

  I said, “It’s good. I love it.”

  “How about a steak?” he called after her. “You know what that is?”

  He grinned at me and winked. I looked away. I didn’t like it when he teased Lavender.

  She called over her shoulder, “You give me a steak, I’ll cook it.”

  Before she turned away, an expression flickered across her face. Whatever it was, I realized it was the same thing I’d seen in the eyes of the young man at the grocery—something dark and mysterious, like anger pushed down and covered up.

  Daddy must have seen it too. He lowered the paper. “Lavender, is there something you want to say?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t mind me, Mr. Sims. I’m just talking.”

  Daddy studied her for a minute, then looked over at Mama.

  “You know what?” he said. “Steak sounds good.

  Taking his wallet from his back pocket, he counted out a few dollars and waved them at Lavender.

  “Here’s some money,” he told her. “Go down to Forsyth’s and buy the best steak in the place.”

  Mama said, “Charles, really—”

  “Then bring it back here and cook it. How does that sound?”

  Sometimes Daddy’s teasing turned into something else, something hard and mean. It made me mad, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

  Mama came up behind Daddy and touched his shoulder. “She made some fried chicken. Let’s have that.”

  Lavender reached out with her free hand and took the money.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Sims,” she said. “Whatever you say.”

  Royal, who for once had been forgotten, started to cry. Mama took him off Lavender’s hip and gave him a kiss. Daddy watched as Lavender whipped off her apron, picked up her purse, and headed for the door.

  Daddy looked at Mama. Mama looked back. Royal screamed.

  I said, “I’m going with Lavender.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It would have been a long walk down the hill and an even longer walk back, so we took Lavender’s car, a green Studebaker that wasn’t much older than our DeSoto. The difference was that Daddy parked in the driveway, and Lavender parked on the street in front. I saw her pull into the driveway once, but Daddy, like a traffic cop, had motioned her back.

  Lavender crossed the lawn, got into her car, and pulled the door shut. I climbed in the other side. Lavender gripped the steering wheel, closed her eyes, and sighed.
/>
  “That man,” she said.

  “You don’t like steak?” I asked.

  “It’s not about steak. It’s about who’s boss.”

  “It is?”

  “Who gives the orders and who takes them. He can’t be the boss at work, so he wants to be at home. He’s showing me who’s in charge.”

  “You make it sound like a job,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s a job. It surely is.”

  Hearing her say that made me sad. “What about family?”

  “I love your family, Billie. But it’s yours, not mine.”

  I tried to picture Lavender’s family. The frame was empty, like Grant’s frames before he put photos in them.

  “I really do like your fried chicken,” I said.

  Lavender pulled her keys from her purse, then glanced over at me. “You’re a nice girl, Billie. You always have been.”

  She started the car and headed down the hill. The car smelled like Lavender—a special combination of soap, starch, and something else I couldn’t identify. We were in her world now, and she seemed more relaxed.

  “Mama’s nice,” I said. “So is Daddy. We’re all nice.”

  Lavender nodded wearily. “That’s what they say.”

  She reached into her purse and popped a cherry Life Saver into her mouth. Maybe that was the other smell I’d noticed. She sucked on the Life Saver while she drove, as if she was considering something.

  “You know what prejudice is?” she asked.

  “Prejudice? Is it liking one thing over another?”

  “Not just things—people. Rich over poor. White over black. Happens all the time. Some of the nicest people do it.”

  I had to think about that one. “Then those people aren’t nice, are they?”

  Lavender looked at me, then back at the road. “My friend Corea, she has a theory about prejudice. She says it’s a disease like mumps or whooping cough. You catch it from your parents and friends. Most people never recover.”

  “Do I have it?” I asked.

  A shadow flickered across her face. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m afraid you do. The question is, will you pass it on?”

  How do you pass on prejudice? Do you eat from the same dishes, drink from the same glass? I thought of the separate drinking fountains around town for white and colored. We were afraid of catching something, that was for sure. Maybe that fear was prejudice. Maybe the disease was being afraid.