“Can’t I go too?” I sound like a baby, but I don’t care.
“Already explained it, Langston. I’ll be back in one week.” He pulls free and heads for the door.
As I hear him go down the stairs, I sprawl on my bed. No tears, no fussing, just my head filling with pictures of my grandma.
There’s a knock on the door and I don’t need to guess who it is. I take my time getting up.
I open the door and Miss Fulton steps in without being invited.
“I’m so sorry about your grandmother, Langston,” she says. She takes a look around the apartment. “So I guess your Daddy told you I’ll be checking in on you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Supper should be ready soon. You must have homework to do. You can get started on that, and I’ll knock when it’s time to eat. Would you be more comfortable sitting with me across the hall?” Miss Fulton looks nervous.
“No ma’am. I’ll stay here and do my homework.”
“Okay then.”
Over supper, I can see Miss Fulton is trying. And I know I should be trying back. But between my daddy being gone and my grandma passing on, I can’t make myself.
“How was school today?” Miss Fulton asks.
“Fine,” I say.
I’ll say one thing for Miss Fulton. She can put together some dinner. I ain’t had a meal this good since I left home. Pork chops smothered in gravy, green beans floating in butter, cornbread hot and fluffy. I’m ’bout to burst, but I can’t stop eating.
“You were hungry,” she says as I scoop more gravy onto my plate to dip the rest of my cornbread.
“Yes ma’am.”
I don’t look up again till the cornbread is gone and my plate is clean.
DADDY hasn’t been gone one day and already I don’t care much for being alone. But the one thing ’bout Daddy being gone is I can read all I want right out in the open like at the library. Feels good to see all my books unpacked and piled on the floor next to my bed. I pick up the biography and can’t get past the cover for staring at his name and the title, The Big Sea. On the back of the book I see his picture. Brown just like me, with shiny, wavy hair like the ladies that come out of the beauty parlor on Saturdays. His smile reminds me of the pictures I saw lined in a row. The esteemed Negro writers Miss Kimble talked about when I first visited the library. Now I’m going to need to go and see if Mr. Hughes’ picture’s been hanging upstairs the whole time I been downstairs reading his books. I imagine him my age and think of all the questions I need answers to. What books did he read? How did he start writing poetry? Why did he…and all of a sudden I remember the letters.
The box is still pushed into the corner under Daddy’s bed. Daddy’s voice is in my head but it’s not making me stop reaching for the letters in the bottom of the box. The ribbon is old and crinkly and nearly falls apart when I untie it. The ink is so faded I can’t read all the words, but I see words I don’t want to see, like Henry. Love. Night. Baby. Teena.
My head is pounding fast as my heart. Letters from Mama. Now it does feel like I’m stealing. Stealing secrets from Mama and Daddy. Secrets I ain’t supposed to know. But ’stead of tying the letters up and putting them back in the box, I spread them out on Daddy’s bed and just look. Mama’s writing was always so neat. With big loops and little ones—my fancy writing, she used to call it. I always keep a piece of Mama with me wherever I go, and now I know Daddy does too, in this box under his bed. Now I took his piece too. I start folding up each letter, neat as I can, but stop when I get to the next to last one.
My black one,
Thou art not beautiful
Yet thou hast
A loveliness
Surpassing beauty.
Mama was so tired after working our plot and putting dinner together, she could barely keep her eyes open after supper. Ain’t no way she sat and wrote poetry.
There’s so many questions in my head I can’t think. A loveliness surpassing beauty. Wish I could have seen what Daddy wrote back if he did. Is this what they whispered at night when I had to cover my head with my pillow?
I finish folding up the letters and tie the ribbon. Slip them back in the box and sit on Daddy’s bed. Tired now but not sleepy. Gotta head over to Miss Fulton’s for supper soon, so I put my books back in my satchel. All except the biography. I turn to the first page still thinking about how you could know someone so well but not know them at all.
* * *
—
I make myself keep moving so I’m not late again for school. Without Daddy moving fast in the morning, keeping me going till we get out the door, seems I just can’t make myself move fast. Daddy told Miss Fulton I can make my own breakfast, only I wish he hadn’t, because after I burned the last two pieces of bread I had to eat some crackers and a nasty, shriveled-up apple. I bet Miss Fulton makes a mean breakfast with eggs and sausage and gravy….I run out the door zipping my jacket, trying not to think ’bout how empty my belly is.
Straight after school, I rush to the library and downstairs to tell Miss Cook that Langston Hughes isn’t from Alabama but from Missouri and Kansas. On the map at school, I saw they are next-door neighbors to Illinois. That he traveled all over the world and went to college in New York and loved living there in a place called Harlem. That when he traveled the world and lived far from his mama, he was lonely too and wrote poems about it. That he…
Clem is standing at the desk talking to Miss Cook. They followed me here? I look around quick for Lymon and Errol and don’t see them anywhere. But that don’t make no sense. Clem bothers with me only if Lymon is around. I’m standing still not knowing which way to turn when Clem looks up. Stares right at me.
“You boys know each other from school?” Miss Cook asks just as sweet as can be.
“Nope,” we both say at the same time.
“Oh? Pardon me, you looked like you knew each other.” She stamps the book Clem is holding.
“These are due back in two weeks, Clem,” she says.
Clem walks past me with his head down. Something inside me starts growing till my chest is pounding. I follow him out and take the steps two at a time behind him. At the top, I say, “You here with Lymon and Errol?”
“Get away from me, country boy,” he says, and keeps on walking.
I grab his arm to stop him. “I ain’t your country boy!” Words coming out louder than I knew they could. Don’t know when I been this mad. “You can’t be following me here!”
“Boys,” Miss Cook says from the bottom of the stairs. “Keep your voices down.”
“Look, I ain’t here with Lymon or Errol. Just came to get some…some books is all.”
Here in the stairwell, Clem looks so small and skinny. Me and my big self looks like I could crush him without trying hard. I let his arm go.
“This where you come after school?” Clem asks.
“Why you asking? You bringing Lymon back?”
“He don’t know….I come by myself some Thursdays when my mama gotta work late for her family.”
My mind is working hard trying to figure if he’s lying or tricking me or just likes books as much as I do. All I can get out is “Mmm-hmmm.”
“You come every day?” Clem asks, like everything’s okay between us when he knows it ain’t.
“What’s it to you?” I ask.
“You ever come when those big-time writers are here for their meetings? Once there was so many folks upstairs, Miss Kimble came downstairs to get extra chairs.”
“What big-time writers?” I ask, before I remember I’m not even supposed to be talking to Clem. But I am hoping Clem knows more about the writers upstairs in the pictures.
“Ah, I don’t know any of their names, but Miss Kimble said they’re famous. That their work is important.” The last words he says with a fancy girl’s voice as he stretches his neck forward and blinks fast, then laughs.
I can’t help but smile a little bit.
“See you later,” Clem says. “I gotta get on
home.”
I wait till I see Clem leave then I walk toward the front of the library, past the tall bookshelves and toward the row of pictures. At long, wooden tables folks sit reading or with books spread out, some scribbling down words on pads of paper. At other tables folks are whispering together. I make sure no one is watching me, and then I walk to the end of the row. The first picture is a woman, the second too. That makes me stare a little longer ’cuz I never knew women wrote books, ’specially colored women. But here are their pictures on the wall and their names underneath, MARGARET WALKER and GWENDOLYN BROOKS. I keep walking down the row past RICHARD WRIGHT, ARNA BONTEMPS, and then I stop in front of Langston Hughes. I don’t even need to look down at his name to recognize his face and shiny, wavy hair. Don’t know how long I stand staring ’fore I hear “Excuse me” behind me. An older lady is waiting to get past and I move to the side. ’Shamed now to have been standing staring at pictures I know no one else ever stops to look at. I head on back downstairs. But now, sitting at the table with my books, I’m just pretending to read. My mind is wondering if I’ll ever meet Langston Hughes at the library. And wondering too if Clem is gonna tell Lymon he saw me here.
I feel Miss Cook’s hand on my back. She leans over. “Is everything okay, Langston?” she asks.
I look at her and nod, packing up my books.
Walking home, I think about me chasing after Clem and I feel lighter somehow. It’s not till I get to my steps I realize it’s the first time I ever yelled at someone.
TURNS out Miss Fulton ain’t no trouble at all. Almost like she took a vacation from herself. After being alone with Daddy for so long I ain’t used to this much talking, but it ain’t so bad. I figure her living alone makes her want to talk. Besides, her food is so good, her steady talking gives me more time to eat. And she is pretty. Prettier than I thought, at least. Her skin is smooth and her eyes light up when she’s telling a story. Her hair is pulled into a bun on top of her head and she has those pearl earrings I’ve seen rich ladies wearing. My mama didn’t even have her ears pierced. She said she wouldn’t waste her money on earrings. But Miss Fulton’s earrings and hair and proper talk make her look like a real lady. She teaches English at Dunbar High School. Born and raised in Chicago. Got two sisters and one brother. She talks so much, I could write her biography.
“All your folks live in Chicago?” I ask between mouthfuls, just to keep her talking so I can keep on eating.
“Funny you asked,” she says, getting up from the table. She brings over one of the pictures she keeps in a frame. “These are my parents, Anne and Elbert Fulton. They came here from the South, like you. Only from Charlottesville, Virginia. But I was born here, the oldest of four. My parents still live at Forty-Fifth and St. Lawrence.”
She looks proud and keeps staring at the picture.
“So your brothers and sisters live in Chicago?” I reach for another spoonful of rice and Miss Fulton doesn’t even notice.
“My brother William lives in Indiana with his family. But my sisters are here. One is at Crane College over on the West Side and the other is a teacher like me.”
I nod. Sounds to me like she comes from a real smart family.
“You always wanted to be a teacher?”
“For as long as I can remember. I’ve always loved reading, so I didn’t know what else to be. After I finished high school, I enrolled in college, just part-time at first….” Looks like Miss Fulton been waiting for me to ask this question. Her eyes are bright and she’s leaning toward me in her seat.
“I had an aunt who was also a teacher and she encouraged me to get an education degree. So that’s what I did, and now…” Miss Fulton acts like she doesn’t remember because she starts counting on her fingers. “This will be my tenth year teaching.”
“What kind of books does your class read?” Two more years before I’m in high school and I’m already counting the days till I get out of Haines Junior High and away from Lymon.
“We just started a unit on poetry,” she tells me. That makes me put down my fork.
“Poetry?”
“Yes,” she answers, and walks over to a small bookcase in the corner. Stacked on top are magazines she sets on the floor, some with pictures of black folks on the cover. I’d like to get a look at the ones with names like Life, The Crisis, and Ebony, but I’ll have to ask Miss Fulton another time. Never even noticed any of this before, probably because I was too busy smelling her lavender smell.
“Of course, the school likes me to teach all the classic poets—Emerson, Frost, Dickinson—but I always include some of our own as well. Paul Laurence Dunbar for one,” she says, opening one of the books she sets on the table and turning to the first page to the list of poets.
“So, all these are colored poets?” I look down the list of names I never heard of.
“Yes, they are. Many are from the Harlem Renaissance, and some”—she turns the page—“are from right here in Chicago.” My head is trying to keep everything straight. Harlem. I know that from reading the biography.
“Harlem, New York?” I ask, but really telling because I want her to know I know a little something.
“Exactly,” she says, brightening up the room again with her smile.
I go back to looking at the names. Arna Bontemps. Gwendolyn Brooks. I know these names from the library pictures. Countee Cullen. W.E.B. Du Bois. Jessie Fauset. These I don’t. Right away I see Mr. Langston Hughes.
“You’ll be reading Langston Hughes?” I ask.
“Oh yes. He’s one of my favorites.” She smiles some more. “In fact,” she says, serious now, “I heard him read one of his works not too long ago at the Hall Library. They have a wonderful lecture forum run by the librarian there. Do you know his work?”
“I s’pose.” I don’t know how much I want to be telling Miss Fulton. Me and the library and books and Mr. Langston Hughes are something I’m keeping to myself.
“Maybe I’ll read something of his after dinner,” she says.
“If you want,” I say, hoping she can’t see how much I want to hear her read.
I help her scrape the plates, wash and dry the dishes. And then we sit at the table and Miss Fulton picks up the other book. Its pages are old and worn, some are just about to fall out, some have folded-down corners, but she finds the page she’s looking for and starts reading.
The Negro Mother
Children, I come back today
To tell you a story of the long dark way…
I close my eyes, listening. His words sound even prettier without me stumbling over them in my head. Miss Fulton reads in a way that sounds like she’s singing a song.
“Langston, are you awake?” she asks.
“Yes, Miss Fulton.” I open my eyes.
“Oh…you looked like you were asleep.” She keeps on.
I make my eyes stay open and watch her mouth sound out each word, making them sing. Finally she finishes.
I don’t care what she thinks now. “Can you read that one more time?” I ask her.
“How about I read another?” she says, flipping to one of the turned-down pages.
“No, that one, please.”
I think she sees something in my face that says I need to hear it again, ’cuz she doesn’t ask any more questions, turns back the pages, and starts again.
When I lie in my bed that night, I think about Grandma and how I never got a chance to say goodbye. When Mama passed, Grandma told me Mama is always gonna be my guardian angel.
“She’ll be looking out for you wherever you go,” she said. “So don’t you go shamin’ her. Respect yourself and everyone round you and you’ll make her proud.”
I nearly cried myself to death thinking about Mama up in heaven, all alone. But now Grandma’ll be with her. The both of them my guardian angels.
First night since I came to Chicago, the night sounds are quiet. No music from next door, no loud talking on the stoop, even the rats scratching in the wall are quieter. After Miss Fulton’s r
eading, I don’t want to hear my voice reading tonight. I’m just holding on to hers. But I remember the names from the pictures and in the book, and soon as I leave school tomorrow, those are the ones I’ll be looking for in the library.
WALKING to the library I zip my jacket against the wind and take my time getting there. Some of the leaves are off the trees, all colors of red and yellow and orange too. Still no Lymon in class and I’m almost invisible to Errol and Clem. Aside from Ruby, with her clothes that always look two sizes too small, who sits in back of me and can’t stop talking even to me, no one has much to say.
Sometimes when I’m lonely,
Don’t know why,
Keep thinkin’ I won’t be lonely
By and by.
Langston Hughes’ poem comes into my head, drowning out her whispering that ain’t really whispering ’cuz Mrs. Robins can hear her clear in front of the room.
“Ruby, I’m the only one speaking now!” Mrs. Robins screams.
And just like that, Mr. Hughes’ poem disappears.
Clem doesn’t even look my way since I saw him at the library, which is fine with me. One block from the library I hear fast steps behind me. I walk faster and the steps get faster too. And then I hear someone running up behind me. I spin around just as Clem is right at my back and I step to the curb and curl my hands into fists.
“Relax, country boy,” Clem says, laughing.
“What you want?” I say, mad. I gotta move fast today to get my books. Miss Fulton said Daddy may be home tonight.
“Just walking to the library is all,” Clem says. “Returning my books.” He points to his satchel.
I relax a little then but not much.
Finding Langston Page 5
