In Love and Trouble

by Alice Walker

  When she finished wrapping the dasher the handle stuck out. I took it for a moment in my hands. You didn’t even have to look close to see where hands pushing the dasher up and down to make butter had left a kind of sink in the wood. In fact, there were a lot of small sinks; you could see where thumbs and fingers had sunk into the wood. It was beautiful light yellow wood, from a tree that grew in the yard where Big Dee and Stash had lived.

  After dinner Dee (Wangero) went to the trunk at the foot of my bed and started rifling through it. Maggie hung back in the kitchen over the dishpan. Out came Wangero with two quilts. They had been pieced by Grandma Dee and then Big Dee and me had hung them on the quilt frames on the front porch and quilted them. One was in the Lone Star pattern. The other was Walk Around the Mountain. In both of them were scraps of dresses Grandma Dee had worn fifty and more years ago. Bits and pieces of Grandpa Jarrell’s Paisley shirts. And one teeny faded blue piece, about the size of a penny matchbox, that was from Great Grandpa Ezra’s uniform that he wore in the Civil War.

  “Mama,” Wangero said sweet as a bird. “Can I have these old quilts?”

  I heard something fall in the kitchen, and a minute later the kitchen door slammed.

  “Why don’t you take one or two of the others?” I asked. “These old things was just done by me and Big Dee from some tops your grandma pieced before she died.”

  “No,” said Wangero. “I don’t want those. They are stitched around the borders by machine.”

  “That’ll make them last better,” I said.

  “That’s not the point,” said Wangero. “These are all pieces of dresses Grandma used to wear. She did all this stitching by hand. Imagine!” She held the quilts securely in her arms, stroking them.

  “Some of the pieces, like those lavender ones, come from old clothes her mother handed down to her,” I said, moving up to touch the quilts. Dee (Wangero) moved back just enough so that I couldn’t reach the quilts. They already belonged to her.

  “Imagine!” she breathed again, clutching them closely to her bosom.

  “The truth is,” I said, “I promised to give them quilts to Maggie, for when she marries John Thomas.”

  She gasped like a bee had stung her.

  “Maggie can’t appreciate these quilts!” she said. “She’d probably be backward enough to put them to everyday use.”

  “I reckon she would,” I said. “God knows I been saving ’em for long enough with nobody using ’em. I hope she will!” I didn’t want to bring up how I had offered Dee (Wangero) a quilt when she went away to college. Then she had told me they were old-fashioned, out of style.

  “But they’re priceless!” she was saying now, furiously; for she has a temper. “Maggie would put them on the bed and in five years they’d be in rags. Less than that!”

  “She can always make some more,” I said. “Maggie knows how to quilt.”

  Dee (Wangero) looked at me with hatred. “You just will not understand. The point is these quilts, these quilts!”

  “Well,” I said, stumped. “What would you do with them?”

  “Hang them,” she said. As if that was the only thing you could do with quilts.

  Maggie by now was standing in the door. I could almost hear the sound her feet made as they scraped over each other.

  “She can have them, Mama,” she said, like somebody used to never winning anything, or having anything reserved for her. “I can ’member Grandma Dee without the quilts.”

  I looked at her hard. She had filled her bottom lip with checkerberry snuff and it gave her face a kind of dopey, hangdog look. It was Grandma Dee and Big Dee who taught her how to quilt herself. She stood there with her scarred hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. She looked at her sister with something like fear but she wasn’t mad at her. This was Maggie’s portion. This was the way she knew God to work.

  When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet. Just like when I’m in church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and shout. I did something I never had done before: hugged Maggie to me, then dragged her on into the room, snatched the quilts out of Miss Wangero’s hands and dumped them into Maggie’s lap. Maggie just sat there on my bed with her mouth open.

  “Take one or two of the others,” I said to Dee.

  But she turned without a word and went out to Hakim-a-barber.

  “You just don’t understand,” she said, as Maggie and I came out to the car.

  “What don’t I understand?” I wanted to know.

  “Your heritage,” she said. And then she turned to Maggie, kissed her, and said, “You ought to try to make something of yourself, too, Maggie. It’s really a new day for us. But from the way you and Mama still live you’d never know it.”

  She put on some sunglasses that hid everything above the tip of her nose and her chin.

  Maggie smiled; maybe at the sunglasses. But a real smile, not scared. After we watched the car dust settle I asked Maggie to bring me a dip of snuff. And then the two of us sat there just enjoying, until it was time to go in the house and go to bed.

  The Revenge of

  Hannah Kemhuff

  In grateful memory

  of Zora Neale Hurston

  TWO WEEKS AFTER I became Tante Rosie’s apprentice we were visited by a very old woman who was wrapped and contained, almost smothered, in a half-dozen skirts and shawls. Tante Rosie (pronounced Ro’zee) told the woman she could see her name, Hannah Kemhuff, written in the air. She told the woman further that she belonged to the Order of the Eastern Star.

  The woman was amazed. (And I was, too! Though I learned later that Tante Rosie held extensive files on almost everybody in the country, which she kept in long cardboard boxes under her bed.) Mrs. Kemhuff quickly asked what else Tante Rosie could tell her.

  Tante Rosie had a huge tank of water on a table in front of her, like an aquarium for fish, except there were no fish in it. There was nothing but water and I never was able to see anything in it. Tante Rosie, of course, could. While the woman waited Tante Rosie peered deep into the tank of water. Soon she said the water spoke to her and told her that although the woman looked old, she was not. Mrs. Kemhuff said that this was true, and wondered if Tante Rosie knew the reason she looked so old. Tante Rosie said she did not and asked if she would mind telling us about it. (At first Mrs. Kemhuff didn’t seem to want me there, but Tante Rosie told her I was trying to learn the rootworking trade and she nodded that she understood and didn’t mind. I scrooched down as small as I could at the corner of Tante Rosie’s table, smiling at her so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed or afraid.)

  “It was during the Depression,” she began, shifting in her seat and adjusting the shawls. She wore so many her back appeared to be humped!

  “Of course,” said Tante Rosie, “and you were young and pretty.”

  “How do you know that?” exclaimed Mrs. Kemhuff. “That is true. I had been married already five years and had four small children and a husband with a wandering eye. But since I married young—”

  “Why, you were little more than a child,” said Tante Rosie.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Kemhuff. “I were not quite twenty years old. And it was hard times everywhere, all over the country and, I suspect, all over the world. Of course, no one had television in those days, so we didn’t know. I don’t even now know if it was invented. We had a radio before the Depression which my husband won in a poker game, but we sold it somewhere along the line to buy a meal. Anyway, we lived for as long as we could on the money I brought in as a cook in a sawmill. I cooked cabbage and cornpone for twenty men for two dollars a week. But then the mill closed down, and my husband had already been out of work for some time. We were on the point of starvation. We was so hungry, and the children were getting so weak, that after I had crapped off the last leaves from the collard stalks I couldn’t wait for new leaves to grow back. I dug up the collards, roots and all. After we ate that there was nothing else.

&n
bsp; “As I said, there was no way of knowing whether hard times was existing around the world because we did not then have a television set. And we had sold the radio. However, as it happened, hard times hit everybody we knew in Cherokee County. And for that reason the government sent food stamps which you could get if you could prove you were starving. With a few of them stamps you could go into town to a place they had and get so much and so much fat back, so much and so much of corn meal, and so much and so much of (I think it was) red beans. As I say, we was, by then, desperate. And my husband pervailed on me for us to go. I never wanted to do it, on account of I have always been proud. My father, you know, used to be one of the biggest colored peanut growers in Cherokee County and we never had to ask nobody for nothing.

  “Well, what had happened in the meantime was this: My sister, Carrie Mae—”

  “A tough girl, if I remember right,” said Tante Rosie.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Kemhuff, “bright, full of spunk. Well, she were at that time living in the North. In Chicago. And she were working for some good white people that give her they old clothes to send back down here. And I tell you they were good things. And I was glad to get them. So, as it was gitting to be real cold, I dressed myself and my husband and the children up in them clothes. For see, they was made up North to be worn up there where there’s snow at and they were warm as toast.”

  “Wasn’t Carrie Mae later killed by a gangster?” asked Tante Rosie.

  “Yes, she were,” said the woman, anxious to go on with her story. “He were her husband.”

  “Oh,” said Tante Rosie quietly.

  “Now, so I dresses us all up in our new finery and with our stomachs growling all together we goes marching off to ask for what the government said was due us as proud as ever we knew how to be. For even my husband, when he had on the right clothes, could show some pride, and me, whenever I remembered how fine my daddy’s peanut crops had provided us, why there was nobody with stiffer backbone.”

  “I see a pale and evil shadow looming ahead of you in this journey,” said Tante Rosie, looking into the water as if she’d lost a penny while we weren’t looking.

  “That shadow was sure pale and evil all right,” said Mrs. Kemhuff. “When we got to the place there was a long line, and we saw all of our friends in this line. On one side of the big pile of food was the white line—and some rich peoples was in that line too—and on the other side there was the black line. I later heard, by the by, that the white folks in the white line got bacon and grits, as well as meal, but that is neither here nor there. What happened was this. As soon as our friends saw us all dressed up in our nice warm clothes, though used and castoff they were, they began saying how crazy we was to have worn them. And that’s when I began to notice that all the people in the black line had dressed themselves in tatters. Even people what had good things at home, and I knew some of them did. What does this mean? I asked my husband. But he didn’t know. He was too busy strutting about to even pay much attention. But I began to be terribly afraid. The baby had begun to cry and the other little ones, knowing I was nervous, commenced to whine and gag. I had a time with them.

  “Now, at this time my husband had been looking around at other women and I was scared to death I was going to lose him. He already made fun of me and said I was arrogant and proud. I said that was the way to be and that he should try to be that way. The last thing I wanted to happen was for him to see me embarrassed and made small in front of a lot of people because I knew if that happened he would quit me.

  “So I was standing there hoping that the white folks what give out the food wouldn’t notice that I was dressed nice and that if they did they would see how hungry the babies was and how pitiful we all was. I could see my husband over talking to the woman he was going with on the sly. She was dressed like a flysweep! Not only was she raggedy, she was dirty! Filthy dirty, and with her filthy slip showing. She looked so awful she disgusted me. And yet there was my husband hanging over her while I stood in the line holding on to all four of our children. I guess he knew as well as I did what that woman had in the line of clothes at home. She was always much better dressed than me and much better dressed than many of the white peoples. That was because, they say she was a whore and took money. Seems like people want that and will pay for it even in a depression!”

  There was a pause while Mrs. Kemhuff drew a deep breath. Then she continued.

  “So soon I was next to get something from the young lady at the counter. All around her I could smell them red beans and my mouth was watering for a taste of fresh-water cornpone. I was proud, but I wasn’t fancy. I just wanted something for me and the children. Well, there I was, with the children hanging to my dresstails, and I drew myself up as best I could and made the oldest boy stand up straight, for I had come to ask for what was mine, not to beg. So I wasn’t going to be acting like a beggar. Well, I want you to know that that little slip of a woman, all big blue eyes and yellow hair, that little girl, took my stamps and then took one long look at me and my children and across at my husband—all of us dressed to kill I guess she thought—and she took my stamps in her hand and looked at them like they was dirty, and then she give them to an old gambler who was next in line behind me! ‘You don’t need nothing to eat from the way you all dressed up, Hannah Lou,’ she said to me. ‘But Miss Sadler,’ I said, ‘my children is hungry.’ ‘They don’t look hungry,’ she said to me. ‘Move along now, somebody here may really need our help!’ The whole line behind me began to laugh and snigger, and that little white moppet sort of grinned behind her hands. She give the old gambler double what he would have got otherwise. And there me and my children about to keel over from want.

  “When my husband and his woman saw and heard what happened they commenced to laugh, too, and he reached down and got her stuff, piles and piles of it, it seemed to me then, and helped her put it in somebody’s car and they drove off together. And that was about the last I seen of him. Or her.”

  “Weren’t they swept off a bridge together in the flood that wiped out Tunica City?” asked Tante Rosie.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Kemhuff. “Somebody like you might have helped me then, too, though looks like I didn’t need it.”

  “So—”

  “So after that looks like my spirit just wilted. Me and my children got a ride home with somebody and I tottered around like a drunken woman and put them to bed. They was sweet children and not much trouble, although they was about to go out of their minds with hunger.”

  Now a deep sadness crept into her face, which until she reached this point had been still and impassive.

  “First one then the other of them took sick and died. Though the old gambler came by the house three or four days later and divided what he had left with us. He had been on his way to gambling it all away. The Lord called him to have pity on us and since he knew us and knew my husband had deserted me he said he were right glad to help out. But it was mighty late in the day when he thought about helping out and the children were far gone. Nothing could save them except the Lord and he seemed to have other things on his mind, like the wedding that spring of the mean little moppet.”

  Mrs. Kemhuff now spoke through clenched teeth.

  “My spirit never recovered from that insult, just like my heart never recovered from my husband’s desertion, just like my body never recovered from being almost starved to death. I started to wither in that winter and each year found me more hacked and worn down than the year before. Somewhere along them years my pride just up and left altogether and I worked for a time in a whorehouse just to make some money, just like my husband’s woman. Then I took to drinking to forget what I was doing, and soon I just broke down and got old all at once, just like you see me now. And I started about five years ago to going to church. I was converted again, ’cause I felt the first time had done got worn off. But I am not restful. I dream and have nightmares still about the little moppet, and always I feel the moment when my spirit was trampled down within me wh
ile they all stood and laughed and she stood there grinning behind her hands.”

  “Well,” said Tante Rosie. “There are ways that the spirit can be mended just as there are ways that the spirit can be broken. But one such as I am cannot do both. If I am to take away the burden of shame which is upon you I must in some way inflict it on someone else.”

  “I do not care to be cured,” said Mrs. Kemhuff. “It is enough that I have endured my shame all these years and that my children and my husband were taken from me by one who knew nothing about us. I can survive as long as I need with the bitterness that has laid every day in my soul. But I could die easier if I knew something, after all these years, had been done to the little moppet. God cannot be let to make her happy all these years and me miserable. What kind of justice would that be? It would be monstrous!”

  “Don’t worry about it, my sister,” said Tante Rosie with gentleness. “By the grace of the Man-God I have use of many powers. Powers given me by the Great One Herself. If you can no longer bear the eyes of the enemy that you see in your dreams the Man-God, who speaks to me from the Great Mother of Us All, will see that those eyes are eaten away. If the hands of your enemy have struck you they can be made useless.” Tante Rosie held up a small piece of what was once lustrous pewter. Now it was pock-marked and blackened and deteriorating.

  “Do you see this metal?” she asked.

  “Yes, I see it,” said Mrs. Kemhuff with interest. She took it in her hands and rubbed it.

  “The part of the moppet you want destroyed will rot away in the same fashion.”

  Mrs. Kemhuff relinquished the piece of metal to Tante Rosie.

  “You are a true sister,” she said.

  “Is it enough?” Tante Rosie asked.

  “I would give anything to stop her grinning behind her hands,” said the woman, drawing out a tattered billfold.

  “Her hands or the grinning mouth?” asked Tante Rosie.

  “The mouth grinned and the hands hid it,” said Mrs. Kemhuff.