Brown Girl, Brownstones

by Paule Marshall

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author is indebted to the following for permission to reprint excerpts:

  “Romance in the Dark,” words and music by Lil Green. © Copyright, MCMXL, MCMLVIII, by Duchess Music Corporation, 322 West 48th Street, New York, N.Y. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

  “Small Island,” words and music by S. C. Patterson. © Copyright, 1957, by Ludlow Music, Inc., New York, N.Y. Used by permission.

  “Pam Palam” and “Don’t Stop the Carnival,” lyrics by Cecil Anderson, Duke of Iron, based on traditional themes. Used by permission.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2009, is an unabridged republication of the work first published by Random House, New York, in 1959.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Marshall, Paule, 1929–

  Brown girl, brownstones / Paule Marshall.

  p. cm.

  9780486118604

  1. West Indian Americans—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 3. Young women—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. 5. Feminist fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.A7223B7 2009

  813’.54—dc22

  2008033355

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N.Y. 11501

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Book 1 - A Long Day and a Long Night

  Book 2 - Pastorale

  Book 3 - The War

  Book 4 - Selina

  To My Mother

  Book 1

  A Long Day and a Long Night

  I

  In the somnolent July afternoon the unbroken line of brown stone houses down the long Brooklyn street resembled an army massed at attention. They were all one uniform red-brown stone. All with high massive stone stoops and black iron-grille fences staving off the sun. All draped in ivy as though mourning. Their somber façades, indifferent to the summer’s heat and passion, faced a park while their backs reared dark against the sky. They were only three or four stories tall—squat—yet they gave the impression of formidable height.

  Glancing down the interminable Brooklyn street you thought of those joined brownstones as one house reflected through a train of mirrors, with no walls between the houses but only vast rooms yawning endlessly one into the other. Yet, looking close, you saw that under the thick ivy each house had something distinctively its own. Some touch that was Gothic, Romanesque, baroque or Greek triumphed amid the Victorian clutter. Here, Ionic columns framed the windows while next door gargoyles scowled up at the sun. There, the cornices were hung with carved foliage while Gorgon heads decorated others. Many houses had bay windows or Gothic stonework; a few boasted turrets raised high above the other roofs. Yet they all shared the same brown monotony. All seemed doomed by the confusion in their design.

  Behind those grim façades, in those high rooms, life soared and ebbed. Bodies crouched in the postures of love at night, children burst from the womb’s thick shell, and death, when it was time, shuffled through the halls. First, there had been the Dutch-English and Scotch-Irish who had built the houses. There had been tea in the afternoon then and skirts rustling across the parquet floors and mild voices. For a long time it had been only the whites, each generation unraveling in a quiet skein of years behind the green shades.

  But now in 1939 the last of them were discreetly dying behind those shades or selling the houses and moving away. And as they left, the West Indians slowly edged their way in. Like a dark sea nudging its way onto a white beach and staining the sand, they came. The West Indians, especially the Barbadians who had never owned anything perhaps but a few poor acres in a poor land, loved the houses with the same fierce idolatry as they had the land on their obscure islands. But, with their coming, there was no longer tea in the afternoon, and their odd speech clashed in the hushed rooms, while underneath the ivy the old houses remained as indifferent to them as to the whites, as aloof . . .

  Her house was alive to Selina. She sat this summer afternoon on the upper landing on the top floor, listening to its shallow breathing—a ten-year-old girl with scuffed legs and a body as straggly as the clothes she wore. A haze of sunlight seeping down from the skylight through the dust and dimness of the hall caught her wide full mouth, the small but strong nose, the eyes set deep in the darkness of her face. They were not the eyes of a child. Something too old lurked in their centers. They were weighted, it seemed, with scenes of a long life. She might have been old once and now, miraculously, young again—but with the memory of that other life intact. She seemed to know the world down there in the dark hall and beyond for what it was. Yet knowing, she still longed to leave this safe, sunlit place at the top of the house for the challenge there.

  Suddenly the child, Selina, leaped boldly to the edge of the step, her lean body quivering. At the moment she hurled herself forward, her hand reached back to grasp the bannister, and the contradiction of her movement flung her back on the step. She huddled there, rubbing her injured elbow and hating her cowardice. Slowly she raised her arm, thin and dark in the sun-haze, circled by two heavy silver bangles which had come from “home” and which every Barbadian-American girl wore from birth. Glaring down, she shook her fist, and the bangles sounded her defiance with a thin clangor. When her arm dropped, the house, stunned by the noise, ceased breathing and a pure silence fell.

  She smiled, for this was the silence she loved. It came when the old white servant upstairs slept amid her soiled sheets, when her father read and napped in the sun parlor, her sister slept in their basement bedroom and the new tenant Suggie was out. Above all, it was a silence which came when the mother was at work.

  She rose, her arms lifted in welcome, and quickly the white family who had lived here before, whom the old woman upstairs always spoke of, glided with pale footfalls up the stairs. Their white hands trailed the bannister; their mild voices implored her to give them a little life. And as they crowded around, fusing with her, she was no longer a dark girl alone and dreaming at the top of an old house, but one of them, invested with their beauty and gentility. She threw her head back until it trembled proudly on the stalk of her neck and, holding up her imaginary gown, she swept downstairs to the parlor floor.

  At the bottom step she paused in the entrance hall, which was a room in itself with its carpet, wallpaper and hushed dimness. Opening off the hall was the parlor, full of ponderous furniture and potted ferns which the whites had left, with an aged and inviolate silence. It was the museum of all the lives that had ever lived here. The floor-to-ceiling mirror retained their faces as the silence did their voices.

  As Selina entered, the chandelier which held the sunlight frozen in its prisms rushed at her, and the mirror flung her back at herself. The mood was broken. The gown dropped from her limp hands. The illusory figures fled and she was only herself again. A truculent face and eyes too large and old, a flat body perched on legs that were too long. A torn middy blouse, dirty shorts, and socks that always worked down into the heel of her sneakers. That was all she was. She did not belong here. She was something vulgar in a holy place. The room was theirs, she knew, glancing up at the frieze of cherubs and angels on the ceiling; it belonged to the ghost shapes hovering in the shadows. But not to her. As she left, her shorts, bagging around her narrow behind, defined her sadness.

  She made only a cursory tour of the master bedroom next door, opening the drawers to smell the lavender amid the seldom-used things, running a finger along the fluted edges of the high bed in which she had been born—the only piece of furniture they had brought with
them. Whenever she was sick enough to have the doctor she slept there. Then the mother put on sheets that smelled of lavender and her father brought her up through the hall and laid her gently down. And it was always like falling out of herself into its soft depth . . .

  Going downstairs to the basement she leaned against one of the high-back chairs ranged solemnly around the table in the dining room. Her eyes reflected the stained-glass wisteria lamp, the special crystal in the china closet and the family photograph, which did not include her, on the buffet. She wanted suddenly to send up a loud importunate cry to declare herself, to bring someone running. With the impulse strong in her she burst into the bedroom she shared with her sister.

  Her sister, Ina, lay under the sheet, her body limp in sleep and her tight-clustered curls glistening. Watching her, Selina felt an inexplicable resentment. It flowed out from her, across the room, finally penetrating Ina’s sleep. Ina opened her eyes, suddenly, apprehensively, awake.

  “Whaddya want?” she cried. “Go away.”

  Selina bared her teeth and drew closer.

  Ina scrambled up, gathering the sheet around her. “You heard what Mother said. You’re not to bother me today. I’m sick,” she cried from behind the sheet, shying away from Selina as though she embodied all that was rough and loud and undisciplined in the world.

  Selina, remembering the mother’s admonition, stopped, rubbed her sneaker on her leg and glared.

  Ina was thin but soft, passing gracefully through adolescence, being spared its awkwardness. But she seemed somehow defenseless because of this—as though she would never really be fit for the roughness of life. Sensing this softness, Selina said, “You were sure ugly as a baby. Didja ever take a good look at yourself in that picture on the buffet? You were sure ugly.”

  The fear eased from Ina’s face at the frailty of her attack. “Go away, pestilence, you’re not to bother me when I have my pains.” She was deeply involved with the changes taking place in her body and loved giving herself up to them, matching the summer heat with the blood-heat of her body. She had no patience with Selina and her boy’s shape. Her voice stiffened with sarcasm now. “Look who’s talking about somebody being ugly as a baby! You were ugly then, you’re uglier now and you’ll get worse. There!” And laughing, she rolled over and burrowed her face in the pillow.

  Outrage clogged Selina’s throat. She wanted to leap on Ina, pin her to the bed and then ground her fists and knees in that softness until the tears came and the whimpers and the apologies, until her own anger drained from her. But behind the blur of her tears she knew there was nothing she could do—for Ina was sick with some mysterious thing that made her unassailable.

  Outside in the dining room she tried to swallow the impotence that was like hardened phlegm in her throat, and the room, like a dark, fragrant mother tried to soothe her. But she would not be comforted. She snatched up the family photograph from the buffet and stared at it bitterly in the scant light.

  It was her father, mother, Ina and the brother she had never known. The picture of a neat, young family and she did not believe it. The small girl under the drooping bow did not resemble her sister. The young woman in the 1920’s dress with a headband around her forehead could not be the mother. This mother had a shy beauty, there was a girlish expectancy in her smile. Then there was the baby on her lap, who stared out at Selina with round blank eyes. His hair capped his head like fur and his tiny fists held tightly onto nothing.

  “He’s like a girl with all that hair,” she muttered contemptuously. He had been frail and dying with a bad heart while she had been stirring into life. She had lain curled in the mother’s stomach, waiting for his dying to be complete, she knew, peering through the pores as the box containing his body was lowered into the ground. Then she had come, strong and well-made, to take his place. But they had taken no photographs . . .

  Her father was the only one she believed in the picture. Despite the old-fashioned suit and the spats, it was her father. The angle at which he held the cane, his detached air, the teasing smile proclaimed him. For her, he was the one constant in the flux and unreality of life. The day was suddenly bright with the thought of him upstairs in the sun parlor, and slamming down the photograph she bounded from the room, taking the steps two at a time.

  They were very proud of the sun parlor. Not many of the old brownstones had them. It was the one room in the house given over to the sun. Sunlight came spilling through the glass walls, swayed like a dancer in the air and lay in a yellow rug on the floor.

  Her father was there, stretched dark and limp on a narrow cot like someone drunk with sun. He had lain there since the mother left, studying a correspondence course in accounting that he had just started, reading the newspapers and letters, listening to the radio. Selina sat on the floor facing him, waiting, watching his lids move as his eyes moved under them.

  Deighton Boyce’s face was like his eyelids—a closed blind over the man beneath. He was well-hidden behind the high slanted facial bones, flared nose and thin lips, within the lean taut body, and his dark skin, burnished to a high fine gloss, completed the mystery.

  “How the lady-folks?” he called finally, his eyes reaching over the letter he was reading. They were a deeper brown than his skin with the sun in their centers.

  His tone was the signal that they had stepped into an intimate circle and were joined together in the pause and beat of life. Selina scratched where the elastic of her sock made ridges in her flesh. “I couldn’t go to the movies today because old Ina has her pains. I don’t see why I can’t go with my girl friend, but Mother says not without Ina.”

  “You got to heed yuh mother.”

  “I know, but I still don’t understand why. Ina doesn’t look after me.”

  “Yuh mother know best.”

  He returned to his letter and she closed her eyes. The sun on her lids created an orange void inside her and she wanted to remain like this always with the sun on her eyes and bound with her father in their circle.

  “I don know what wunna New York children does find in a movie,” he said after a time. “Sitting up in a dark place when the sun shining bright-bright outside.”

  “There’s nothing else to do on Saturday.”

  “We had Sat’day home too and found plenty to do when we was boys coming up.”

  She opened her eyes and there was a halo of bluish orange around his head. She blinked. “I don’t see what you could do that’s better than the movies.”

  “How you mean? You think people din make sport before there was movie? Come Sat’day, when we was boys coming up, we would get piece of stick and a lime and a big stone and play cricket. If we had little change in we pocket we would pick up weself and go up Kensington Field to football . . .”

  “What else?”

  “How you mean? I’s a person live in town and always had plenty to do. I not like yuh mother and the ’mounts of these Bajan that come from down some gully or up some hill behind God back and ain use to nothing. ’Pon a Sat’day I would walk ’bout town like I was a full-full man. All up Broad Street and Swan Street like I did own the damn place.”

  “What else?”

  “How you mean?”

  “Didja play any games?”

  “Game? How you mean? Tha’s all we did. Rolling the roller and cork-sticking . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “But how many times I must tell you, nuh? It some rough-up something. Throwing a tennis ball hard-hard at each other and you had to move fast, if not it would stun you good . . .”

  “What else?”

  “Plenty else!” he cried, angered that she remained unimpressed. “We would pick up weself and go sea-bathing all down Christ Church where the rich white people live. Stay in the water all day shooting the waves, mahn, playing cricket on the sand, playing lick-corn . . .” Anticipating her, he lifted his hand. “Don ask, I gon tell you just-now. Lick-cork is just play-fighting in the sea after a cork.”

  He paused, lifting his
head, and the sunlight lanced his eyes. “And when a tourist ship come into Carlisle Bay we would swim out to it and the rich white people from America would throw money in the water just to see we dive for it. Some them would throw a shilling and all. I tell you, those people had so much of money it did turn them foolish.” He smiled, his teeth a dry white against his darkness, and abruptly returned to his letter.

  Selina closed her eyes again and in the orange void tried to see him diving after the coins. But thoughts of the mother intruded. What had she and the others who lived down in the gullies and up on the hills behind God’s back done on Saturdays? She could never think of the mother alone. It was always the mother and the others, for they were alike—those watchful, wrathful women whose eyes seared and searched and laid bare, whose tongues lashed the world in unremitting distrust. Each morning they took the train to Flatbush and Sheepshead Bay to scrub floors. The lucky ones had their steady madams while the others wandered those neat blocks or waited on corners—each with her apron and working shoes in a bag under her arm until someone offered her a day’s work. Sometimes the white children on their way to school laughed at their blackness and shouted “nigger,” but the Barbadian women sucked their teeth, dismissing them. Their only thought was of the “few raw-mout’ pennies” at the end of the day which would eventually “buy house.”

  They returned home laden with throw-offs: the old clothes which the Jews had given them. Whenever the mother forced her to wear them, Selina spent the day hating the unknown child to whom they belonged. Anger flashed now within the orange depth and it was only her father’s voice which restored her.

  “Yes, lady-folks, we did make plenty sport when we was boys coming up . . .” he was saying, his eyes pierced with memories.

  “What is it like—home?”

  “What I must say, nuh? Barbados is poor-poor but sweet enough. That’s why I going back.”