Brown Girl, Brownstones

by Paule Marshall

  He had arranged all the boxes by now and stepped back, inspecting them proudly. “Now we ready to work. Come,” he beckoned them, and when they did not move he said in mild irritation, “What ailing wunna? You never see presents before? What yuh hanging back for? Come, they’s yours!” he shouted and reeled like someone drunk.

  Selina gave him a quiet look of disapproval, and as he caught it, the gaiety died in his eyes and he stopped his wild spin. They stood for a moment exchanging a deep and solemn gaze across the room, then he smiled shyly, his hand lifted and fell in a half-formed gesture, his lips parted to say something which remained unsaid. But his eyes were eloquent. They spoke of the hollow places inside him and the grief which underlined his high glee.

  “Come sit, lady-folks,” he whispered, holding a chair for her.

  She came, sat and clasped her hands on the table edge, waiting.

  He was laughing again. “Now we gon do this thing up right. You, lady-folks, take off all the ribbons. Miss Ina”—he offered her his hand—“come take off the paper and I’ll open them.”

  When Ina did not move, he started, puzzled, as though there were no justification for her refusal. Then he shrugged and smiled. “All right then, Miss Ina. Selina, it look like you gon have to take off both ribbon and paper ’cause Miss Ina don want no part of the presents.”

  While Selina undid the wrapping, he gazed at Ina. Something apologetic, penitent, crept into his attitude. For, as always, the image of his mother was imposed on Ina’s face. For that moment he was simply the boy submitting to his mother’s silent reproach and averting his eyes from the disappointment in her face even as he offered her some childish gift to atone.

  “Miss Ina,” he began softly, “you remember how we used to walk ’bout downtown looking in the people window when you was small? You remember? No, I guess you wun remember. You was too small. But I used to pick out things for you that no little girl would like—just to be teasing you—but I ain teasing you this time ’cause you’s a young lady and must be treated as such.” He reached for a box and, noticing the gathering jealousy on Selina’s face, said in a kind but firm voice, “Selina, it only right that the first one should be for Miss Ina since she’s the oldest.”

  He half opened the box, peeked in and closed it, rolling his eyes suggestively. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “it pretty enough.” Then, with an impressive flurry he took out a ruffled pink evening gown. “Yuh see, I ain teasing you this time. I bet I even got the size and all right.” He held it out to her. “Come take it. It’s yours.”

  Ina’s face reflected her indecision. Her chary glance swept from the gown to his face, to Selina, to the darkened hall where the mother stood, to the dress and back again. Silently she asked their help, but when no one spoke she seemed to give up. A numbness shrouded her eyes and she stared at the gown without interest.

  Suddenly, with a grandiose gesture, Deighton threw the gown at her. It exploded like a pink flare and Ina’s eyes helplessly followed its dazzling arc. Then, as it curved downward, her arms swept out, her whole body lunged in one live motion and she scooped it up before it reached the floor.

  She held it as if it were a child who had fallen. Her face flushed with pensive loveliness as she gazed at it. Tenderly, she straightened one of the ruffles.

  He said casually, “I buy that gown special. ’Gatha Steed finally marrying off she daughter this summer and this is for you to wear to the wedding. In that gown you gon put the bride-self to shame.”

  She lifted her face, and the mildness that shaded his eyes was reflected in hers, and they looked very much alike. “Ah,” he gave a slight nod and laughed, “you’s yuh father child despite everything. Somethin’ does happen inside yuh when you see pretty things, nuh?”

  She smiled luminously and rose, approaching the table with solemn grace, the pink gown draped over her outstretched arms, and it might have been the symbol of herself which she was offering to him. She sat down opposite Selina and said, “Open the other things.”

  “Wait, nuh,” he said, turning to Selina, “I buy somethin’ special for my lady-folks too,” and bent the engaging smile on her, seducing her, and her jealousy faded. “Remember once you did tell me you wanted books?” He was struggling in his pocket. “Remember? Books that would be yours, that yuh wun have to take back to these people library? Well, now you got books.” He whipped out a slip of paper. “This certificate is good for over a hundred dollars’ worth of books in one the biggest bookstore there on Fifth Avenuh. The money pay already. All you got to do is show them this and they gon let you pick out over a hundred dollars’ worth of books. Books enough to fill the whole house . . .” he cried, his arms wide, then with a low bow handed her the certificate.

  Her shout unleashed a recklessness that infected the other two. Ina excitedly struck the table and Deighton began tearing open the boxes, flinging dresses, skirts, blouses, lace petticoats, shoes at them with a grand gesture, and all the while chanting, “Somethin’ fuh everybody. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, somethin’ fuh everybody . . . Everybody win today!”

  Each time he opened a box their eager arms shot up, their outbursts matched his exuberance and they transformed the kitchen into a scene of revelry. After a time the mother appeared in the doorway and watched them with lifeless eyes, her rage choking her, and she was nothing in the midst of their gaiety.

  “Now hold it there!” he had to admonish them finally, “there’s plenty for everybody . . . Behave wunnaself. I don like no bad-behave girls. I want only young ladies in muh house . . . House?” He paused and grinned, suddenly pleased at something. “Yes, house. I said my house even though I ain got neither one and never will now!” He turned to the mute, drained figure of the mother. “Come, Silla-gal,” he called jovially, “I got somethin’ for you and all. Yes, house . . . What I wus saying ’bout house now? Ah, yes. This ain none of mine and it never will be but I want only young ladies in it . . . Now, Miss Ina, come put this coat on . . . It cost a hundred dollars if it cost a penny . . .”

  He deftly slipped on her a green coat with a leopard fur collar, leopard cuffs and buttons and a small hat of leopard fur. Wonderingly she stroked the fur, smiling to herself.

  “Now come Sunday you put on yuh fancy coat and one these pretty dresses and walk the streets with yuh friends like you’s people too . . .”

  As she glanced up from admiring the coat, her eyes caught the mother; her smile fled and she looked very vulnerable in the small fur hat. But although fear stained her eyes, she withstood the mother’s silent condemnation. “Thanks, Daddy,” she declared loudly. “It’s just what I’ve been wanting.”

  Deighton gave a joyous leap, stripped apart another box and flung Selina a coat trimmed in dark fur. “Feel it, lady-folks! Feel the fur. It soft, soft. Yuh did tell me once yuh wanted coat and yuh see I got yuh coat . . .”

  Selina posed in hers also, but when her eyes caught the mother’s, her smile disappeared also and she quickly stooped down in her chair.

  “I tell yuh, there wun be enough closets in this house to hold wunna clothes . . . Even though it ain none of my house!” He threw his head back, laughing. “Now, a little quiet.” He sobered. “Wunna got yours, now I got mine . . .”

  A hush fell as he carefully undid the wrappings from an oblong box and lifted the cover. He stepped back so that they could see the golden trumpet resting in its casket of white satin. The flaring bell suggested that every note would be as golden and beautifully shaped as it was.

  “It’s another trumpet . . .” Selina said uncertainly.

  “How yuh mean, girl—another trumpet? This is the trumpet of trumpet. This is trumpet fatha! The best yuh could buy from the best store out there on Fifth Avenuh in New York. It the only one in the world like it. These keys made out of ivory—every last one them! The mouthpiece, lemma tell yuh, belonged to Louis Armstrong-self. The bell plated in gold . . . gold now . . . no brass but gold!” His voice dropped and he whispered reverently, “Yes, it’s somethin’ t
o behold, in truth!” He rested his hand on the ivory keys. “It cost me over three hundred dollars but it worth every penny . . . A mouthpiece of Louis Armstrong-self . . .” He continued to stroke it, becoming abstracted.

  But when he looked up the roguish glint was still there. “Come,” he shouted, “it’s time to celebrate this most . . . most splendiferous occasion. I gon play . . . I gon play . . . I don know what, but I gon play somethin’ . . .” As he picked up the trumpet the light scattered in bright beads along the tube and around the bell. He pumped the keys and then fitted the mouthpiece to his lips.

  The first note was a loud shriek. He frowned, lowered it—“Me and this thing gon have to get acquainted,” he said, winking, and tried again. This time it was the fragment of a song, and he strode around the kitchen, blaring it out. As he passed the mother he tore the trumpet from his lips and cried, “Silla! Silla-gal, I almost forgot yuh. I sorry . . .”

  The mother’s eyes dilated, as did her nostrils. Like someone miraculously roused from death she stirred, and as her torpor lifted her lips formed broken words. “Over nine . . . hundred . . . odd dollars cash . . .”

  Deighton laughed and swung the trumpet in a disparaging arc. “Lord-God, woman, nine hundred dollars ain no money out there on Fifth Avenuh in New York . . . But come, don fret, girl. I come back, din I? And I even bring somethin’ for you and all. You did think I forget you but I didn’t. Now this last box got to be for Silla,” and with a flourish he opened a large box and tore aside the tissue paper.

  A coat lay in a bed of tissue, a bold red coat with a collar of dark fur. He held it before him as he had the tablecloth and made several passes in front of her, stamping his foot, his lips splitting in a grin. “How’s this, Silla-gal? Yuh like it? I did always tell you that red suit your skin. So catch, girl!”

  He threw it, and the wide-gored, bold-red coat swooped toward her, but she made no move and it fell like a shot bird at her feet.

  “Pick it up, Silla-gal!” he admonished her. “Pick it up and know that they ain penny one left to buy another one. That’s it. That’s the last of the over nine hundred odd dollars cash lying there!”

  Leaning back, he fixed the trumpet to his lips and let out a high screech, sustaining it until the muscles corded under his dark skin. “Ah . . .” he said, smiling ruefully and gasping for breath, “I got to practice this thing long. I ain no Louis Armstrong yet . . . I gone now, lady-folks and Silla, to take muh rest, ’cause I’s tired. I did a hard day’s work out there on Fifth Avenuh in New York . . .”

  He started across the kitchen and then turned sharply. “Wait, lemma ask before I go. Is everybody satisfy? You, lady-folks. You, Miss Ina. Wunna satisfy? You, Silla-gal?” he turned abruptly to her as if to surprise her dissatisfaction. “You satisfy? Good!” he nodded, “’cause I’s well satisfy.” Walking close to the mother, he made an elaborate bow.

  As though she had been waiting for him to come within range, Silla lunged, the rage, which had been gathering as she huddled over the teacup all day and strode the hall, finally bursting. With a growl she wrenched the trumpet from him and in a powerful downward drop struck it once to the floor. The golden bell crumpled, the loud crash was its expiring note. Her body heaved up, the trumpet rose with it, then crashed again to the floor. This time the ivory keys scattered across the linoleum. One struck Selina’s foot, and in her shock she didn’t even feel it. Repeatedly Silla’s body rose and dropped in a threshing rhythm, the trumpet struck. She might have been a cane-cutter wielding a golden machete through the ripened cane or a piston rising and plunging in its cylinder.

  It happened so quickly that for a time Deighton stood dazed, his fingers curved still to fit the trumpet. But his amazement soon changed to amusement, and a high strangled laugh broke. “Woman,” he gasped, opening his arms as though to embrace her, “it insured. What you wasting energy for? Another one coming from where that come. I was only joking when I said it’s a special Louis Armstrong trumpet. There’s plenty more where that come from. It insured!”

  Silla paused, her demented eyes on him, the battered trumpet raised to strike him. “I’ll get the house despite you!” she cried against his loud laugh. “I’ll buy it yet.”

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “There’s plenty of loan sharks out there on Fulton Street waiting for you house-hungry Bajans. Why not? You’s a woman with a good war job pulling down this good war money. They be only too glad to make you a loan at six percent and keep yuh in debt the rest of your life. You can buy it tomorrow-self. And Silla-gal, it will be yours. Only your name ’pon the paper, and you wun have to worry ’bout my selling it behind your back.”

  “I’ll get it.” Her words stung the air. “And as God is my witness I gon get you too,” she added quietly, edging toward him. “And I wun make mistakes this time. I wun let a Judas smile and Judas words in the night and thing so turn me foolish. You could touch me and it would be like touching stone . . . Nothing, nothing gon stop me. I gon steel my heart and bide my time and see you dead-dead at my feet!”

  An imperceptible shudder passed over his body, then he shrugged, smiling, “You’s God, you must know.”

  The ruined trumpet clattered to the floor and she slumped against the wall, lapsing into her dull, disjointed state again, her eyes blank and her lips moving in an endless chant, “Over . . . nine . . . hundred odd . . . dollars cash . . . over . . . nine ... hundred odd dollars cash throw ’way.”

  “I satisfy,” he cried. “And muh children satisfy. Only you not satisfy, is that it, Silla-gal? I don know what I can do to please this woman.” He shook his head in mock bafflement. “Maybe I should of get a black coat instead of the red!” he said brightly, and this caused another spasm of laughter. He snapped his fingers in her numbed face and, still laughing, darted into the passageway, his lithe form quickly blending with the darkness in the dining room.

  They heard his laughter resounding through the disapproving silence of the house, rising into a hollow, mirthless hoot. They heard the bedroom door close and the laughter rise one more time, empty now, like an echo scattering over distant hills.

  As the last fragment died, Ina lifted her head. Her strength had collapsed with his departure and the familiar apprehension gripped her again. She stroked the leopard fur on her coat as if it was her only comfort. Then, very carefully, she eased back her chair and rose, the clothes piled in her arms, and cautiously edged around the mother and, as soon as she was past her, broke into a run.

  Selina remained. Obscurely she knew that this was her place, that for some reason she would always remain behind with the mother. Still kneeling in her chair she gazed around the kitchen . . . It might have been invaded by a band of revelers, she thought. They had dyed its antiseptic air with their laughter and dropped bits of their gaudy costumes as they danced, then rushed out, leaving the trumpet twisted on the floor and the mother’s red coat like a raw pool of blood there . . . The day had begun so simply, with tea and the steam rising in a scroll from the cups, promisingly, with her father caressing the mother’s shoulder and the soft trust in her eyes.

  Her gaze touched the mother and Selina turned away. For it was like looking at someone insane, who stares at the world without seeing it because of his inner chaos, who wanders blind through the dark labyrinth inside himself.

  Silla wandered now to the table and, groping for the chair, sank down and hid her face in her arms. She uttered a sound which beat through the still room—a disembodied wail, a howl of outrage. “Oh, Lord-God . . . I was gon buy them things . . . I was gon buy them as soon as I did catch muh hand . . . I know they’s girls and does like pretty things . . .”

  At that cry, Selina’s sense of retribution for her defeat at the factory turned bitter in her mouth. For there was a part of her that always wanted the mother to win, that loved her dark strength and the tenacious lift of her body. She asked, “You want me to fix some tea?”

  But Silla did not hear Selina above her own hollow whisper. “You think I wasn�
�t gon buy them dresses for the wedding? But he always got to be the big sport . . . Always a lot of flash with nothing a-tall, a-tall behind it . . .”

  “I’ll pick up the paper and boxes and stuff if you want me to . . .” Selina called softly.

  The mother heard and lifted her head. A mist covered her eyes, and her lids were puffed as though she were crying without tears. “Yes, nuh,” she whispered, “take it all out my sight, do! Over nine . . . hundred odd dollars . . . cash throw . . . ’way. . .”

  While she wept without tears, without even a tremor, Selina gathered up the wreckage of the day.

  VI

  Months later, on the day of ’Gatha Steed’s daughter’s wedding, Selina stood in the parlor feeling that she did not quite belong to herself. She was owned by the yellow taffeta gown her father had bought her, her feet imprisoned in the new shoes, her fingers estranged in gloves and her wrists bound by the gold bangles she wore on such occasions. What annoyed her most was a large bow which held up her curls. Whenever she closed her eyes it seemed to grow, crowding the parlor first, bulging then into the halls, the rooms, until it suffocated Miss Mary as she lay rotting amid her gray sheets and bound Suggie and her lover to the noisy bed; it billowed into the streets, into the sky, flaunting its yellow next to the sun’s. And as the bow grew she slowly sank under its weight—a frail Atlas buckling under the world.

  She opened her eyes, the bow shrank and she turned as the mother entered.

  Silla swept into the room and the sunlight leaped toward her, sheening her blue satin gown, and it was like sunlight striking a blue sea. The gown fell to a swirl at her feet and curved low around her full breasts. Blue glass earbobs glinted; blue satin gloves sheathed her oil-stained hands. She paused, calm, almost pensive, buttoning the gloves—framed by the dark oak doors, her reflection held in the tall mirror. But she did not even glance in the mirror. Perhaps she needed no reassurance of her beauty.