Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  Her bitterness and anger startled him. She never gave in to those feelings and never let anybody else do it, either. "That's how they act," she'd always say. "We start acting mean and nasty, and we'll be just like them." He put his arms around her and pulled her in close. She held herself rigid for a moment, then relaxed into him. "They'll be just fine. And so will Si."

  She pulled away from him. "I don't want to talk about Si."

  She might not have been mad about Tobias and Belle's gambling parlor, but she surely was mad about Si's plan to go north. He could tell, though, that she was a long way from being ready to talk about it. So was he, for that matter. Bad enough Si wanted go away, but being willing to leave Catherine behind? There was no understanding that.

  Emma Johnson, Belle and Catherine's mother, returned the four McGinnis boys to their parents at six o'clock the following morning, fed, dressed and ready for school. Though it had been less than twenty-four hours, Ruthie and Mack greeted their sons as if they hadn't seen them in weeks, and the boys regaled them with their exploits as if they'd been away for weeks. It always surprised and amazed Ruthie that Emma never tired of the boys; she insisted that as the mother of three daughters, she delighted in the wild and rambunctious nature of the boys in the same way that Mack's parents, after having raised four sons, never tired of time spent with Nellie and thought that every breath she took was a miracle of creation. Of course she and Mack felt the same way, after waiting so long for their girl.

  "What are they cooking for our lunch today, Ma?" Jack asked.

  "Didn't you just eat breakfast?" Mack asked his youngest son. "I know for sure Miss Emma fed y'all."

  "She did, Pa,"" Jack said, hopping around like a cricket, "but I'm hungry again."

  "You're always hungry," Mack Jr. said, suddenly grabbing his baby brother and holding him upside down. "Maybe if I shake the food from your big feet, your belly will recollect all them grits and eggs you ate."

  "Pick me up, Mackie. Do me too, Mackie!" Thatcher, a year older, was hopping from foot to foot and yelling while Jack, upside down, laughed hysterically.

  Wilton, next to Mack Jr. in age, attempted to accommodate Thatcher but wasn't yet tall enough or strong enough, and both boys ended up in a pile on the floor, causing them to shriek with laughter.

  Ruthie looked at Mack, and and he made to calm and quiet them before they got all dirty. "Go get your books and things and get in the car." He would take Mack Jr. to the school in the basement of their church, the school run by Dr. Silas Thatcher Jr., and then pick up his baby daughter from his parents. The youngest boys would go with their mother to the school where she was principal, and she didn't know what the children would be fed for lunch. Since the city no longer provided food for the Colored schools, it had fallen to her and a handful of parents to scrounge and scavenge for lunch provisions, and she didn't know what was left in the kitchen pantry. More than likely it would be beans and rice, and for too many of the children, it would be the only food they would have that day. She cursed the meanness of white people, cursed it because she'd given up trying to understand it.

  Despite the neglect of the school board, Ashdale Elementary School was, Ruthie thought, a beautiful sight. It was a small single-story brick building, its white wood trim and red door shiny with new paint, its small patch of front yard grass bright green in spring and summer and closely cropped all year—all thanks to the generosity of parents whose children attended the school and of local merchants and residents who took pride in every aspect of their neighborhood. The playground behind the building was recently paved, thanks to the McGinnis Construction Company which, unable these days to build houses, had both the time and the resources to grade and pave the schoolyard.

  The front door of the school building opened as Ruthie opened her car door. She knew from the smoke billowing from the chimney that caretaker George Tennison had arrived. He saw it as his duty, if not his job, to have the building heated when the first pupils arrived, which usually was as soon as the parents knew that heat was spreading through the building, for just as the food they ate at school was their only meal, this was the only heat many of the children experienced.

  The boys scrambled out of the car and raced down the walkway to the school, their shouts of "good morning, Mr. Tennison" ringing in the frigid morning air. Ruthie gathered her belongings and followed her sons, adding her greeting to theirs.

  "Good morning to you, too, Miz. McGinnis." He touched his hat and held the door open for her. "How's Mack?"

  "Like you, Mr. Tennison: Bored to tears and ready to get back to work," she told him and was surprised not to receive the response she expected. She looked more closely at him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Tennison?"

  "Three little children," he said. "When I got here they were sittin' there on the steps, shakin' with cold and hunger. Nothin' but babies, two of 'em. It was an awful sight to see first thing in the mornin' and that's the truth."

  "Where are they now?"

  "I put 'em in the kitchen so they could get warm. I don't know how long they'd been sittin' on them steps, but they weren't hardly dressed, wrapped in the thinnest old blanket you ever saw. And…and…I fed 'em, Miz McGinnis. I'm sorry but…"

  "You did the right thing, Mr. Tennison." She paused at her office to deposit her bags and coat and then followed him down the hallway to the cafeteria and kitchen, not once taking her usual pride and pleasure in the highly polished wood floors, the gleaming white walls, or the artwork of the children that hung on one side of the hall facing the art and portraits of notable Colored Americans that hung on the opposite side. She'd known George Tennison for as long as she'd been married to Mack, and while he was not an unkind or a cold man, he also was not an emotional one, so whatever circumstance had occurred this morning to so thoroughly alter his behavior was worthy of her total focus.

  They entered the cafeteria to a chorus of "good morning Mrs. McGinnis" at full voice by the two dozen or so students, including her own children, clustered around Mrs. Roberta Samuels who volunteered to read to them every morning. Ruthie returned their greeting with love and warmth but continued on to the kitchen where it was indeed warm.

  And curled up in a corner of the battered sofa were three children, deeply asleep under a thick blanket that Ruth herself had brought to the school. The older child she recognized, a third grader named Hazel Hill. Under each of Hazel's arms was tucked a smaller child, a girl and a boy, and Hazel held them tightly, as protective as if she were their mother, and as she watched them, a feeling was churning in Ruth's stomach, one that warned that something was very wrong and that she should have known about it. "What did you give them to eat, Mr. Tennison?"

  "I heated up some of the powdered milk and put some of that blackstrap molasses in it, and some of that hard, old bread, and they ate it like it was meat and potatoes."

  At that moment the back door flew open admitting Gertrude Butler, the cook. Her noisy, bustling arrival awoke Hazel and her siblings—startled them, really—and the little ones began to howl in fear. Hazel's wide eyes proclaimed her own fear, but she didn't cry. "Miz McGinnis. Is I'm in trouble?"

  "Am I in trouble, and no, Hazel, you're not in trouble. Not at all," Ruth said. "It's really all right to be here, all of you," she said, and to the relief of the other two adults, the little ones ceased their wailing. "Your sister and brother?"

  "Yes'm," Hazel said, sliding off the couch to her feet. "This here is Dor'thy and this is Will'am. She three and he four. Stand up, y'all," Hazel ordered, and Dorothy and William struggled to their feet and nobody could say a thing. Not only were the three of them filthy, not only were their clothes barely more than rags, they were little more than skin and bone. Ruth had known that Hazel wore the same two or three outfits to school every day, but so did most of the children, and the clothes were patched hand-me-downs if the children were fortunate, tied-together rags if they weren't. But what Ruth witnessed on the skeletal frames of Hazel, William and Dorothy Hill was worse than anyth
ing she'd ever seen, and she didn't know what to say. Had she become inured to others' misery?

  "I have a daughter your age," she finally managed to say, forcing a smile at Dorothy. Then she looked at William. "And my Uncle Will taught me how to hunt and fish and ride a mule." The children gave her the kind of wide-eyed stare that suggested that they had not understood anything she'd said, which really left her at a loss for words until Mrs. Butler took over.

  Just as George Tennison was so much more than a janitor and maintenance man—he was, in reality, the construction foreman for the McGinnis Construction Company—Mrs. Gertrude Butler was much more than a cook: She was the dietician at one of the Colored hospitals until it was forced to shut it doors, another casualty of the Depression. Ruth had hired them both, embarrassed to offer the pitiful salary the school board paid its Colored employees, but both had accepted the jobs, grateful to be earning any money at all. Mrs. Butler also collected old clothes and shoes, most of it barely more than rags, but often enough better than what many of the school children had. She was a large woman with a large voice, and she always proved a calming, soothing presence. This moment was not an exception. She put one hand on Dorothy's head, the other on William's. "Y'all look cold and hungry," she boomed.

  They looked up at her and nodded, saying "yes'm" in unison.

  Ruth managed a smile of thanks. "Hazel, will it be all right if the children stay with Mrs. Butler for a few minutes while you and I go talk in my office?"

  "But I'm cold and hungry too, Miz McGinnis," Hazel wailed, all her big sister strength and resolve ebbing away.

  Ruth looked at the big-faced clock on the wall. Everything was behind schedule. She looked at Gertrude. "I'll take the three of them with me while you get the oatmeal ready, then we'll come back in time to eat. How's that?" By now there probably were at least fifty students waiting for breakfast before the bell rang for the start of classes. She had far too many thoughts and feelings vying for her attention at the same time. First things first: Let Mrs. Butler get breakfast ready and the children fed; let Mr. Tennison get the classrooms open and ready for the teachers; and she would find out why Hazel and her siblings were here. "Mr. Tennison, please make sure my boys lend a hand," Ruth said, another way of saying make sure they didn't eat food meant for children who hadn't had any breakfast. Wilton and Thatcher knew better, but Jack wouldn't hesitate.

  She started toward the door that would lead them through the cafeteria and halted. She couldn't parade Hazel and the children through that room full of students.

  "Let's take the secret passage to your office," George Tennison said.

  "Secret passage!" They had Hazel's full attention. "We got us a secret passage in this school, Mr. Tennison?"

  "Sure do," he said, unlocking the storage room and turning on the light. He led them through the cavernous space—empty, aside from the few clothes Gertrude had collected and surplus bits and pieces of wood and cans of paint Mack donated, because the Ashdale Elementary School had nothing to store. A door at the far end of the room led to the back of the library which was unused in the winter because they couldn't afford to heat it, and they all but ran through it, it was so cold. George unlocked the door and stepped into the warmth of the center hallway, two doors from the Principal's Office.

  Hazel was impressed. Ruth was, too, having forgotten that the various rooms and areas of the building connected to each other. "When breakfast is over, ask Miss Gert if she'll bring some clothes for the children." He nodded and left them. Ruth got Dorothy and William comfortable on the couch and Hazel in the chair adjacent to her desk, and she took her place behind the desk. She looked at the girl. "Where's you mother, Hazel?"

  Tears filled the girl's eyes. "They won't let her come home."

  "Who won't let her come home?"

  "The white folks what she does for. They ain't got no money to pay her. They ain't paid her in a month, and they say she can't leave 'cause she won't come back, and she won't go back. Ain't hardly nobody got they Colored help 'cause the white folks ain't got no money, and Ma said it don't make no sense to work for no money. She said they used to call that slav'ry back in the old times." Hazel took a deep breath, giving Ruth an opportunity to ask a question.

  "How long has it been since you've seen your mother?"

  The girl's eyes filled. "It's been two weeks since they started lockin' her up in her room at night."

  "You've had responsibility for William and Dorothy for two weeks? All by yourself?" Ruth didn't know whether to be more appalled at the notion of an eight-year old having total responsibility for two younger siblings or the reason why it was necessary.

  "I don't need no help takin' care of Will'am and Dor'thy. I know what to do. I wouldn'ta had to come to the school if we hadn'ta run outta food. And there wasn't no more wood or coal for the stove. We was cold. And hungry."

  "I'm not blaming you, Hazel. In fact, I'm very proud of you—for taking such good care of William and Dorothy and for knowing when it was time to get help."

  Hazel accepted the praise with a nod of her head, the grown-up response halted abruptly by a wide and unstifled yawn. Add sleepy to cold and hungry, Ruth thought, at the same time relieved to know that the child was no longer frightened and neither were the little ones; they were both fast asleep, huddled together in the chair in a ball, like kittens.

  "Do you know the names of the people your mother works for, Hazel? Or their telephone number?"

  Hazel rattled off the name and number so fast Ruth had to ask her to repeat it as she wrote. Then she picked up the telephone and dialed, not certain what she would say until she heard Sadie Hill's voice.

  "Woodbridge residence."

  "This is Ruth McGinnis at Ashdale Elementary School," she began and heard the ragged intake of breath, a choked-bad sob. "Your children are fine, Mrs. Hill. They're sitting here with me in my office. All three of them: Hazel, Dorothy and William, and they're fine, I promise."

  "They can't answer the phone right now. Can I give 'em a message?"

  "When can I call you back? When can you talk?"

  "If you want to leave a number, I'll ask Miz Woodbridge to call you."

  Ruth gave the office number and as the call disconnected, she wondered if she should have given her home number; there was no telling when the woman would have the time or the opportunity to make a telephone call. As if reading her mind, Hazel said her mother would call after the Woodbridges finished their breakfast and the kitchen was cleaned up. They read in the library until lunch while Sadie cleaned the upstairs rooms. "They got a telephone upstairs too, and Ma can use it if she talks real quiet."

  Hazel, it was clear, was no ordinary eight-year old, wise as she was in the ways of the adult world and in the ways Colored people were called upon to navigate that world. Sadie Hill most likely had no other person in whom to confide the intricacies of the world that was her home-away-from-home and especially not under the existing set of circumstances. The ringing of the bell meant that she would not, for the next several minutes, think anymore about the Hill family. Just as Ruth stood, the office door opened to admit Gertrude Butler and George Tennison carrying food and clothing for the Hill children. Ruth smiled her gratitude and, knowing that everything would be taken care of, made her presence known in the hallway as the children flowed, on best behavior, to their respective classrooms, their teachers, ever observant, monitoring their progress.

  She heard a chorus of "good morning Mrs. McGinnis" and she touched several heads and shoulders and hands as the children filed past her. They knew her love for them—she never concealed or withheld it, just as she never concealed or withheld it from the five who were her own. Children were children and every one of them needed not only to be loved but to be shown that they were. And as far as she was concerned, it was extra important for Colored children to know love.

  When all the children were in their rooms, she checked to make certain the front doors were locked, then visited each classroom, as was her habit. Be
cause the school board also had eliminated all paid clerical staff from the Colored schools, often she would wait until all the rolls had been called and take the tally sheets with her, but not this morning; she didn't want to miss Sadie Hill's call. She made eye contact with each of her teachers, got the nod that told her all was well, and hurried back to her office.

  "We had oatmeal with 'lasses and raisins, Miz McGinnis," Hazel proclaimed with excited joy. "I ain't never had that before."

  "Haven't, Hazel, please."

  "Yes'm," Hazel said, her excitement undiminished by the correction. "I haven't never had that before and I likes it a lot."

  Hazel certainly didn't need to miss anymore school, but unless, somehow, they could get her mother back…Ruth couldn't complete the thought. Of course Sadie Hill would return home. She had to because there was nobody to take care of her children—not every day. The Depression had drained and leeched out every ounce of surplus or extra anything that anybody had, including goodness and kindness. Everyone she knew, including family, neighbors, church members, former classmates—everybody—was in a day-to-day frame of mind: If I can just make it through today. So, Sadie Hill needed to come home today. Surely there had to be a law against what the Woodbridges were doing to her. "They make laws to fit their wants and needs, not ours." Little Si's angry words rang in her memory, and she knew them to be true. How many times had her Uncle Will and her grandpa, First Freeman, said, "They can do any damn thing they want with us or to us and nothing we can do about it."

  She shook off the thoughts and returned to the present to find five pairs of eyes on her, the children's frightened, the adults' worried. "Hazel, will you help Mrs. Butler take these bowls back to the kitchen? And maybe help her fix our lunch?"

  Hazel nodded proudly. "Yes'm. My Ma says I helps real good in the kitchen."

  "Thank you," Ruth said. Then, turning her attention to Dorothy and William, she asked if they'd like to keep their sister and Mrs. Butler company in the kitchen. They would and exited the office as if launched. When they'd gone, Ruth turned to George Tennison, but he spoke before she did.