The hearse started off. In a moment their motor was rolling smoothly. Judy settled back, liking it very much, and wishing she could lookout the window.
“No mind that preacher was right,” said the father, loosing his laces.
“He wasn’t nobody’s fool,” said the elder aunt.
The contrary mother said smartly: “I didn’t like his talking like that at a funeral.
“We got to organize,” the father remembered. “There ain’t no set time to preach that.”
“Funerals should be said,” said the mother.
“God knows!” sighed the favorite aunt.
“Still,” agreed the father, “I didn’t like him flinging up to us about Eben.”
The mother voiced coldly: “Sounded to me like he was posted.”
The favorite aunt drew up her delicate body. “Then it must be your conscience. God is my witness that until that man stood in the pulpit, I couldn’t have told you he was white or black.”
Eben died careworn and weary,” said the elder aunt. “That young man didn’t need his glasses to tell him that.”
The mother’s voice shook. “I got as much pity as anybody, but, more than that, I got a child. And that child comes close to me as God, Himself! Now that Eben’s gone to glory, I can praise his virtues as loud as anyone. But Eben had his faults, and I won’t shut my eyes to them. He let himself go in his blindness. He wasn’t careful. He wasn’t always -- clean. I mean to bring up my child like a white child. There ain’t t nothing going to sicken her little stomach. There ain’t nothing going to soil her mind.”
Judy rhymed under her breath: “Funerals should be sad and mums had got a mad.” But she was ashamed and thought tenderly: “How much my mummy loves me, as much as God, and that’s a sin, and she knows it. She isn’t afraid. Does she love me because I’m me, or does she love me because I mean to be a great writer? I have talent. But there are geniuses. Am I a genius? What is a Genius? If I have a child, I shan’t want her to be a genius. I should be jealous. It’s wicked to be jealous. I don’t care. Nobody knows it because I’m so sweet, but I like to be first in everything. I don’t want a baby, anyway. They hurt, and the way they come isn’t nice. But, of course, I don’t really believe it. I’d die if I thought my mummy and daddy could do a thing like that. I wish everything could be beautiful. People, and the things they say, and the things they do. Daddy has a flat nose. My mummy is beautiful. I like light people. Why is it wicked to be light people? I’m glad Uncle Eden’s dead. Once I saw Uncle Eben being nasty. If I had a little boy baby, I’d be ashamed to touch him. I’m very wicked. I’m afraid of dead people. I’m afraid, afraid! At night they fly around in white shrouds. I don’t want to be sent up to bed without mummy.
She made a little cradle of her hands.
“You all didn’t hear Eva Jenkins moaning and groaning,” said the elder aunt.
The mother seemed to increase. “Carrying on like a fool!” The father added: “I reckon she realized Eben’s bit of money won’t never come to her now.
The favorite aunt said gently: “I think she really loved him.”
The elder aunt made a coarse joke. “Yeh, him and his money.”
Eva Jenkins ain’t young,” said the favorite aunt. It wasn’t love she wanted --”
“You Struck it right,” the father cut in unkindly. “It was ease in her old age, and a blind old shoe what couldn’t keep track of her comings and goings.”
The mother said with definiteness: Ever since that trouble in lodge meeting eight years ago, Eva Jenkins had it in for me. It’s my opinion she wanted poor Eben just on account of spite, so’s to take his little lump of money away from me and mine.” “I fixed her good,” the father triumphed, “when I got my brother Eben to sign every penny over to me.”
“And you broke her heart,” said the favorite aunt. “She knew that, alone, she could never give Eben the comforts his nature demanded.”
She went on broodingly: I guess she wonders now did we. People has got to lie flat on their backs before they find out what’s false and what’s true.”
Judy thought with pride: My auntie is good. I want to be good like my auntie. But I love my mummy best, even though my mummy tells lies. My mummy and daddy care about money. I never, never want to …
The elder aunt snapped up the back curtain. “Still at it,” she reported grimly. “Jerk in down in her face,” the father commanded, “to show her how much she’s wanted at my brother Eben’s funeral. You got to be common with some folks before they understand.
The aunt did so much with such vengeance that one of the side shades flew up, and Judy caught a little pool of sun in her cradle, and folded her hands to shut the glare out of hr baby’s eyes.
“I could eat a horse and wagon,” said the mother.
“I don’t know why ‘tis,” said the father, “but funerals make me hungry.”
“I set a nice diner back on the stove. I’ll suttinly be glad to pitch into it. There’s nothing I like more than I like chicken and rice and thick brown gravy.”
The father reminisced sentimentally: “There’s nothing I like more than I like black-eyed peas and ham and cabbage my mammy used to give us.”
The favorite aunt contributed frigidly: “I don’t see how you two can put your minds on food. All I want is a strong cup of tea and maybe a silver of toast.”
“The dead are dead,” said the father. “The living has needs of the body.”
“The mother weeps for her child. Outside of that, I guess there ain’t much honest sorrow wasted.”
“Them as trust God and believes in the resurrection has no need to weep. I shall meet my brother Eben in the promised land.”
Judy thought sharply how awful it must be to be old! To know that your sun may set tomorrow! She would guard her growing. She would end each day with some delight. She would do good deeds! When she had reached Uncle Eben’s age, she must not die unhonored. But then she had the image of the baker’s wife shrieking in the back of the ship: “My baby’s dead! My little baby’s dead!” The young could die too. Death was not the weak surrender of the old. Death was God in his heaven counting out souls.
But how could God let a little baby die? Why did he let it be born? If God is good, how can he bear to see its mother cry? People should be glad. To be glad is to be beautiful. When I am sad, my lip droops. When I am glad, I’m like my mummy. Everything should be beautiful. Why does a God let things be ugly? How can a God let things be ugly? There is not really a Santa Claus. Can I be me if there is not a God? I wish I could ask my mummy. But my mummy tells lies. It’s wicked to lie to your little girl. When I tell lies, my throat burns, and I tremble. “I’ll never, never lie to my little girl. But I’ll never, never have one. She might die. And then I should hate God. And if I could not say God! God!, I should want to die, too…”
The car had stopped. Judy peered ahead and saw the undertaker dash up a pebbled path. After a bit a bell tolled once, then again, and again. The hearse wound up a narrow road. The white slabs stood out sharply in the gathering dusk. A few fresh flowers reared their lovely heads. Green grass sprouted.
The hearse halted. Irish working men came ambling. The undertaker again poked in his head, and said that he had got a nice plot, and that their brother was to be laid under six feet only. Judy didn’t know just why that mattered. But the father thanked him and bent to tie his laces.
They got out of the car. The undertaker shepherded then in order. The casket went perilously. Presently they stood above the open earth. The undertaker began giving crisp commands.
The mother said sharply: “Judy, go stand on the board. It’s an old saying, ‘The cold you catch at a funeral lasts until you own.’ “
Judy went to stand on the board, teetering a little. She heard Mrs. Tilly whispering: I hope there ain’t no long rigmarole. We got that other funeral.”
Eva Jenkins came to stand beside her. “You’re growing, Judy. I’m sorry your Uncle Eben couldn’t live to be proud
of you.”
Judy stared up at the gentle-voiced woman. “I’m going to be a great writer.” “You are going to be something that’s beautiful. And God knows there is need of beauty in this world.”
“To be beautiful is to be glad. I hate funerals!”
“To be really beautiful, Judy, is to come through pain and sorrow and parting without bitterness.”
Judy looked hard at Eva Jenkins and thought that she was beautiful.
The casket was lowered. The undertaker got a shovel full of earth and came first to the father. “Assist us in the burial of our dead,” he suggested. The father took a hand full and weakly scattered it. Shortly the workingmen were at it in earnest.
The undertaker fussily arranged the flowers. He detached a wilted carnation and offered it to the mother. Judy thought innocently: “I guess they have favors at funerals just like at parties.… But when she was passed a flower she clasped her hands behind her back and looked very stubborn. She had heard the father say, “I’ll keep mine forever,” and had not believed him, and had been distressed.
The undertaker began to shake hands all around. They turned toward the cars. Mr. Tilly said softly to the father: “The company pays for the funeral brother.” The father exclaimed in gratitude: “God bless them! I’ll write them a letter of thanks in the morning. All this talk ‘bout organization! Sometimes I think the Pullman porter is biting the hands what feeds him.”
IV
The hearse had started. Judy watched it careen down the road in a wild dash to Mrs. Tilly’s own funeral. Mrs. Tilly, in the second car, madly followed. Their car, too, went swiftly and the driver whistled snatches of popular songs.
Two blocks away from their street, a motor swung around the corner into their fender. Their driver, who had to make Mrs. Tilly’s other funeral, too, cursed softly, halted his car, and went to make investigations.
The father, who loved excitement, followed him into the thick of it.
“Folks don’t have no respect for funerals nor nothing nowadays,” said the elder aunt.
The favorite aunt argued: “With the blinds up and the shofer singing, how was they to tell this was a funeral?”
The mother neatly concluded: “If we was standing on our heads, he hadn’t no right to run into us.”
They impatiently fidgeted. But they did not think it proper to get out and walk home from a funeral.
The father and the chauffeur returned in triumph. The father gave the chauffeur his card and urged him to summon him for a witness. When he settled again, he said easily, “Look like I lost my posy.”
Judy was glad to be home. She did not want any supper. But the aunts and the mother in fresh aprons ignored her.
The steaming supper was set on the table. They gathered round. The father said, “Do you remember how Eben loved chicken?” and tore into it. Judy, remembering, could not swallow.
The mother said impatiently: “Quit that fiddlin’ and eat your supper.”
“I’m not hungry,” Judy said faintly.
“Of course you are,” the elder aunt protested contentedly.
The father added facetiously: “All cullud children like chicken.”
For the overwrought child the day culminated in this. She snatched up her plate and flung it on the floor. Her speech was almost indistinguishably thick. She was never to know where she got the words.
“I won’t eat funeral-baked meats! I won’t! Nobody can make me!”
“It was almost as if she saw the hot food turn to straw in their open mouths.
“You march yourself out of here and go to bed,” shrilled the mother, “and god give me strength to spank you in the morning.”
Judy went, with her head high and her spirit quaking.
She went up the unlighted stairs with her eyes shut tight against the apparition of Uncle Eben. But the darkness so terrified her that she made a lattice of her fingers, and slowly opened her eyes on the lesser horror.
She gained her room, and snapped on the light, and leaned against the door. She was so weak that for a long moment there was no sound nor movement save her strangled breathing and the beating of her heart. She dared not go into the closet for her nightgown, nor did she dare stand long on the treacherous floor. She got to the bed and huddled in its center.
With one terrified motion she ripped off her dress. Her shoes followed then her stockings. In her bloomers and waist she got under the covering and frantically hid her face under the sheet.
She could not uncover it. Surely, if she did, a grinning ghost would swoop down upon her. She lay and shivered and tortured herself with the floating image of Uncle Eben. In sheer terror she began to sob, and went on sobbing, and could not stop.
By and by she slept.
Prologue To A Life
Saturday Evening Quill
April 1929
In 1896, Luke Kane had met and married Lily Bemis. He had been very much in love with her. And she had literally fallen at his feet, stumbling over his bicycle, lying flat before the back door, and sprawling before him, her full skirts bellowing about her, and quite all of the calves of her leg showing.
Luke, in an instant, was out of the kitchen, and had gathered the hired girl in his arms, and was cursing his bicycle and soothing her in the same breath.
She was small and soft. Though her face was hidden against his breast, he saw that her arms were golden, and her dark hair wavy and long.
“Is that your old bicycle?” Lily asked tearfully. “You’re fixin’ to kill somebody.”
“Ain’t I the biggest fool!” he agreed.
She got herself out of his arms and, sitting down on the steps, she tried to do things with her clothes and hair.
But he was staring into her eyes.
“How long you been working for Miz Trainor?”
“I’ve seen you before,” she told him. “Lots.”
“Yeh? Don’t you speak to nobody?”
“Gentlemen to whom I been introduced. Oh, yes.”
“I’m somebody round these parts,” he boasted. “Ever heard of Manda Kane?”
“Sure. We get our fancy cakes from her when we’re having parties and things.”
“I’m her son,” he informed her, proudly. “I been up here delivering. My name’s Luke.”
“Yeh?” Her eyes were bright with interest. “Mine’s Lily Bemis. Come from the South?”
“Born there. Yes. But I came up with the Mitchells when they came. That’s been five years. But then old Mrs. Mitchell died, and the two girls got married. I never cared much for old Mister Mitchell, so I came on to Springfield. ‘Cause Mamie Cole went on to Boston and said I could take her place here. I knew Miz Trainor was good and all, and didn’t have no small children. So I sorta thought I’d try it. Gee, I’m young and everything. If I don’t like it here, I can travel on.”
He plumped down beside her.
“Listen,” he said softly, “I hope you’ll like it here.”
Her eyes were two slits and dangerous.
“Why -- Luke?”
“Cause then,” he said huskily, “you’ll stay. And I can be likin’ you.”
She bent to him suddenly. “You’re the funniest coon. Your eyes are blue as blue.
“Yeh. It’s funny, black as I am,” he said modestly.
She put two slim yellow fingers against his cheek. “You’re not black at all. You’re just dark brown. I think you’re a beautiful color.”
His eyes that were like a deep sea glowed with gratitude. “I sorta like yours the best.”
“Oh, me, I’m not much!” she said carelessly. “What makes you think I’m pretty?”
“I dunno. You’re so little and soft and sweet. And you ain’t so shy.”
She was instantly on her feet. “If you think I’m bold, sitting out here with you, when we never been introduced.”
“Looka here!” He was on his feet, too. “Women’s the funniest things. I’m liking you ‘cause you’re not like everyone else, and you’re bristlin
g! I can have any girl in this little old town of Springfield I want. But I’m not making up to any ‘cause I ain’t found none that suited me. My mother’s orful particular. We got a name in this town. You’re the first girl I’m liking, and you cutting up.”
But she was inside of the screen door now, and he saw her hook it. She came very close to it, but she was careful not to press her nose against it.
Listen, Mr. Kane, I like you, too. I want to meet you proper. What would folks say if they knew we met like this? Me with two buttons off my shirtwaist and my hair net torn? But tomorrow’s prayer meeting night, and I’m going. I’m an A.M.E. If that’s your church, too, you come on over. I’ll get Miz Hill to get Reverend Hill to introduce us proper.”
He gulped. “Can I bring you home after?”
She considered it. “Maybe I’ll let you be keeping my company,” she promised.
There followed a whirlwind month of courtship. Lily had a hundred moods. They were a hundred magnets drawing Luke. She did not love him. Deep within her was an abiding ambition to see her race perpetuated. Though she felt that her talents were of a high order, she knew she would escape greatness through her lack of early training. And she had the mother instinct. Thus she would rather bear a clever child. In her supreme egoism she believed the male seed would only generate it. She would not conceive of its becoming blood of her child’s blood, and flesh of her child’s flesh. Men were chiefly important as providers. She would have married any healthy man with prospects…”
Late in the summer, Lily and Luke were married. Lily didn’t want a church wedding. They were married in Reverend Hill’s front parlor. Miz Hill and Manda Kane stood up with them. Ma Manda was tearful. She was losing her only son to a low-voiced yellow woman. She knew the inescapable bond of soft skin and hair.
Lily, standing quietly by Luke’s side, felt a vast contentment. She respected the man she was marrying. She faced the future calmly. She only wanted their passion to be strong enough to yield a smart and sturdy son.
The Last Leaf of Harlem Page 8
