The Last Leaf of Harlem

by Lionel Bascom

  “Why thank you for thinking you for thinking of me,” Aunt Em said warmly. Did you have a nice party?”

  Well, there were boys. That’s why I had it over at my house. I never had boys at the other parties. I knew you didn’t want boys in your sun parlor…” Boys who aren’t brothers are nice,” Kathy busily explained. “Like the boys at my party. They were not silly like my brothers. Of course,” she conceded, “my brothers are still young.

  “They’ll get over that,” Aunt Em assured her.

  “But they won’t get over being silly Kathy said scornfully.

  “They (will for) some girl on her fourteenth birthday,” Aunt Em said.

  Kathy looked for the joke but couldn’t find it.

  “I don’t know what you mean Aunt Em.”

  “I mean boys always grow up on a girl’s fourteenth birthday.”

  “That isn’t funny either,” Kathy said reproachfully. “You’re teasing me.”

  No,” said Aunt Em, “I’m not teasing you.”

  Mrs. Creel

  News Syndicate Co., Inc.

  June 6, 1960

  At a time of life when most women with adequate means were talking it easier, Mrs. Creel took into her home, and presumably her heart, six elderly women who had no near relatives to give them the care and comfort their remaining years deserved.

  People who had said more than once in the past that Mrs.Creel had never had children because she thought children were more of a bother than a blessing, now saw her show tireless patience with the old, who spilled things, who broke things, who told tales on one another, who got in her way whenever she walked.

  In thinking it over, and being fair, no actually remembered Mrs. Creel every saying outright that she didn’t like children. But she had certainly recoiled from the jam-smeared, sticky-fingered children of her friends in the years when they were raising families.

  Even when she was a child herself, the persistent recalled, she had rarely played with children her age. When she did, she ran home crying because they hadn’t let her be first.

  AN ONLY CHILD MIRACLE

  She was an only child, born to her parents in the middle years, and they never got over the miracle of it. Their friends’ children were almost grown, and their own entrancing little girl was the baby of the circle. She went from lap to lap, from one compliment to another from cradle to alter in an aura of admiration.

  It was not surprising that she married a man old enough to be her father, nor that her parents approved her choice. Mr. Creel, a long time friend, knew that was expected of him as a husband.

  he put his young bride on a pedestal, and there he kept her very well. That they had no children relieved more than grieved him. His supply of love was on tap to Mrs. Creel, who managed to use every drop.

  This review of Mrs. Creel’s history was undertaken by those doubters who were still seeking some dark clue to the change in her character. But they had to come to the charitable conclusion that Mrs. Creel, who had taken so much and given so little, was reopening her past by this selfless dedication to six near-strangers who received so much more than their pittance paid for.

  The old ladies called her “Mrs. Creel, deal love” and thought the sun rose and set in her. They spoke of her in superlatives to any ear that was trapped into listening -- the doctor, the delivery boy, the handyman washing a window.

  SHOWN SAME INDIFFERENCE

  Only Sadie, the cleaning woman, who came daily, and stayed overnight if some minor emergency needed someone to spell Mrs. Creel through the crisis. was deaf to these worshipful sounds. She had shown the same indifference to Mrs. Creel’s kind offer of a permanent room, preferring to arrive for work already worn out from a long, tiring ride on a crowded bus, which never seemed to save a seat for her and stopped blocks away form the shabby street where she rented a small, dreary room in a walk-up.

  Behind her back the old ladies called her “sour Sadie.” No one ever saw her smile or heard hear speak without a sigh.

  She had had a hard life with a shiftless husband who was oftener out of work than at it. When he stumbled upon a janitor’s job that included a flat rent free, she saw to it that he kept it by doing h is work herself. She never found time to change form her overalls to a dress or give her flat a proper cleaning, or take her children on an outing. When her children were grown up and gone, and her man was dead and gone, she had lived so long with resignation that she did not know she had been released.

  Mrs. Creel could have picked a dozen other women instead of Sadie. But Mrs. Creel asked who else would have given her work. No one else would have had sour Sadie a round if she had offered her services free. They were afraid her disposition would rub off on them.

  SHE GREW PRETTIER

  It did not rub off on Mrs. Creel. If anything, she grew prettier and sunnier around Sadie. Perhaps it just seemed so because of the contrast. but what ever it was, the sight of sour Sadie made the old people more aware than ever that Mrs. Creel was the darling of the world.

  When Sadie had been with Mrs. Creel a year, one of her daughters sent for her -- the daughter who, like her mother, had married a man disinclined to work. They lived on a suburban farm that needed a hired man they couldn’t afford. With a new baby only a few weeks away, and the old baby just beginning to walk, Sadie’s daughter could use a pair of hands to do the rough chores her own hands were tied against doing.

  Sadie told Mrs. Creel she was leaving without a quiver of regret, not because she looked forward to life on the farm, but because she looked forward to complaining about it.

  Mrs. Creel asked Sadie whether there was anyone she knew who would like her job, sure that anyone in Sadie’s sad circle would be so like her that the household would not have to adjust to a new personality.

  A relative in a nearby town came readily to Sadie’s mind, a cousin, Jennie Jilkes, whose married nieces and nephew, were selling the family home from under her. None of them wanted it enough to be bothered with upkeep and taxes, and more of them wanted her Aunt Jennie enough to be bothered with fitting her into his family.

  RENOUNCED HER RESPONSIBILITY

  Jennie, their father’s sister, had been more of a mother to them than their natural mother, who renounced her responsibility when their baby brother was born. They had disappointed her by being born girls.

  Jennie’s sister-in-law was dry-eyed at the marriage of her daughters.

  To her hurt surprise, her son missed his sisters and was restless with his elders. One day he announced that his office was sending him to a distance branch and did not add that he had asked for the transfer. With miles between him and his mother, he took a giant step into manhood, and married a girl who didn’t believe in young couples seeing their in-laws too often.

  His mother had never prepared herself to be supplanted, and saw a mocking ‘I told you so’ in every casual glance. She kept to herself, talking only to Jennie and through a closed door, her devouring interest the postman’s ring.

  Jennie’s brother and sister-in-law lived long enough to have to live on their savings. There was nothing to leave but the house, which her brother left to his children, perhaps with the hope that they would maintain it for Jennie. But this wish was not father tot their deeds.

  At sixty Jennie did not know where to look for work. Who would hire a woman in the downhill years, with her only references a wretched life? Who would want her around, spreading gloom? Mrs. Creel alone had the charity to take the chance.

  There came the day of Jennie arrival. The old people knew what to expect, and were non-expectant on the afternoon the doorbell rang, very loud, very long, as if the finger pressing it had so much energy behind it that a bell came hastily alive.

  The old people began to chatter like birds. Whoever it was was bringing excitement.

  VOICE PROMISED LAUGHTER

  Mrs. Creel went to the door and opened it to Jennie Jikes, whose drab old-fashioned clothes were forgotten the moment she smiled and stood in its radiance.


  “I’m Jennie Jikes,” she said in a voice that promised laughter.

  “Come in,” Mrs. Creel said because she had to.

  Jennie stepped inside and was surrounded by the old; warming themselves at her incandescence.

  “You’re not what I expected,” was wrung out of Mrs. Creel.

  Jennie said: “What did Sadie tell you?”

  “Well, what she told me made me expect you’d be different.”

  “Oh,” Jennie said, understanding, “Sadie makes everything a story. I don’t mean she makes it up. I mean she tells it her way of seeing it. All I’ve go to show for my years is experience of living. But I learned to live with myself and that saved me a lot of misery. Sadie lives with the self she wishes she was and I guess there’s nothing worse.”

  “Sure, all of us want to be special,” Mrs. Creel said with a kind of desperation. “If there’s a front seat, you might as well sit in it.”

  “But then you can’t see who’s laughing behind your back.”

  The old ladies thought this was very funny. They cackled and cackled until Mrs. Creel felt a shiver go down her spine.

  The Stairs

  News Syndicate Co., Inc

  December 1961

  The grandmother stood on the front porch feeling summer’s softness on her face. It was good to be back in her own cottage after so many months of being shut up in a city flat.

  This was the morning the carpenter was coming to fix the porch steps. All of them were weak and some of them were wobbly. They were treacherous to the old. The grandmother’s bones were growing too brittle to chance a fall.

  A neighbor’s dog trotted up the road to pay his respects. In the manner of country dogs, who make no unkind distinction between themselves and people.

  “Good morning, Brownie,” the grandmother said. “You couldn’t ask for a better one. But I haven’t time to entertain you. I’m expecting Mr. Hathaway. Look, there’s his truck coming now. You come back later. I may have a bone.”

  The dog had listened intently, understanding all the important words like “come back” and “bone.” He grinned, wagged his tail agreeably and ambled off, not flustering her by coming up for a pat, knowing by animal instinct that she was too old to be confused by dogs and trucks dividing her attention.

  Mr. Hathaway braked his little truck, scrambled down, and smiled up at the grandmother. He was seasoned with living and daily labor. A countryman who had had a long spell in the city, with a sizable business, a wife who wore furs, and a house with all the conveniences. When they were gone, the wife deceased, the business sold because there was no one for whom to buy furs, and the house sold too because it was too big for a widower, he came back to where his roots were.

  HE STILL WORKED AT HIS TRADE

  He had money in the bank, but he could not live out his days on money alone. So he worked at his trade, working without a helper because a younger man beside him made him do foolish, reckless things like climbing a ladder too fast, making too long a reach for a scaffold, carrying too many things at once time, just to prove that he still had more go than a young whippersnapper.

  “Mornin’ Mrs. Edwards,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “I see you are,” she said brightly, with no attempt at sarcasm. “couldn’t ask for a better day to start a job. But couldn’t I get you a coup of coffee before you start?”

  It was a country courtesy. Everybody was on the same footing, dog and man, servant and those he served. Besides, Mrs. Edwards could trust Mr. Hathaway. He wouldn’t add her cup of kindness to his working hour.

  “Well, thank you. I’d like that fine.”

  “You come sit while I get it. Walk with care. Those steps have seen a lot of wear. So many children over so many summers have bumped up and down them with their bicycles and tricycles. But those days are gone now. “I’ve already got a married grand daughter and the rest of my grands are up in their teens. Old enough to find the country too quiet. They like to go where it’s lively. They don’t stay children forever. It isn’t fair to wish they could.” She gave herself a little shake. “Well that’s not getting the coffee. I’ll be back soon.”

  She was back quite soon with coffee and buns on a tray. She settled the tray on the rail and dispensed her hospitality.

  “My,” said Mr. Hathaway, after a long, satisfying swallow “there’s nothing beats a good cup of coffee except the company of a good soul.”

  THERE IS NOTHING LIKE HUMAN TALK

  “Well,” said Mrs. Edwards, ÏI always say if we haven’t got time to take time with each other, we’ll have plenty of time to be sorry.”

  Mr. Hathaway pondered this sage observation. “Say what you will, dog or cat, hunting or fishing, there’s nothing the same as human talk.”

  Mrs. Edwards poured more coffee into his waiting cup and steered another sugared bun into his reaching hand. She sighed, not sadly, just routinely, as one who knew that the past was behind her.

  “Every once in awhile, I think I’ll sell this house. It’s got too many echoes of children’s voices. None of my family have been here for over five years. Oh, I see them through the winter. But summer’s when I have the most hankering. I guess that’s because in summer there’s more beauty in the country than you can bear alone.

  Mr. Hathaway nodded agreement. “There’s no place like here for soaking in love for everything the eye takes in. I wouldn’t change my boyhood for anybody’s. All those years I was away, I always knew I was coming back. I always knew that a countryman must walk a dirt road before he dies.

  Mrs. Edwards said softly, “A child who sees the heart of summer in growing things and greening things has a store of memories to last him through the lean years of his life.”

  A station wagon drove up the road and parked behind Mr. Hathaway’s truck. A young blond mother poked her head out of the driver’s window. Three little girls leaned forward from the read seat to crowd their own fair heads around hers.

  “God morning, Ï Mrs. Edwards, Mr. Hathaway,” the young mother called, and the children chorused after her. She felt some envy of the two old people. They were past life’s harassments and had only themselves to please. What bliss to look forward to, thought the young mother, my children grown and my time my own.

  “Won’t you come up and have some coffee, dear,” Mrs. Edwards asked. She had already poured the last of it into Mr. Hathaway’s cup, but offered kindness anyway, and if it was accepted, you pretended it wasn’t putting you to any trouble. “Maybe the children would like a cookie.”

  The little girls opened their eager mouths to answer but their mother said firmly, “Thank you but we only stopped by to bring you your mail.”

  “I’ll come get it,” said Mrs. Edwards. She explained to Mr. Hathaway. “This dear child gets my mail every day. Time was I used to enjoy the walk to the post office, but now the way there and back get longer every year.”

  He got the letter and everybody said goodbye until everybody had given and received this gentle benediction. The young mother drove away, with her children’s hands fluttering out of the window like banners waving in the breeze.

  Mrs. Edwards thanked Mr. Hathaway, and made a great show of gathering up cups and trays so that Mr. Hathaway would not take offense because she was going indoors to read her letter in private.

  HE THANKS HER FOR REFRESHMENTS

  “Well, time to get started,” Mr. Hathaway said, getting started. “Thank you for my repast.”

  Mrs. Edwards stood by the kitchen window and examined her letter. It was from her married granddaughter. the return address, the handwriting told her that much. But she couldn’t imagine what Laurie had to say. Like all young people she never write unless there was a special reason.

  But what could be special when it wasn’t her birthday? Oh, dear, was it trouble? Was somebody sick? If she had any sense, she’d open the letter and see.

  “She opened the letter and read it, read it twice to be sure her old eyes were fooling her. Tears wet her lashes. T
he miracle of life had begun in her granddaughter. Laurie was going to have a child.

  The news was too good to keep to herself. She went to the front door. Mr. Hathaway was measuring and putting marks on paper. She rally shouldn’t interrupt him.

  “Mr. Hathaway, I really shouldn’t interrupt you but I’ll burst if I don’t tell somebody. I’m going to be a great grandmother. Come March. and my granddaughter and the baby will spend next summer here, and many more. That’s what her letter said. She wants her baby to have the happy time she still remembers. So make those steps solid, Mr. Hathaway. It might be a boy.

  Mr. Hathaway was something of a practical man. “And it might be another boy after that. This porch could stand a few new boards. You walking lady-like over it is one thing, boys stomping over it is another. You think about it. I’ll quote a fair price.”

  “You do what has to be done. I’ll find the money. Right now, I feel like everything’s possible. Next summer you may see me pushing a baby buggy to the post office. A baby keeps you stepping. They don’t give you time to feel old. My granddaughter only got two hands. Mine will make the four she has to have.

  The stoop in her shoulder seemed to vanish. She felt strong and special and needed.

  Bent Twig

  Copyright New York Daily News

  March 17, 1962

  Betty ran away and got married in her senior year in high school. Up to the day of her elopement she had been a bright and attentive student, among the top 10 in her class. Any college would have accepted her. And her parents were unprepared for their crushing disappointment.

  They had a long dream of Betty in cap and gown, receiving a college degree that would open the door of abundance that had always been closed to them. As the eldest children in large families, they had gone to work early, their educations unfinished, their talents unrealized, and their qualifications never adequate for any well-paid job.

  When they met and married, they were past the years of expectancy. Betty’s birth was their first real happiness. Their lives took on meaning and direction. They would give their child the chance their parents had been unable to give them, the chance to finish high school, the money to go to college. They would save that money nickel by nickel, if need be, and dime by dime. Betty’s future would be insured against failure.