Life is Short But Wide

by J. California Cooper

  The girls took Brave to visit Juliet all the time. Juliet loved holding, petting Brave. “He is so fluffy soft, and so pretty, Mama. Why cain't we have one, Mama?” She never wanted to let them leave and take Brave away. Bertha often had to put them out because they found it hard to leave the crying little girl.

  When they would leave, Juliet would cry to her mother, “How come I can't have a puppy-dog too, Mama?” Bertha, who believed the truth was always best, would answer, “Cause we ain't hardly feed yourself, chile. We can't give no good food to a dog. Jes play with that 'un when you can.”

  So they lived life, and they all grew.

  Irene loved her children equally, but was closer to Rose. Rose was always underfoot, sewing, cleaning, working with her mother. Tante got up heading outside with the free, clear air, birds, bugs, and Brave. Brave would always be waiting for her. She seemed a laughing, happy child, but inside her mind … some feeling, just out of the reach of her mind, was that feeling that something was missing. She didn't know what it was, or even why she thought it was, but … it was.

  Tante adored her father and Wings. The three of them were a separate family in her mind. She called Wings “Uncle,” and Wings liked her best. He didn't like Rose less, he just paid less attention to her because she was always in the house doing woman things.

  Wings would remark, “That little roughneck, Tante, is always trying to get up on a horse! You watch her, Val, one day she will ride away from here!” When she was seven years old they found a small horse in a herd of wild horses caught for Wings' friends and family. Wings decided it should be for Tante. They broke in the gloriously free and beautiful little horse, cleaned it up, and named the horse Windy.

  Rose was content to sit on the veranda and watch Tante ride; she wasn't interested. She liked to smooth or brush Windy's lustrous coat, but she was content to sit on the porch with the dog, Brave, and watch her sister ride through the wind with her braids flying.

  When her father was away herding cattle, Tante had to keep Windy clean, feed him, and keep the yard clean all by herself with just a little help from her mother and sister. She did it all. That gave her more to talk about with her father when he returned.

  Val loved to herd cattle, but he loved to come home. He loved to look at the house as his horse trotted toward it. He would ride up the street and, suddenly, there it was! His life!

  The wars and rumors of wars in Europe had not really touched their personal world.

  The years passed pleasantly for the family. The girls grew in health, and were schooled at home. The home in which they lived was warm and cozy, filled with love. Rose was now ten years old; she was not lazy, but she was not excited about anything.

  Tante … I guess that chile was round eight or nine years old then. I'm not sure about that, but I do know she was begging for knowledge and loved books. She had made a friend, Bill Evans, at the newspaper office where she went to get a weekly Wideland newspaper sometimes.

  Bill Evans was a news reporter. A kind man, he was from the East, and was supposed to be passing through Wideland. He got broke gambling one night, and had to stay to work awhile. He was good at his work, so the Wideland news service was glad to employ him.

  He had sold Tante a newspaper over the counter, once or twice. He smiled, and was nice, so Tante gathered her courage to talk to him. You never knew in Oklahoma in those days. But being from the East, and knowing more about life, he was different. He liked Tante as she turned her bright, fresh face up to him to ask, “Do you all have anything else I can read?”

  Books were still hard to get. Her friend Bill, the newspaperman, helped by ordering books for her even though he had been chided about her. “It might not be so good that little negra gal comin in here talkin to you, Bill! Sor'da spoils the office. Folks might not like it.” But Bill didn't stop. He liked Tante because she had spunk. He laughed to himself as he thought, “and a brain. She likes books. She even reads this little weekly newspaper we publish.”

  Tante had dreams. Some books taught her what few choices she might have. What few choices any woman might have, especially a Negro or an Indian. She wanted to go to New York, the place she read so much about. The place Mr. Evans talked so much about.

  Throughout that year he told her about the “Jazz Age” they were both missing. About women getting the vote at last. One day he told her about prohibition of liquor, about the rise of organized crime. He shook his head as he smiled, saying, “I have a master's degree in philosophy as well as other good things!” They talked a lot, outside, leaning against the side of the newspaper office.

  Once he told her, “You're an awfully friendly young lady, Tante. You got to be careful making friends with grown men. They are not all nice men … nor ladies either, I guess.” But mostly he talked about New York, and even England and Paris.

  Everything seemed to come out of New York. Clothes, politics, the riches, the beauty. After heavy thinking, Tante would say to herself, “The only way I'll ever get outta Wideland is to study hard enough to get into some college!”

  Irene read the newspapers Tante brought her. She had told her family of the war with Germany in 1917. She made them mindful of washing their hands by telling them about the pandemic of Spanish Influenza of 1918 killing from ten to sixty million people of the world.

  She talked often of college to Rose and Tante. She had never allowed her own self to think of college. Sadly, she knew she couldn't ever go. “But they got colored colleges now, even in Oklahoma.” Tante paid no mind to that news.

  Rose didn't worry about college. She was happy just cooking or cleaning beside her mother, or sitting on the porch with Brave beside her or at her feet. Windy, the horse, was kept on the reservation with Wings now. “He needs more room,” Daddy had said.

  Val was gone most of the time, but Irene took her children to the small Negro church a short distance from the house. “You need to learn about God in this Godless world. Because if I know anything about life, you are going to need Him.” So they went to church.

  Irene always asked her girls, “What did you learn about God this Sunday?” The answers from Rose were usually “He's mean. He going to put us in a burning place!” And, just as usual, Tante, with her fast, studious self, would say, “You need to read for yourself, Rose. The Bible doesn't say everything that preacher says. In fact, it doesn't hardly say anything that minister says. You have to read it for yourself. Tricky people make the Bible tricky. I study it for myself!”

  Life had been moving slowly, comfortably in most of the world. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to move a little faster.

  Irene had reached out to teach the small colored community, starting with Bertha, and sometimes Joe. She didn't charge them because she knew they had no money for extras. But a few others began to come to the classroom in the little shotgun house she taught in. The class grew slowly. Most had no money. They bartered food or work.

  Times were hard, as usual. So she didn't charge everybody. But every cent counted so she charged those who could pay a little. You had to bring your own pencil and paper, but she provided that sometimes, also. “Well,” she told herself, “you have made some progress. At least you are teaching in a shack on your own land, not someone else's.”

  A few years passed, and everything held steady, but Irene had been slowing down some, lying down for short periods during the day. She was taking little packets of powders the pharmacist sold her for her aching head. But, still, she always got up to do whatever chores her home needed. Little Rose was a good help to her. Irene would lie down thinking, “I am not that old to be getting sick. What is the matter with me? I'm too tired, too early. I'm so glad this child is here, Lord. Thank you.”

  A few more years, and Irene began to remain in bed most of every day, against her will. She directed the order of her house, but her strength was ebbing away each day. The doctor did not know what to do except keep giving her the same packets of powder, hardly more than bicarbonate of soda.

/>   He resented having to come to her house, but he had not studied long, and was not a rich doctor. “You can jes send one of your gals down for these next time. You got something I don't know what to do with. Pro'bly something that comes with being a Negra.”

  Good, knowledgeable doctors were difficult, if not impossible, to get in country towns, and sometimes even in big cities, and sometimes your color decided the time and medicine you received.

  Irene would gather her small strength, and say to him, “Doctor, I don't have any ‘gals.’ My daughters are girls or young ladies.” He never gave any sign of hearing her. She was too weak to say more, and she needed him for what little he could do. “Lord, help me and my daughters, please.”

  Over the years, they had been going to the little church that was of no particular denomination anymore. Sometimes the traveling minister was Baptist, sometimes Methodist. But it was a sermon, and that was what the small congregation wanted.

  Lately, their regular minister lived in Wideland. He was a reddish-looking, plump, apparently nice, ineffectual minister who traveled a wide area for pay and food. He was unconsciously hypocritical, even malicious and mean. He was tolerant of nothing that was not his idea. He had great reverence for money, and he was not very intelligent. He leaned heavily on the Bible he did not understand; he always carried it wherever he went. Even to the corner if that was as far as he was going.

  Bertha wasn't sure about him; Tante apparently didn't like him; Val was unconscious of him. Rose worshipped him when he spoke with fire and brimstone in his voice at funerals. Irene just shook her head, saying nothing, but thinking, “I am not going to speak against any man of the church.”

  But, after all, he spoke of God. Whether he was right or wrong didn't matter, because no one ever asked to see if what he said was in the Bible. Just to have someone speak of God in hallowed tones was enough for most of the congregation.

  They were just glad to have a church, a regular preacher, and a place to go, and gossip, on their day of rest. Most didn't like the new minister; he was too glib and grasping. He passed the “plate” so many times in one day, it often returned to him empty.

  He had no wife nor children with him. His eyes always glittered at the ladies, and, every once in a while, a few smelled liquor on his breath when he had been invited for Sunday dinner. Those who really wanted to know God's word read their own Bibles at home, like Tante did.

  Tante liked to talk to everybody, most of all she liked to hear Wings talk about his history. The trail of tears, the sorrows of his people. She was interested in everything.

  She always picked up her newspaper, which she, now, got free for delivering a few extras to special customers. She wanted to make that a paying job. “I can pick up an old newspaper off the street for myself. I don't need to work to get a newspaper; I need some money!” She was making plans. “I got to pay for my college.”

  Tante was always making new friends on her few newspaper deliveries. Some she was able to borrow books from. Some liked the “little clean colored girl” who liked to read. One man even loaned her books on higher mathematics, English, geography, and a book titled The Natural Wonders of the World. Tante hungrily devoured them. She was fascinated with Europe. The man, he wasn't from Oklahoma, talked to her about college and scholarships.

  Some white people didn't like Tante at all. Said, “Get off my porch!” or “Get away from round here!” It confused and hurt her. “What's wrong with them? Why? I wasn't doing anything wrong!” But she knew. Coloreds weren't liked everywhere. She just couldn't understand why. She liked all the Negro people she knew.

  More important to her, the thought of New York buried itself in her fertile mind, and college became even more of an ob-session for her. She didn't hate Wideland, but she didn't want to stay, nor live, there.

  There were more Negro people in Wideland then. Coloreds lived just about everywhere. Except for the “elite” property, money was such that if you wanted to sell your house, you took whoever had enough money, so the colored population was moving up.

  Of the young men that Rose and Tante met in church, at a wedding, or at a funeral, Tante smiled at them all. Rose looked at them, then quietly looked down into her lap. If they had dreams, or liked books, Tante would become quite friendly. “Do you have any books?” was one of her first, and most important, questions.

  Rose just smiled at them, and might ask, “Are you in Wideland to stay? Do you go to school? My mother teaches school.” She was impressed by one young man, Leroy. He was not very handsome, but he made up for that by being a very engaging, nice young man. They parted friends, but she really didn't pay special attention to any of the boys. Probably because she was very shy.

  Irene was very glad that Tante liked books and had dreams of going to college. There were not many Negro colleges in their area, if any, as far as she knew. She told Tante, “I know right after freedom came there was several schools and colleges that were started. We'll find some information on those in Oklahoma. Just give me a little time.” Tante wasn't thinking about staying in Oklahoma. New York was where she dreamed of going.

  Irene was still growing steadily weaker, daily. The medicine the doctor had been giving her did her no good at all. Bertha now came by to see Irene every day. She knew of the lump Irene had discovered at the base of her neck. Irene kept a scarf or towel around her neck so her children and Val would not notice it. The lump gave her pain only occasionally; it just sat in its place, worrying her, sapping the strength from her body. Growing.

  At this time, I believe it was around 1938. I'm not sure, but it was after the wars in Europe; Ford Motor Company was mass-producing cars. There were, at least, thirteen million cars on the roads. Traffic lights were in existence, the radio was being sold. There were transcontinental telephones. They had even put the first airplane in a war. Times and things were forging ahead in supposed progress.

  Life began to move with more speed. Just a little, but you could feel it. You could see it, if you were watching Life.

  Irene's doctor still did not know what to do with her malady. He really hadn't worried, he still thought it must be just a Negro thing. He didn't keep up with any medical journals, they were cast aside as he continued to prescribe, and sell, his powders. Other doctors might be knowledgeable, but they cost more. Irene didn't want to take any money away from her family.

  Val couldn't ask his Indian doctor for help in the matter because he didn't know there was a matter yet. He wouldn't have cared about the money. He knew there was something wrong, but Irene had been especially careful in keeping the growing lump hidden from him. Earlier in her illness, loving Val as she did, and being a passionate woman, she was able to cover her pain from him. Sometime the moans were stifled cries of pain.

  She always forced herself to gather enough strength when he was home to cook at least one meal with Rose's help. But Val lived many nights on the cold ground, dreaming of making love to his wife when he returned home from a long drive; his wife was in no condition to make love to him as she wanted. She told him it was just a woman's problem. He would ask no more questions … for a while.

  Just lately, in the last few months after Tante's graduation from high school, Irene had taken to staying in the bed later in the mornings. She would hug Val as tight as she could, then push him away, saying, “It's just a ladies' problem, honey. Don't you worry, I'll be fine pretty soon.” But her voice was getting weaker. Val felt so helpless, and he thought he should not ask his young daughters.

  It had taken several hard, long, painful years, but it had to come. One morning Rose went upstairs with a cup of tea for her mother, made from leaves Wings had brought. She had baked a fresh loaf of bread, so there was a thick piece of toast with homemade apple jam on the tray. She planned to coax her mother into eating, but Irene did not answer.

  On her mother's face was a frowning smile, and her hands were closed tightly in fists. Irene had died during the night, quietly, like she did everything else in her lif
e.

  Rose set the tray down, and thought she would see her mother raise her head with her loving, grateful smile, as usual. But her mother did not raise her head, as usual. Her dear mother was dead. Irene was dead. Gone.

  Rose ran from the room screaming for Tante. She kept running until, across the street, she reached Bertha's tired, decaying house, screaming for Bertha. Bertha came running through her door to the porch, passing Rose, heading toward Irene's house. Rose followed her crying, “She dead, Mz. Smith! She died! Oh, my Lord, my Lord. My mama's gone. What are we gonna do now?!”

  Bertha ran up the stairs to the bedroom. Without turning her head, she said to Rose, “Hush, chile, hush. You still got God. You got your daddy; you gonna be alright! You gotta be stronger than you ever been. Your mama may be gone, but your daddy is due home. Go get the minister, any minister, and bring Mr. Gipson from the funeral parlor. Where is Tante?”

  Bertha had washed, prepared, and laid out Irene's body for her burial and the funeral when Val reached his home. Most funeral services were held in the parlor of the deceased's home; hence the term “funeral parlor” when burying the dead became a business. Money, place, and facilities decided, as things became more modern, the type of funeral a person would have.

  The death of his lovely wife hit Val very hard. He had always been able to count on her being there with his children. He hadn't even known she was really that sick, that close to death. Now … she was gone. And … he loved her.

  He had bought her another little pretty turquoise jewel. He had always brought her something when he returned home. She had hundreds of the lovely turquoise pieces. Her oceans. They were given to her to lift her spirit. “But my own soul is gone,” Val thought. “She has left me. I ain't got nobody no more.”