The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter

by Kia Corthron

  What kinda personal?

  I don’t know. Like we useta sneak out on the school fire escape at lunch an smoke.

  I don’t think people wanna hear that. You gotta find the good, Randall. What’s that word?

  B.J. holds up ten fingers, which Erma counts. Then B.J. holds up two fingers.

  Twelve? Oh, twelve!

  Well it’s dry. It’s borin.

  Well I don’t know what to tell ya. It ain’t like it’s sposed ta be a USO comedy hour.

  Slow, slow, she sound it out, book on her lap.

  In an old house in Paris

  that was covered with vines

  lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.

  Paris, France? I always wanted to go to Paris, France! Let’s go there, Randall! Tenth anniversary. Never too early to start plannin somethin that big!

  I could ask B.J. how to spell it but guess I done interrupted em enough. I get the dictionary. Courageous. In the kitchen I hear her slow workin out the readin a somethin he wrote for her.

  Erma loves her mother and father.

  Erma loves her sisters, Lizzie Jo, Amanda, and Toodie.

  B.J. loves his mother and his sister Benja and his brother Randall.

  A family should be together always.

  Outside the winda a chirpin. Eastern bluebird. Plenty here the winter escapin the Yankee cold, but there’s also loyal ones stays, spy em in July, August, all year roun. An the neighbor’s spider lily finally come to bloom after a couple a rains, butterfly flittin over it, Henry Lee sure liked them spider lilies. Summer’s the months Henry Lee seem to favor. Me an his ma walkin him up an down that sidewalk an while resta the population draggin in the sultry, him all aglow, laughin, hearin the bluebirds, reach out try n touch the butterflies, Ooolg he say an I remember once a butterfly alight right on his knees, all three of us don’t speak, this miracle we a part of, delicate, we don’t wanna make no move don’t wanna make it break, make it break—

  Randall! Randall, honey whatchu cryin for? Aw come on, honey. I know he was your friend.

  I gotta call her! I gotta call Marietta, I can’t write no eulogy, I ain’t no writer! Way he liked August, why’d them spider lilies have to wait till now? They bloomed just a few days ago he coulda seen em, why they have to wait till now?

  B.J. hans me my pad, which is to say jot down what I jus said. I look at him. I ain’t sure. Then I write.

  He signs. What else?

  I think about it. His trains, I say it an sign it. The Ole Smoke Escape. I sign it don’t say it so Erma can’t hear.

  Hours pass, Erma gone to cook supper an my brother pulled up the hassock, sittin on it close to me, my han runnin nonstop the pages, I ain’t suffered writer’s cramp like this since the eighth grade.

  11

  There weren’t no severance from the mill. So between my lass day July the 22nd an delayed action on my initial shoe store check, my firs pay in three weeks be tomarra, Monday August fifteenth. My trousers gettin looser but in the scarcity I keep a eye, make sure Erma don’t try sneakin me a bit more, if anybody get extra it’s her, with child. Whatever that mean. Well I ain’t complainin. Ain’t we blest, another job foun s’fast? Knock knock.

  Aaron! Whatchu doin here? Everthing okay? Benja? Me an Randall seen her in church this mornin.

  We fine. An whilst you all was gettin religious, I was gettin lucky on the river. More n we can eat. Yaw take some a this carp off our hans?

  Feast! Pickin my teeth, Erma with the dishes, You think they really had extra, Randall? Or Benja jus send him over, knowin things been tight aroun here.

  Tight no more, tomarra finally gettin that check! I ain’t have another day off till nex Sunday, why’nt we celebrate now? We got some merriment comin to us. Ice cream?

  Lickin my chocolate cone, her a vanilla purist, strollin quiet downtown in the hot n humid. All the stores closed cep Kelley’s Sweet Freeze.

  Shoeshine, suh?

  Ole Bruce. Lookin up at a white man in a suit. He sure wouldn’t be addressin me, all he do is look at my shoes, know a colored shine a luxury beyond my means. The white man sit, put his feet up. Bruce in the sun but position his chair so the customer in the shade, Bruce know good business.

  Ever time I come here that ole man workin, says Erma smilin. Bet he been sittin on that corner fifty years.

  You got a vanilla mustache. She giggle an wipe it.

  There she is. Handin out suckers to her brood. Then look up, smilin.

  Randall Evans.

  Hello, Margaret Laherty. Mrs. Woodhouse.

  All around her’s Alexander Woodhouse an them four little Woodhouses an Margaret’s belly lookin damn close to turnin four into five.

  You ever met my wife Erma?

  I did, church lass Christmas. Good to see ya again.

  Good to see you. But sorry, I don’t recall. You a member of our church?

  Margaret snorts. Lucky I ever set foot outside my house with this army. I think you know my husband Alex?

  How’re yaw? His smile bright white. Dentures. Some war accident, Korea. An he return, become a dentist.

  We ain’t regulars. Jus Christmas an Easter goers, as the holier-n-thou peg us. Erma purse her lips. Margaret look embarrassed, Not yaw! Her hair still long, still that pretty auburn. Few strands a gray but healthy. Shiny.

  That one sure is your spittin image. Tryin to save Margaret, lookin all red-faced over nothin. Not that Erma ain’t been known to accuse a congregant or two a bein a Christmas an Easter goer which she practically rank up there with killin an covetin thy neighbor’s wife.

  That’s my oldest, Caroline. Say hi to Mr. Randall an Miss Erma.

  Hi.

  I heard things got tough over there at the mill. Hope you got spared the ax.

  Matter a fact, I did not. But another source a gainful employ pop right up. Workin at the shoe store. Salesman.

  An Margaret Laherty glance at ole Bruce.

  Hey! Ma, he took my grape! He took my grape outa my pocket!

  You weren’t eatin it.

  I was savin it! Ma, he finished his cherry, now he took my grape!

  Give it to your sister.

  The boy shake his head.

  Give it your sister!

  The boy shake his head, stick the sucker in his mouth. The girl scream.

  Bam! Margaret slap the backa that boy’s head, pop that grape lollipop right outa his mouth an Margaret catch it expert like some trick they been practicin. The boy bawlin while Margaret give it to the girl, who promply stick it in her mouth.

  Nex time I buy em you don’t get any. Margaret wipe sweat from her brow, move her hair outa her face. The boy hollerin louder.

  I hope yaw think long an hard fore you decide to start a family. Nice seein ya again, Randall. Let’s go!

  With Margaret’s crew gone the day’s quiet again. Ole Bruce had two consecutive customers, now stand in the shade, fannin hisself. My cone ancient history but Erma a slow-eater, still a bit left. Then she throw it away, lost appetite, an I know what’s comin.

  Women like her don’t know how lucky they are.

  Wipin moisture from her cheek, she ain’t decided yet whether she’s perspirin mad or cryin.

  She don’t even got the patience. Way she whomped that boy!

  Whatchu think I do? My job?

  She stop. Huh?

  Jus wonderin. I been at the store two weeks now. What would you call my occupation?

  Shoes! Whatchu talkin about?

  Like that? I look toward Ole Bruce. Where Margaret looked.

  What?

  I’m askin—

  You comparin your job to nigger work?

  I’m askin do you see a difference.

  Yes I see a difference. You sell shoes, look like he sell shoes? You work inside, you’re
a professional, shirt n tie. An you ain’t a nigger!

  She storm ahead toward home. In the distance I hear another a Margaret’s gang hollerin, or maybe it’s the same one, an I stan there, feelin this odd sensation. Satisfaction. Lucky about my sorry propagatin status, childless maybe not such a bad state a bein. An a little guilty about thinkin it but maybe not guilty as I should be feelin. Couple drops, I look up. The hot n humid just about to come to a fass climax. Ole Bruce quick to pick up his gear. His own shop, I think. Own boss.

  I start to run but still caught in the downpour, prolly good Erma rushed on ahead mad cuz she musta made it home dry. Soaked, no need to bother hurryin anymore so I mosey. An the thought a those fine gentlemen in their crisp newly shined shoes now sloshin through the mud have me whistlin all the way to my front door.

  12

  School starts 9 a.m. Wednesday, but we got people comin early as seven.

  I nod. This sure is some good potata salad, Benja. Jus like Ma’s.

  Thank you. We don’t want any funny stuff goin on, them tryin to sneak em roun the back, we got all doors covered.

  Where is Aunt Bobbie anyway? says Deb Ellen.

  Ole folks’ home, she fixed food for em. Give her somethin to do now an again, she be by later. An they ain’t beatin us there neither. Principal assured us, teachers arrive eight but no kids in till eight thirty earliest. You don’t gotta be to work till ten.

  Nine forty-five.

  It’ll all be over by nine, plenty a time for you to get over to Martin’s.

  That’d be somethin. Erma chimin in. That’d be somethin for the baby, wouldn’t it? Know her daddy protected her school for her even before she’s born?

  Cracka the bat. I turn. There’s Labor Day our side a the park, Labor Day their side. In the middle the kids play together, ten-year-olds, twelve. Colored with white, all they care about’s enough for baseball teams. Deb Ellen watchin the game. My mind ain’t on school nor baseball, bein distracted by Mr. Martin takin me aside Saturday. Been a month, Randall. Toldja we’d be havin us a talk your commissions don’t raise above minimum. Now sometimes there’s the late bloomers, takes a little longer to get the knack. But consider this your firs warnin.

  What’s the score? I ask Deb Ellen, tryin to change the subject in my head.

  Fifteen–three. But don’t worry. That age, it ain’t over till it’s over, nex innin underdog might score twenty.

  We need a solid wall a people at the high school, Randall, we need to show we mean business.

  Your kids is still in the elementary, Benja.

  Thinkin bout the future! Wait till they get over to the secondary to take care a things, too late!

  Whew! I jus felt the baby kick. You wanna feel it, Benja?

  Whoever don’t show up can’t complain later when some nigger’s asked their girl to the senior prom.

  Clamorin from inside a Benja’s house, B.J. fixin the kitchen sink.

  Why you ain’t keepin a watch on the primary? Your kids?

  Cuz the parents a the little ones is smart. They ain’t tryin to invade, jus keepin their kids right where they are, colored school.

  Hard times prolly made a good salesman out of a man or two but I’m the other breed. I nodded to Mr. Martin, which to reassure I’d try harder, but the truth I don’t say is me an Erma’s grateful for every penny, lass thing we need is someone tryin to give us the hard sell on luxury shoes so why would I do that to somebody else? On the other han such a philosophy apparently never entered the heads a my co-workers, Brenda Jean an Diane practically tackle me racin to the floor when they hear incomin customers through the entrance ting-a-ling.

  Randall, you got Sundays off, store closed, right? I got a roofin job, repairin the holes, tarrin. Be my partner? They pay fifty, that be twenty-five apiece. Day’s work.

  I stare at Deb Ellen. Yes!

  We mean business. What kinda colored parent gonna send their kids into all that? Danger. Separate but equal’s been workin fine.

  Ain’t that a blessin! We really could use that money, Deb Ellen. Give Randall somethin to do too, all he do Sundays now is down in the basement with Henry Lee’s train. Watchin TV with me useta be his favorite pastime but think he got sicka baby this baby that. Ah, new fathers!

  We mean business. Those niggers try innegratin our schools, someone’s gettin hurt.

  B.J. come out for a little break, deviled egg. He see Benja all intense, he sign to me, What? I sign back, Tell ya later.

  Lucky you got today off. People’s tryin to change the blue laws. Wanna make stores open Sundays, stores open Labor Day.

  I doubt that, Deb Ellen. How that make any sense? Make people labor on Labor Day. Then I pick up a big dill pickle. Crunch.

  We’re thinkin a namin her Ruby. You think that’s a pretty name?

  It sure is. Benja settin out the ketchup an mustard, not even botherin to look at Erma.

  Cracka the bat, gran slam homer for the trailin team. Hey hey hey! says Deb Ellen.

  Two a mine’s your godkids, Randall.

  That’s right, sweetie, we gotta do right by Benja’s kids, our godkids. An Ruby.

  Honey.

  We look up. Aaron all sheepish. Benja glarin at him. Cautiously he approach.

  Honey. Honey, I’m sorry—

  Quick Benja untwiss the jar an hurl mustard all over his shirt. Erma gasps, everybody go quiet. Aaron look down at the mess, up at Benja, down at the mess, up at Benja. Then turn, walk away.

  That oughta earn me a broke wrist, she says. Worth it.

  Hello hello! My mother. Looky what I brought!

  Peach cobbler. Holdin it out for everbody to see but I note her special quick glance to me. What I wisht she brought was a spare mustard as I am not much of a fan a burger with ketchup.

  13

  It’s six in the mornin.

  I know.

  How come you all dressed? Nobody gettin there till seven.

  Thought I stroll by early.

  What for?

  I dunno. Since I got laid off from the mill don’t get much of a chance to greet the dawn no more. Birds. Go back to sleep, I’ll see ya after work tonight.

  You wamme make you a egg?

  Go back to sleep.

  There is the birds an I stroll the ten minutes to the high school. I was here, inside, once. Visitation Day, the eighth grade. Preparin myself for a four-year educational career, an then who knows. College? Law school? Everthing seem a possibility, them days.

  The school windas clear an sparklin, clean blackboards, ready for start a the year. I loved the firs day! Peek in. Inches below me I spy a texbook lyin top of a low bookshelf. History of Western Civilization. An now I remember that commitment I made to myself in April, that cookout at Lily’s, start goin to the library. Forgettin about it till now pretty much clarify how empty that damn oath was.

  I don’t wanna get no hopes up but I count the days an this time two weeks longer than Erma ever held a baby before. I don’t wanna jump to no conclusions but glance at her belly coulda sworn I spotted a bitty hump. Here’s where he’d go to high school. Or she. She wanted to play basketball I’d be all for it. Him singin in the choir? My kids, I give em the freedom. Some days B.J. come over, their uncle take em out for cartoon movies.

  Firs spark a sun peepin over that hill, now the rays spread everywhere. I gotta smile, why the sunrise always give that promise?

  Yellin in the distance. Five men in a pickup. No, two men, three high school boys. So guess it’s startin.

  Don’t know em but I greet em. One’s drinkin, share the bottle with his son. It ain’t yet 7 a.m.! They offer me but I say No, I gotta go to work. You can’t drink an work? What are you, a surgeon? Yeah, I’m a neurosurgeon. Everbody laughs. Others driftin in, an the quiet an the birds give way to the day an this mutterin hullabaloo. This is not gonna happen an We
gotta come together protect the children an Who they think they are? I see Benja in a group a other women. Smile ear to ear soon she spy me. Randall! I didn’t think you’d really come! This is my brother Randall.

  By 7:45 quite a crowd. A truckload suddenly pulls in in their checkered shirts. These ones riled up, mad, but in some way happy excited, chance to make a stand. Teachers startin to go in. They all disappeared into the buildin by eight, an by 8:15 the front schoolyard’s jam-packed. Loud. I see a teacher lookin out from a second-floor odd wing winda an another from a firs-floor even.

  At 8:30 sharp the light green station wagon pulls up, an they step out. Five of em, lookin clean an pressed an polite carryin book satchels. In the mornin chatter I heard they are seventeen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. The fourteen is a girl, lookin even tinier than I was then an I was a runt. The one boy looks to be fifteen. They are black but the terror in their eyes make em seem all ghost white.

  An here it comes.

  Don’t you goddamn step any closer!

  Who the hell you think you are?

  Nigger bitch, don’t you even think about settin foot in this school!

  Nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger!

  The colored children are bein led by a grown-up colored woman an man in their thirties. The tiniest girl suddenly turn tail, run back to the car bawlin.

  That’s right, little Nigress, you better turn aroun!

  The adult woman runs back for the girl. Then the five of em approach again slow, huddled together. The screamin so loud hard for me to make out individual words.

  Then one voice so shrill it rise above the rest. I don’t care if it goddamn Brown or Black or High Yella versus the Board a Education, no niggers goin to school with my kids!

  I turn to see that screamer is Margaret Laherty, who I didn’t notice before. I wonder if this is good for that baby still swimmin aroun in her big ole belly.

  The face a that black seventeen girl, tears streamin down but she don’t stop she keep movin slow slow, my cheeks hot. The face a the white men an women, the grannies all hate, dark eyes an spit, I ain’t never experienced a lynchin but these gotta be those faces, sure glad they leff their baseball bats at home. An somehow seem scarier n weapons. Hate like this don’t need a gun.