I’d tried to share my lunch with Jesse when after a day or so I noticed he had nothing. But he always acted like he wasn’t a bit hungry. Then on Friday I’d pretended to be full, with corn bread left over. He took it then, just so it wouldn’t “go to waste.”
At midday, Miss Lafayette dismissed us for lunch but held Jesse back. I knew she’d try to coax him to take some of her lunch. And I was sure he wouldn’t take it. He’d be just like those proud Butlers—pretend he wasn’t hungry. I’d ask him to come to our house for dinner again.
Miss Lafayette quietly corrected papers at the front of the class while I tutored Jesse in the back. I bit my lip to stay alert while he struggled through a paragraph, putting his finger on each word as he went along at a pace that was torture. I still loved the notion of teaching someone to read, but it sure did take patience.
“Jesse,” I said, when he stopped to take a breath. “Can you come for dinner on Friday?”
He stared at the page he’d been reading.
“Friday Cause you don’t have to go to school on Saturday—maybe you can put some things off?”
I felt a little anger rise up in him and immediately regretted being so pushy.
“Why you always askin’ me to do something I can’t. It just makes me feel bad.” He hadn’t looked up yet. He clenched his fists. “I said I can’t do it.” His voice rose enough for Miss Lafayette to look up and watch us a moment.
“I’m sorry,” I told him.
“I can’t do it.” He got up quickly then. “Time for me to go,” he said, pulling himself up out of his chair. He didn’t even bother closing the book before he walked out of the room.
Mr. Pruitt came the last Monday in April to take Jesse out of Booker T
J. Dean had led the Pledge of Allegiance and we’d just sat down to work on our readers when a strange man appeared in the doorway in work overalls, holding his hat. Jesse had arrived on time and sat hunched over his book, seemingly with no thoughts of nothing else. The man wore a hard expression on his face. He looked directly at Jesse. Jesse must have felt eyes on him because he glanced up, and immediately flinched. The man lifted his chin, just a little, but it was enough to have Jesse scrambling out of his chair and making his way up the aisle. He didn’t even get to the door good when his daddy—it didn’t take long for me to realize he was Jesse’s daddy—reached out and grabbed his arm. He gave him a hard shove and Jesse, looking as weak as a sick kitten, let himself be pushed out the door and down the steps. We all watched them through the window hurrying along the road. Miss Lafayette stood and watched with us, saying nothing.
Then she sighed heavily. “Let’s get back to work,” she said.
“Who was that?” Serena whispered to me.
“His daddy, I’ma bet.”
For the rest of the day I hoped to see Jesse walk back through our classroom door, but when 3:00 came and he still hadn’t returned, I feared he wasn’t ever coming back.
For the rest of the week I watched for him. I’d frequently check the window, picturing him loping up the road like the first time I saw him. Then I’d imagine him coming through the door after we’d all settled with our readers. He didn’t come.
His absence wasn’t lost on Augustine. Toward the end of the week, she squatted down beside me while I was waiting my turn to play the winner in a game of jacks. “Where’s your friend?”
I didn’t answer.
“He comin’ back?”
“Sure. When he can get away.” She considered this, checking me closely to see if I was lying. “It’s planting time,” I continued. “He’s gotta help his daddy right about now. But he’s coming back and he’s my friend.”
She stood up and looked down at me. She snorted. “Betcha he ain’t comin’ back,” she said.
I swallowed and put my eyes on Serena and Viola’s game like I didn’t care one way or the other. But I did care—a lot.
Diller’s Drugs
“Mama,” I said on Saturday, as we were hurrying along to Miss Beach’s.
“What, baby?” She had that far-off look in her eye. She’d gotten a letter from Daddy and this time she’d fished it out the mailbox first and had me read it to her.
It was full of the usual promises. Promises that he was going to send for us. That he was going to set us up in Chicago with our own house. That Mama wouldn’t have to do day work and laundry no more cause he didn’t want that for a wife of his, and how Prez and me were just going to have to go to school. No more scrubbing other people’s clothes and serving at people’s parties for me and no more planting and picking cotton for Prez. And, on top of that, I was going to get those piano lessons I was wanting for a long, long time. I knew the promises by heart because I’d been hearing them since a year ago March, when Daddy left the pulp mill to go up to Chicago, but sometimes I didn’t know how much I believed them.
When my chores were done and I could go sit under my pecan tree up from the railroad tracks to read, then I’d think about the promises and life up North.
This time, money had come. Mama had given me and Prez a nickel apiece. I knew what I was going to do with mine. I was going to buy me a Scooter Pie, get my Nancy Drew from home, and go read and wait for the train to come roaring through.
But now something else was on my mind. Commencement. Miss Lafayette had reminded us on Friday that it was coming up. I’d almost forgotten all about the eighth-grade ceremony commemorating the end of grammar school. Now I thought about the commencement dress Daddy’s sister had sent from Chicago. White organza with a dropped pink sash. At first, I’d hung it on the back of the bedroom door, just so I could sit on my bed and look at it. But for the past few weeks I hadn’t given that dress a thought or barely a look. Now, since Miss Lafayette put commencement back on my mind, I thought of Mama’s rhinestone clip-on earrings.
“Mama,” I said, hoping that she was going to grant my request.
“What is it?” She glanced over at me with annoyance.
“I was wonderin’—for my commencement, can I please wear them earrings Daddy sent you last fall?”
“My birthday earrings?”
“Please, Mama.” I waited. She was squinting into the distance, actually thinking about it. That was a good sign, because when Mama said no right off, it was settled—as settled as could be.
“Okay,” she said. Just like that. I couldn’t believe it had been so easy. I kept my mouth closed, not wanting anything I said to change her mind.
“Thanks, Mama,” was all I chanced a few moments later.
Miss Beach was on her porch, sipping her morning coffee and gliding gently back and forth. Treasure lay at her feet, his eyes closed to slits. I did not like that cat.
Miss Beach nodded good morning to us.
I started around back.
Before I could get down the stairs good, Miss Beach was asking me, “Were you up there meddling?”
“No, ma’am.” I’d hoped to see Miss Lafayette. She’d made me feel better about Jesse’s departure, telling me he’d probably be back—as soon as his farm workload lightened up. But her room was empty and there was no sign of her.
I dropped the laundry on the floor, then squatted down to sort it. Miss Beach stood over me for a minute, giving me the usual instructions. Finally, she left the room. I loaded my arms with the whites and took them out to Mama.
“Miss Beach wants these to go through two boiling tubs, Mama,” I said, relaying Miss Beach’s instructions.
Mama sighed. “If I don’t know that by now, I must be a dimwit.”
I smiled and then remembered the nickel I had in my pocket. I could taste the Scooter Pie I was going to buy with it as soon as I could get over to Green’s. I just needed to get to my hill in time to see the local race by on its way up to Birmingham to make its connection to the Illinois Central. I loved watching that train. I was gonna be taking that route one day, on my way to Chicago. Daddy had promised.
Things went off without a hitch. Mama and I wrung and wrung th
e sheets, we hung the wash, and Miss Beach stayed out of our way. That horrid cat kept out of our way, too. Mama finally said I could go.
“You be home by the time I get there, missy,” Mama said.
I quickly calculated that I’d have less time than I was counting on, but I was in such a good mood that it gave me only a pinprick of disappointment. I could make that up if I ran all the way to Green’s.
I stopped at our house. Prez was gone down to Perry’s. Good, I thought. He won’t be pestering me to let him come along. I quickly went to get the Nancy Drew I was in the middle of reading.
I kept all my books on a little shelf above me and Mama’s bed. She kept her earrings up there in a little box. I had to keep my books away from Prez. He liked to thumb through the pages and pick out the words he knew, his dirty hands smudging my pages. Miss Lafayette had given me a beautiful feather, dyed shocking pink, from an old hat, to use as a bookmark. I loved it. I always left it on my shelf to keep from losing it when I took a book out of the house.
“Page 58,” I said to myself as I slipped the feather from between the pages and placed it carefully on the shelf.
Green’s was nearly empty. Good, I thought. I wouldn’t have to wait while white folks were helped before me.
“Hey, Francie,” Vell said, coming out from the back and heading for the porch with a broom. He was Mr. Green’s retarded nephew.
“Hey, Vell.” I went directly to the counter where Scooter Pies were kept in their own display box. The box was empty. There was the jar of penny candy but no Scooter Pies. I checked every inch of the counter. The big jar of pickles—the jar of pickled eggs—no Scooter Pies. Naw, I thought. Couldn’t be. Mr. Green sat behind the register, reading his paper and smoking his Old Gold. He flicked an ash into a jar lid.
“Mr. Green,” I said politely. He looked up. “Don’t you have any Scooter Pies?”
“You see any Scooter Pies, Francie?”
“No, sir.”
He went back to his paper. “Then I don’t have any. We’re out.”
I searched the counter again. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him—I just had to be sure. Fingering my smooth nickel in my pocket, I walked to the porch and looked up the road toward town. I hadn’t gotten permission to go there, though.
I knew Diller’s Drugs would have Scooter Pies. A stack of them by the register. Sitting on my hill waiting on the local wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t have one to nibble on.
I skipped down the porch steps and headed for town. I tucked my book under my arm and put a little bounce in my step, determined to stay happy.
Diller’s was empty enough, so I decided to look around a couple of minutes before I got my Scooter Pie. Mr. Diller was putting new magazines in the rack and taking out the old ones.
Eugene and Jimmy Early were sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading Buck Rogers comics.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to get around them, and when they ignored me and I had to squeeze past, one laughed. Then I felt something hit my back. It was a piece of wadded paper. I looked back at the boys. They held their comic books an inch from their noses, pretending innocence.
I went on my way, turning down the cosmetics aisle. Lined up on the shelves were creamy lotions and bath salts in the most wonderful colors. I sniffed at a closed bottle of cologne, too afraid to take the top off. I was careful to put it back exactly as I’d found it. There were pretty tortoiseshell combs and hairnets in all colors. I wished I could get one for Mama. She would like that.
I heard giggling behind me and turned to see Clarissa Montgomery, Verdie Johnson, and Holly Grace arriving at the lunch counter. I knew from overhearing Clarissa talking with her friends that they were giggling at Mr. Diller’s son Joe. He’d just come home from the army and was working at the drugstore. Verdie and Clarissa reached for menus, but Holly slid off her stool and went over to the carousel that held all the copies of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys and Bobbsey Twins. She gave it a twirl and withdrew one volume.
I made my way to the front for my Scooter Pie.
I took one from the display, set it carefully on the counter, then waited for Mr. Diller to finish writing things in what looked like a ledger. Finally, with a sigh, he ambled over to me.
“Eighty cents,” Mr. Diller said.
“Pardon me?” I thought I hadn’t heard right.
“Eighty cents,” he repeated and tapped the counter with his nails.
I looked at my Scooter Pie. I wanted it—but not for eighty cents. Maybe it was a price just for me. Maybe he aimed to keep colored out of his store. Whyn’t he just put up a sign? I felt everyone watching me, hoping something was about to spice up their dull afternoon.
I thought about my words carefully, as I was accustomed to doing. “Sir, I was thinking Scooter Pies were a nickel.” I avoided Mr. Diller’s eyes.
“Yea, but that Nancy Drew you got tucked under your arm so’s I can’t see it …” He reached over and snatched it from under my arm and slapped it on the counter. “That there is seventy-five cents.” He laid his meaty hand on top of it like a weight. There was no way I’d reach across that counter and try to remove that big hairy hand off my book.
I heard snickers coming from two directions. Holly and Verdie had turned on their stools and were grinning ear to ear. Clarissa’s face showed no expression. She kept her head down and sipped on her soda, as if she didn’t want to see what was happening.
I looked back at Eugene and Jimmy Early’s stupid faces. “I didn’t get that book from your store, Mr. Diller. I had it when I come in.”
He squinted at it then. He removed his hand, picked the book up, and held it out in front of him, his eyes darting to his audience at the lunch counter. He turned the book this way and that.
“You trying to tell me you brought this book in with you?”
“Yes, sir. The Secret of the Old Clock. That’s the truth.”
“Why, it looks brand-new to me.” He held it up to show the Early boys. “Don’t it to you boys?”
“I think she stole that book,” Jimmy Early piped up.
“She ain’t had no book. I seen her come in empty-handed,” Eugene said with scorn.
I met his eyes squarely. He blushed red with his lie. Jimmy kept his mouth shut, unwilling to get too bad a mark on his soul.
“He’s lying on me, Mr. Diller.”
“Is he, now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eugene, I guess believing his lie by now, stared back. “Mr. Diller, I seen her come in empty-handed. That’s the truth.” He inched toward me, but Mr. Diller put up his hand.
Holly had slid off her stool and come up for a closer gander, still sipping on her soda.
“Let me get this straight. You calling Eugene here a lie?” Mr. Diller asked.
I felt the trap he was laying for me. How could a colored call a white a lie?
“I’m saying I brought that book in here with me.”
Mr. Diller came from around the counter and with a purposeful stride went right over to the carousel, counted the copies of Nancy Drew, and glanced back at me like I was cow manure.
“I just ten minutes ago put five new copies on that carousel. I had five already, and that makes ten! Guess how many I got now?”
I said nothing, because in the middle of his counting—and he made quite a show of it—I knew there’d be one missing. He’d be short one, because Holly took it.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“No, sir.”
“You want to guess, then?”
“No, sir.” I looked directly at Holly. She gazed back at me level and confident.
“I got nine,” he said, coming down hard on nine. He glanced around at the onlookers—from one to the other. “I got nine.” He seemed to be speaking only to them, like he was expecting them to bear witness.
I turned to Eugene. “You saw me take a book off that carousel?”
“I sure did,” he said quickly.
“Did you see me with your own ey
es?”
He seemed not to know how to answer that. Then: “Yea, I did.”
“What I do with it?”
“Put it under your arm.”
“I didn’t open it and read it?”
“No, you just hid it under your arm and went right up to the register,” he said.
“Okay.” I turned back to Mr. Diller. “If you open up that book to page 58 you’ll probably see a bit of pink feather in the binding. I use a feather as a bookmark, but I left it at home cause I didn’t want to lose it.”
He studied my face, then the book in his hand. He flipped to page 58. The bit of pink feather stood out on the page for everyone to see. Mr. Diller blew on it and it floated to the floor.
“Where’s that missing book, then?” Eugene said.
I answered, just as calm as you please—though I don’t know what could have prompted me to say such a thing—“Whyn’t you all ask Holly. I seen her steal lipstick right off that display not too long ago.” I pointed to the cosmetics aisle. “Maybe if you searched her purse …” I could hardly get the words out, she came at me so fast, jaws clenched.
“How dare you, you little pickaninny,” she sputtered, enraged. Her slap sent my head spinning. She went to hit me again, and I ducked in time, so that her hand glanced off the back of my head, the palm side of her fingers connecting in a way that was probably more painful for her than me. Still, I actually saw little exploding lights in front of my open eyes. The place on my cheek where her hand had made contact had a fierce ringing sting. If I hadn’t been dark, I figured I’d be wearing her palm print for days. “You want to stand there, you little black pickaninny, and call me a thief?”
Her face was as red as mine would have been if it could show. She reared back to strike me again, but Mr. Diller caught her hand.
“That ain’t necessary, Holly.” Joe Diller, who’d been in the back room, came out now to stop the ruckus. “Let me take care of this.” He turned to me. “You get on out of here, and don’t let me see you set foot in Diller’s Drugs again.”
Francie Page 4
