Walking with Miss Millie

by Tamara Bundy

  We reached the church right then and I heard laughing. In the parking lot were the two boys who were in front of Grandma’s house last week. I didn’t know if Miss Millie could hear and I was sure hoping she didn’t since she was in the middle of a story about her boy’s short life, and laughter just felt rude.

  She paused for a minute and we stood there. The boys were straddling their bikes and the bigger one started yelling and pointing at Miss Millie and me like we were some sort of sideshow at the circus. I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but the few words I could make out made it clear not hearing more was a good thing.

  I stuck my tongue out at them, holding it there long enough for extra effect.

  Miss Millie didn’t see me stick out my tongue, but there was no doubt she saw the rudeness of the boys. Still, she didn’t seem surprised or mad. She just motioned for us to keep walking.

  “Those there boys are the McHale brothers,” she told me. “Their daddy, and some others in their family, still don’t think black people belong here in this neighborhood—and they like to make sure we know it. We come a far piece, but I guess you can see we have a far piece to go.”

  I was downright fuming. Miss Millie was in the middle of her memory about her brother going off before he was killed by white folks and all these years later, there were still more white folks stuck in the middle of being stupid.

  I didn’t want to ask her then to finish her story. I didn’t want her to be remembering more sad stuff. But she could tell I was fuming inside.

  She walked on and just as matter-of-factly as she said the earlier thing about the McHales, she said, “You don’t have to walk with me anymore.”

  A couple days ago, that would have been great news. I would have run back home, told Mama my job was over and been glad. But not today. Today I wasn’t just sad at the thought of stopping the walks, I was confused. All these questions stumbled through my mind. Did she not want to walk with me anymore? Was I proving to be nothing more than a painful memory stirrer-upper?

  I had to ask, “Do you want to stop these walks?” The words spilled out with way more emotion than I’d planned. There was even a dang choke in my voice that made my red-from-the-heat cheeks even redder.

  Miss Millie smiled. “Alice-girl, I’m used to stuff like that there. Don’t particular like it, but I’m used to it. I’m so old and been through so much, ain’t nothing people can say or do that can hurt me anymore. But you . . .” This time her voice cracked. “You never been on this side of ugly before. I don’t want you shoved across that line on my account.”

  We walked on. I guess as the distance between the McHale brothers and us grew, the distance between Miss Millie and me kind of shrunk.

  I picked my next words as carefully as I would pick flowers in my grandma’s garden—if she ever let me. “All I want is for you to finish telling me about your boy.”

  Miss Millie let out a whistle of a laugh as she shook her head, but I knew she wasn’t mad or anything. “Okay then . . . Let’s see . . . where’d I leave off?”

  “James told you not to have the baby till he got back.”

  “Ah, yes . . .” She tilted her head like she was going back in time to tell the story once again firsthand. Then she cleared her throat and took a couple deep breaths before she went on. She spoke her words in the direction of the sky like she was telling it to God or something. “Problem was—like ya know—he never come back. Wouldn’t ya know . . . the very minute I was told James was killed, my baby chose right then and there to start coming. And he came. Oh, Lordy, he came. James didn’t get the time to make the world any better of a place, but my baby came anyway.”

  Dang it, but my eyes were getting misty again.

  “Had me the prettiest baby boy you ever did lay eyes on. Spittin’ image of his uncle. So we called him James, just like his uncle.”

  I wished the story would end right there. I wanted to remember Miss Millie and Mr. Clayton and James all being the family they were in the picture. I wanted that to be the end of the story. But I knew Mr. Clayton Miller was buried under a peeling white cross and baby James was buried someplace else.

  “Wh-what happened to baby James?” My voice cracked as my words came out.

  Our feet were moving at the same time. Slow, but the same. Right foot, left. Even Clarence was in step with us. When Miss Millie answered, her words were, at first, real soft, and then got loud enough for me to hear.

  “Let’s see . . . The year was 1911. Me and Clayton and baby James carved out a nice little life for ourselves. Life wasn’t easy, but we got by, trying not to draw too much attention to ourselves. Just be a family. Just be a family . . . Then one night it happened.”

  When she said those words, my stomach turned like it was getting ready for someone to punch it. I tried to prepare myself for the worst but I suspected there really was nothing that could prepare me for what Miss Millie’s life had put her through.

  “Baby James was five when he got an awful sore belly. Cried and cried about it. Now, he wasn’t one to bellyache about nothin’. No, he was a brave boy.” With these words, her voice filled with emotion. “Such a brave boy. If he fell down, he got back up. If he got a scratch, he never mentioned it. So when this brave little boy said his belly hurt somethin’ fierce, I knew it was somethin’ bad.” She took another deep breath. I think I forgot to breathe.

  “After a whole day of that bad belly, a fever started. Then another day of a fever burnin’ my baby on the inside. I tried gettin’ a doctor to come, but the white doctor refused. I decided to go to the hospital. There was a public hospital in Atlanta, but it was too far. The private hospital was for white people only, but it was closer.”

  Even after all the things Miss Millie told me, it still felt like a cut to my heart when she said that even hospitals were divided then, too. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Miss Millie knew the question before I asked it and only nodded before she went on.

  “Yep. So we took my baby boy to the private hospital hopin’ he’d get the help he needed.”

  By now we were back at her house and she let Clarence off his leash and we sat down at the picnic table. Even though he was released from the leash, Clarence stayed right by Miss Millie’s feet.

  “The hospital wouldn’t take him. Plumb refused. By then my baby was screaming with pain and fever and I plumb refused to leave. They threatened to have me arrested, but I stayed right there with my sick little boy.” She let out a deep breath, which sounded to me like life itself being sucked out of her.

  “After two hours, a nurse finally let me in and had me wait in a basement for a doctor to see him. It was cold and damp.” Her voice grew softer, like each remembered word hurt more than the last. “And . . . it . . . was . . . down . . . there . . . that my little boy . . . drew his last breath . . . in my arms. God rest his soul.”

  I would later figure it had been over fifty years since that day when Miss Millie lost her baby, but when she was telling me right then, it might as well have been yesterday. The tears in her eyes left the tears in my own eyes no choice but to follow. I reached out to Miss Millie and before you knew it, we were holding hands. And there we sat at the picnic table, the two of us, tears falling like the rain we needed but weren’t getting.

  I think I heard Clarence sniffle, too.

  chapter 14

  Before she got the forgetful disease, Mondays had always been Grandma’s bridge day, where her group of lady friends would get together to play cards. But I guess Grandma’s bridge-playing days disappeared with her good memory, since her friends hadn’t been over in a long time.

  Mama hoped a visit from the ladies would be good for Grandma, and I hoped so, too. I have to admit I actually missed Grandma telling me, Sit up straight and Dress more like a lady. Some days now, she just looks at me like she’s trying to remember who I am.

  So on that Monday afternoon,
when the ladies Mama invited over for a special visit arrived, I decided I’d take a ride on my bike. I knew for once Eddie wouldn’t want to join me since he always liked to stay inside where the ladies would feed him all the gingersnaps he wanted.

  Mama gave me a dime to buy a Popsicle so I figured I’d head to the General Store after the library.

  The librarian seemed like she was waiting for me. “Alice, is that you? My goodness, you’ve grown this year.”

  “You, too,” I said, but realized soon enough that a lady might not think that was a compliment.

  The librarian laughed, though. “I’m Mrs. Davis. I met you a few years back. I went to school with your mama. We even double-dated to senior prom.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Davis,” I answered.

  “Looking for anything in particular today—or just browsing?”

  “I’m kind of just browsing, I guess.” I knew I wanted a poetry book, but I wasn’t real sure what kind.

  But I soon found what I was after, checked it out and placed the book in the basket of the bike. Then I rode over to the General Store.

  Back home in Columbus, I used to love going to the grocery store in the summertime since they had air-conditioning. Walking in there was like walking into a refrigerator.

  But I don’t think Rainbow has even heard of air-conditioning.

  When I arrived, the screen door was propped open like the owner was hoping for a breeze, but instead all he got were some flies and even a stray dog.

  I used to think the General Store was kind of cute—with its bins of fruits and vegetables, looking like it wanted to be old-fashioned. But that was before Mama had the idea we were staying here. Now I don’t think it’s cute at all.

  The grocer—I guess the same one whose daughter was out late that night and who got me into trouble for listening to gossip—was shooing the dog out.

  “Well, hello, Alice Ann!” he hollered when he saw me, like we were old friends. Does every adult in Rainbow know who I am? And why did he call me by my full name? Only Mama calls me that.

  “Hi, Mr.—?”

  “O’Brien. You probably remember my dad—he used to run this store, but I’ve taken over now. I went to school with your mama. I was a couple years older, but I noticed her even then. Everybody noticed your mama. She’s a special lady.”

  I sure didn’t like the way Mr. O’Brien was going on and on about Mama. “So you knew my daddy, too, then, right?”

  “Oh, yeah . . . Sure. Sure I knew him.”

  I stood there waiting for him to say how special my daddy was, too, but he wasn’t as talkative about Daddy.

  “Well,” I said. “When Daddy comes, I’m sure he’ll want to come say hi to you.”

  “When he comes?” Mr. O’Brien looked confused. “Oh, sure. That’d be nice, if he comes . . .”

  With the grocer done rattling on about my mama and daddy, I went over to the freezer to get a Popsicle. The cold-air blast from the freezer felt good as I searched for a grape Popsicle.

  All they had was orange.

  Guess nothing in this town was what I wanted it to be.

  I gave my dime to Mr. O’Brien and the whole store started shaking with a train going by, so thankfully I didn’t have to hear what more he had to say about Mama. But as I walked out, he yelled, “See you later, Alice Ann.”

  I got outside right when the train finished passing and looked for my bike. I knew I had propped it against the fire hydrant, but it was gone.

  I walked around to the left side of the store, so confused I didn’t even lick my Popsicle until I felt orange goo dripping down my hand.

  I was just about ready to go back into the store when I saw one of those horrible boys—what did Miss Millie say their names were? The McHales! The older McHale boy was standing there with a stupid grin on his face.

  “Where is it?” I demanded.

  He managed to look even stupider than he usually did. “Where’s what?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about! Now give me my bike!” As I yelled, I pointed my Popsicle at him and the melting ice pop slid off the stick and into the dirt.

  “Oh, poor baby! Dropped your little treat. Well, now it’s trash just like that piece of trash ya call a bike.” He laughed this deep laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh should sound at all.

  “I swear I’ll tell Mr. O’Brien!” Right then I didn’t know if I wanted to scream or cry.

  “Ooh. A tattletale! That really scares me.”

  I turned to go back inside, but before I got to the door, the smaller McHale came around the other side of the store with my bike. “Is this yours?” he asked like he didn’t know perfectly good and well it was.

  “Of course it’s mine!” I yelled, grabbing it from him.

  “Hey, I didn’t take it,” he said. “I was bringing it back to ya. I saw it over on the other side . . .”

  I’d never really seen this kid up close before. He had reddish-blond hair and freckles like mine. If I didn’t know he was a McHale, I might have believed him. But in the short time I’d been in this little town, I’d learned who the McHales were and I didn’t like them.

  I turned to jump on the bike, but the older McHale wasn’t done yet. He grabbed the book in my basket. “Give that back!” I yelled.

  “Ooh—what’s this?” His voice was sugary sweet as he read the title. “An Introduction to Poetry. Do we have a little poet here? Come on—tell me something purdy.”

  I was fighting back the tears as I tried to get the words to come out, but before I could speak, the younger McHale grabbed the book from his brother and put it back in my basket.

  Maybe I should have thanked him, but right then I only wanted out of there.

  I hopped on my bike but my foot missed the pedal.

  I heard laughter as I finally rode away, pedaling faster and faster, each push of the pedals keeping time with my heavy breathing.

  And then I heard it.

  Clank . . . clank . . . clunk!

  And with that sound, my bike chain fell off, making my foot lose its place on the pedal and my whole body lose its place on the bike.

  The next second, I felt sharp pains shoot through my knee, my elbow and my mouth. For a moment I lay on the road all sprawled out.

  “Oh my goodness!” I heard a voice coming from down the road. “Y’all okay?”

  And there she was—Pam, the girl from the park.

  “I . . . I . . . I think I’m okay,” I said as I stumbled, trying to stand up.

  “Whoa! Let me help ya.” In an instant, Pam was off her bike and right beside me.

  “You’re bleeding,” she pointed out in case I didn’t know what all the red stuff dripping down my arm and leg was.

  I looked at my scratches. Hard to say how deep the cuts were since they were filled with pebbles.

  “Y’all want me to go get your mama or daddy or somebody?”

  If Pam could get Daddy to come back, all this pain would be worth it. But I didn’t want to get into my life story right then, so I just shook my head. “I think I can make it home.”

  “I don’t think your bike can make it home, though.”

  She was right. Not only was the chain off, but the handlebars were bent and the basket was sort of smashed in. “My book! Where’s my book?”

  Pam found it a little ways from where I landed and handed it to me.

  “I’ll walk you home,” she offered. “Do ya want to leave your bike here?”

  “Nah. I think I can walk it home.”

  But that was easier said than done.

  The whop-whop-whop of the bent wheel made even pushing it hard. And considering that my head still felt dizzy and my leg and arm still bled, and that tinny taste in my mouth, it might have been a miracle I was walking at all.

  Pam watched me struggle with it. “Here,
y’all take my bike and I’ll take yours.”

  After a few minutes of walking our bikes side by side down the road, Pam announced, “Hey, I just realized I don’t even know your name!”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Alice.”

  “Alice!” she exclaimed like there was a bunch of names she’d been pondering for me and that one just won.

  When we got to the corner of Grandma’s street, I was glad to see the visiting ladies’ cars were gone. I sure didn’t want all those ladies fussing over me. If I could’ve, I would’ve just snuck on in and not told Mama, but Pam had other ideas. “Alice’s mama? Alice’s mama?” she yelled while we were still in the yard.

  I dropped the bike and reached for the door right when Mama opened it. “Alice Ann? Oh, my word, child! What happened?”

  Before I could speak, Pam did. “Her chain came off her bike and she fell hard. She’s bleeding everywhere.”

  I just stood there like I was on display. “You poor thing!” Mama looked me over. “We got to get you cleaned up.” She opened the door for me to walk in as Pam stood frozen to the ground, looking down. Mama turned back to her. “Thank you so much for helping, young lady. Are you a friend of Alice’s?”

  “No!” I answered too fast. As much as I hated Rainbow, I sure didn’t want Mama thinking I was making friends in it. But I felt bad as soon as I saw the hurt look on Pam’s face. “Sorry, I mean, we just really met the other day—but Pam found me when my bike crashed.”

  Mama smiled. “Well, Pam, it looks like you’re a hero today. Would you like to come in and have some gingersnaps while I tend to Alice?”

  A person might have thought Mama was asking Pam if she wanted a hundred-dollar reward. The smile on her face started in her eyes and then spread like in slow motion until it was all over. “Sure!” she shouted.

  Mama took me into the bathroom to wash out my wounds, which hurt bad enough. But the worst part was when she painted on the iodine to keep out the infection. We both blew on it something fierce to cool it down, but it stung almost as much as falling off my bike.