In Search of Satisfaction

by J. California Cooper

  Hosanna picked up her little sad belongings and walked slowly out the door, leaving her key behind on the table. She had written a note but did not say where she was going.

  hosanna worked hard on her new, steady job. She watched the cook, the maid, the gardener, everyone with a job to do. She learned to care for fine lingerie and to iron anything to the rich woman’s joy. She learned to cook special foods and to serve them. She learned to clean and polish things to the rich woman’s satisfaction. The other help said she was a fool, a slave, to work so hard. But Hosanna was thinking of what she would someday do for herself. She learned all the skills called drudgery because each is a skill, valuable knowledge. Be without it and see how things feel, look and taste.

  Mrs. Doll was very particular about all things, but she especially loved rich, good foods she had discovered on her travels with her husband all over the world. When she discovered Hosanna worked hard and learned quickly, Mrs. Doll removed her from all other tasks except washing and caring for her very best underwear which she had taken much time to teach her, and had her concentrate on the cooking of special dishes. She taught her what she knew and liked, gave her books on the culinary arts and was delighted with the results.

  Of course, this made Mrs. Doll call upon Hosanna at any hour of the day or night for something special for herself or her guests. A job, after all, is a job. Mrs. Doll even loaned Hosanna to friends. Hosanna didn’t mind. It meant more money to save or send home to her brother and sisters.

  Mr. Doll was a politician and had many kinds of friends. A very rich, old and gay gentleman, Mr. Went, often entertained all sorts of people and, on occasion, used Hosanna to help. Finding her more than efficient, he began to use only Hosanna at his smaller parties.

  The first time Hosanna went to Mr. Went’s house, the door was opened by a gentleman of color whose name was Mr. Butler, though he was not the butler. He was of medium height, color of a polished walnut, smooth, clean, soft-spoken. A lean body stood in good posture. Hair graying at the temples, neatly trimmed. He was in a casual morning suit, impeccable. He smiled and welcomed her in. The house was dimly lighted and expensively furnished. Soft music was playing—Mozart, Rachmaninov. Later, Hosanna also heard Billie Holiday or Bessie Smith softly singing the blues. Mr. Butler led her to the kitchen, spread his arms wide, saying, “All yours.” Then he left her until she was through. He paid her more than she was due, smiled, said, “Very well done, little madame. We shall see you again, I hope.” Hosanna went down the steps feeling like a real person. In the times following, whenever Hosanna saw Mr. Butler, he was the same; he always made her feel as though she mattered.

  One morning, she arrived to clean up a dinner party from the previous night. Mr. Butler was still in his robe. He seemed weary, tired and sad.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Butler? Can I do something for you?”

  “I’m … fine. I’m fine. I … just don’t feel well today.”

  “You need anything? I can go to the store.”

  Mr. Butler smiled a sad, grateful smile. “Well, it is not my body. My body is fine. It’s my mind … my heart. They are murdering Jews and so many unfortunate Chinese who have come here to work. The Irish suffer, also. Small children—nearly babies—work! And God help the Negroes and the American Indians. Politicians speak about it in private, as though they are getting rid of or handling junk. I’ve been listening to them for nearly twenty years now. And not only do they not know how I feel, they do not care. Yet they call themselves my ‘friends’.”

  Hosanna turned to him with surprise. “They been killin niggas for years and years. You a Negroe man! Why you feelin sorry for Jews and Chinese and somebody white like them Irish?!”

  Mr. Butler held up his hand as though to stop her voice. “Because … they are human. Because I am human. We are all human.” He wiped his hand across his brow. “I can’t understand this hatred of others.”

  Hosanna stood looking at him for a few minutes, thinking. Finally she said, “Somebody ain’t human. A whole lot of em. They holler God but they don’t love nobody. They work hate and hate sposed to blong to the devil!” She waved her hand back at him as she went on to the kitchen, “Aw, I don’t know! Who the hell knows?!” He heard her mumble to herself, “They been doin it for a million years! They killed Jesus Christ! He sure didn’t hurt nobody! And if they killed him, they’ll kill anybody! Human beings! Huh!”

  Hosanna wondered about Mr. Butler. What was his job? He lived there, ran the house. She seldom, if ever, saw Mr. Went, but she knew he lived there, too. At least once a week, she prepared food or cleaned for them and left. The dinner parties they had were mostly small. They drank a lot. She thought they all must be men because she never had to wash lipstick off of glasses or silverware. She wished she could work there all the time, full-time. It was so quiet, so peaceful. Mrs. Doll and her children sometimes ran her ragged.

  One day, Mr. Butler sent her upstairs to fetch something for him. The rooms startled her. There were two of them, and they were large and as beautifully furnished as any other in the house. Even better. It seemed hundreds of books lined the shelves on one full wall—floor to ceiling. The colors of the room were muted, soft. The carpet tones so soft and delicately colored. Small pieces of sculpture stood here and there about the room. The paintings were real ones of forests, storms and trees. There were no people in any of them. There was a fireplace with two great and comfortable easy chairs sitting in front of it. A beautiful, gleaming table holding a brandy decanter with gold-rimmed glasses beside it. All sparkling clean. The room looked content. Hosanna touched the books lightly with reverence as she read the titles. She pulled one out and opened it.

  That was how Mr. Butler found her when he finally came to see if she was having difficulty finding what he had sent her for.

  He smiled his soft smile. “You are a lover of books? Or do you just like to browse?”

  “I love to read. I’m sorry I took so long … I …”

  He came into the room. “No problem there. Do you see something you would like to read?”

  Hosanna gave a little laugh of embarrassed pleasure. “There are just so many!”

  Mr. Butler touched her shoulder and smiled. “Yet, not enough. They are where I live most of the time.” He waved his hand to include the books. “You can see, I live many places.”

  “You read all these books?!”

  Mr. Butler laughed, “And sometimes I go back and live in one again.” He moved to the chair and sat down, reaching for a cigarette. “They are the best company in the world, except,” he blew the smoke out, “when I have a question about one of them. They cannot answer me.”

  Hosanna sighed, holding the book to her breast.

  “But,” Mr. Butler continued, “if they could answer, like people, perhaps we would argue and one of us might get angry and I might lose a friend. And I need a friend, now and again.”

  Hosanna stepped closer to him. “Mr. Butler, you must have lots of friends. You are such a nice man.”

  He smiled sadly. “Nice does not always get friends, sometimes it gets leeches. You are a very nice person, also. Like a little mother. You should be careful of strangers. They watch for people like you.” He laughed. “Doesn’t your mother tell you about friends?”

  Hosanna shook her head sadly. “My mother is dead. My daddy, too.”

  Mr. Butler’s voice was somber. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean …”

  Hosanna’s voice was sad. “I came from … somewhere else. Seem like a thousand miles away.” She sighed heavily. “I lived with my Aunty and her husband here. They was gonna be my friends. She was, most times. He never was. They said Jesus was their friend, their true friend. But Jesus don’t seem so friendly to me. I don’t have no friend.”

  Mr. Butler stubbed his cigarette out. “Many people say Jesus is their friend. And God, too. But,” he smiled, “we haven’t heard Jesus’ side of it. I have read that Jesus was a sad man around most people.”

  Hosanna
sat down in the other chair. “I use to … I use to love Him. But in the churches my Aunty go to, He didn’t seem so nice.”

  Mr. Butler leaned back in his chair. “Ahhhhhh, I see. You know, not many churches or people, very few, stand or speak for Jesus or God. You have to let them speak for themselves. That is why He created the Bible, so he could speak for Himself and you don’t have to listen to what any man says.”

  “But they reads it all the time.”

  Mr. Butler laughed. “So, probably, does the devil. People see what they need to see, or want to see. Something that original benefits them. They will even change a thing if they need it to be understood a different way. Like Satan did in the beginning.”

  “You believe that?!”

  “I believe there was a creator. The earth and mankind are too perfect even now for it all to have been an accident! Women have human babies, apes have apes. And if one original person was an accident, how could there now be millions of accidents as there are people now? All looking alike for the most part.”

  “Do you live by the Bible, Mr. Butler?”

  He thought a few minutes; Hosanna waited in the silence. Finally, he spoke, “I believe the Bible. But I do not always do God’s will. I do my own will and I do not like myself for it. I cannot seem to … stop … myself. I … I do pretty good on most of his commandments though—I choose not to lie, not to steal, not to kill, not to … covet. Not to envy … But …” He hesitated.

  Hosanna spoke softly, “I don’t do none of them things either. Cept maybe envy a little. I want money. I want to go home. I want …”

  Butler spoke as though to himself, “Money. That’s it! We all have something we want, I think. And it’s that thing we have to choose … or fight. Ahhhhh, to fight and win … must be a marvelous thing.”

  He remembered Hosanna. “If money is everything to someone, then, money is everything. But let me tell you, Hosanna, the real truth is money is not everything.”

  “What is, Mr. Butler?”

  “In truth, love is everything. You can live without money. You cannot live without love … of someone or something. Everyone is forever trying to find love in some way. Everyone is trying to win something. Wanting some satisfaction.”

  “Do you win, Mr. Butler?”

  “No.” He spoke so softly she could hardly hear him. “No … I do not fight … and win. I have fought, but I did not win.” He was quiet a moment, then looked up at her. “But, here, how would you like to read some of these books? Are you in school ever?”

  “No,” she sighed. “I have to work. I need money.”

  He leaned back. “Oh, Hosanna, you cannot stop your education. You may have a long life to live. You have to be prepared for whatever comes … if you can.”

  “I like school, I just got to work!”

  He smiled his soft smile. “We’ll fix that, if you would like. Everytime you come here we will spend an extra hour or two and play school. You’ll get paid anyway. You can read and do homework. I’ll be the teacher. Would you like that?” His voice held excitement and hope.

  “I would like that, but you might be …”

  “Hosanna, I would be so pleased to have something else to do. Something I love to do. Your English could stand some work! And we’ll just talk about life … to learn to speak better. The way you speak can make a huge difference in your life. Knowledge can be a sign pointing down all the roads of life.”

  “Oh, Mr. Butler, I sure would like that … and … and you don’t have to pay me for the time I don’t work.”

  “I insist. Now you go finish your chores and I will select a few books for your first homework … and pleasure.” He was smiling.

  Hosanna turned to leave then looked back at him. “Mr. Butler, this mean you my friend? You my friend?”

  “Hosanna, we are friends.”

  For the next few months Hosanna read, learned and thought. His questions made her think so hard sometimes her head began to hurt. But she loved it. She learned so much. And … she had a friend. She believed if she needed him, he would answer.

  chapter

  13

  yinyang’s train arrived in Mythville, the closest stop to Yoville, and she had to go the rest of the way by wagon or pay an exorbitant fee for a coach. Even very few rich people had the new motor cars and she didn’t have any idea about the river barge. Yinyang thought of her choices and smiled, “Hell, I rode away from here in a wagon, so I can ride back in on one!”

  She asked the station clerk, “Is there a stop between here and close to Yoville where I might change and rent a carriage?” The clerk looked back at the pretty, well-dressed lady, understanding her, pursed his lips and said, “No. There ain’t! This here is where everthin is done!”

  “Well, then I’ll take the wagon.” Yinyang watched to see if there was ever any thought given to her race, her color. She could see none in the white station clerk or the white wagon driver. She smiled her dimpled smile and carried on.

  On the ride to Yoville, Yin contemplated the countryside—plenty of tall trees everywhere, occasionally little lakes and creeks could be seen from the road. A few houses, mostly farms. A few people. She saw Negroes working in the fields, theirs and others. This brought to her mind the decision she had to make about what color she would be. There was no doubt that being white held all the advantages, she thought. She sighed deeply, thinking, “I do want to find my half-sister, Ruth.” Her father Josephus had told her the name. “I have no family. Nor even seen anyone with my blood in years. I will find her and see how she is doing after I see about my property and where I am going to live … if I stay.” That decided, she sat back and enjoyed the scenery, every once in a while asking the driver a question.

  “How large a town is Yoville … now?”

  “Oh, it’s a purty good size un.”

  “Do they have stores, a department store with clothes? A lawyer or a hotel?”

  The driver rubbed his bristly chin. “Welllll, yeah, I reckon. I hear they got a lawyer fella workin in them Befoes’ office, over by the Befoe bank. But they ain’t no good hotel no more, like I spect you mean. It’s a Miz Whitman runs a clean enough roomin and eatin house in what used to be th’ hotel.”

  They rode awhile in silence.

  Then the driver spoke, “You gonna need you a room? Who your famly down here?”

  Yin didn’t like questions. “I am going to surprise them. I simply want to freshen up and change before I see them.” She interrupted his next question with one of her own. “Do we have much further to go?”

  “No’m.”

  “How long?”

  “Bout anotha half hour or so.”

  She leaned back as well as she could on the board set in the wagon for that purpose and said, “Well, I’ll just be quiet and rest then.” And they just jiggled along until they came to Yoville.

  The driver took her directly to Mrs. Whitman’s. Though the hotel was a bit dilapidated, it still stood. It was set back from the street, neat and clean looking, painted white. The yard had trees with casually attended flowers scattered about. Mrs. Whitman opened the door, called to her colored woman, Mazel, to get the colored yardman, Tillis, to come help with the baggage.

  As Yinyang stepped into the vestibule she gave a quick glance at the furniture which deserved no more, although they had been chosen with an eye to looking somewhat rich anyway. There was a heavy wooden settee and thick coarse drapes. Shelves filled with bric-a-brac and a large round table covered with a theatrical, long-fringed cloth on which sat a tarnished silver tea service.

  Mrs. Whitman came into the room, brushing and smoothing her collar and bodice. She was a very thin woman with a more than ample bust unusual for one of her size. They were her pride, her breasts. Mrs. Whitman was a whiner. She seemed to sing her words as she spoke, as though she was moaning. Although she spoke softly, it was a high, plaintive sound. “Mmmhmmm, I haven’t been feeling so well, so please, do not grade the look of this room. I’m tellin you, it’s so h
ard to get my help to do what I neeeeed. They are sooooo laaazy. They knooow I am not well and can not watch them alllll the time.” She sniffled.

  Yin turned to her, smiling. “I was thinking more of what I would need. I would like a room or small apartment.”

  “How long you plan to need the room?”

  “It’s uncertain, but I shall know soon.”

  Mrs. Whitman’s sharp eyes took in Yin’s clothes and all the luggage. “Yesss, mam.” She recognized rich fabric and tasteful design. Mrs. Whitman stepped backward and forward and every which way, thinking out loud, moaning words Yin could not understand clearly. She finally decided on the second best room, next to the very best room in the upstairs front—second best, just in case someone else came who was better. It was not likely anyone would, but Mrs. Whitman was a business woman.

  She turned toward the rear of the house and her voice became hard and harsh as she hollered, “Tillis! Send Tillis in here, Mazel! Right now!” Turning back to Yin she spoke in a soft whine again, “He’s so slow, but I’ll show you your room, if you like. He’ll bring them things of yourn up.” She began to lead the way upstairs slowly. “You in our little town to visit somebody? Kinfolk? You must be kin to Miz Befoe.” She turned her head to smile down on Yin. “Or else you done come to marry our barrister, Mr. Syntoll. He ain’t been here long and he is a single, bachelor man, but I been sayin he sure needs a wife. Lease I think so. Mmmmmhmm.”

  Yin smiled and said, “I must see the barrister, then I shall know everything I need to know to determine my stay. Until then I have no answers.” Mrs. Whitman’s little eyes became alert. “A pretty woman needin a lawyer! Ahh huh!” she thought to herself.