The Richer, the Poorer

by Dorothy West

  “Of course, she is,” said Mrs. Coleman with a touch of bitterness. “She’s just old and contrary. She knew we would worry about her. She did it deliberately.”

  This was not in the investigator’s province. She cleared her throat delicately.

  “Would you take her back, Mrs. Coleman?”

  “I want her back,” cried Mrs. Coleman. “She has no one but us. She is just like one of the family.”

  “You’re very kind,” the investigator murmured. “Most people feel no responsibility for their aging servants.”

  “You do not know how dear a mammy is to a Southerner. I nursed at Mammy’s breast. I cannot remember a day in my life without her.”

  The investigator reached for her briefcase and rose.

  “Then it is settled that she may return?”

  A few hours ago there had been no doubt in her mind of old Mrs. Mason’s eligibility for relief. With this surprising turn there was nothing to do but reject the case for inadequate proof of need. It was always a feather in a field worker’s cap to reject a case that had been accepted for home investigation by a higher-paid office worker.

  Mrs. Coleman looked at the investigator almost beseechingly.

  “My child, I cannot tell you how much I will be in your debt if you can persuade Mammy to return. Can’t you refuse to give her relief? She really is in need of nothing as long as I am living. Poor thing, what has she been doing for money? How has she been eating? In what sort of place is she staying?”

  “She’s very comfortable, really. She had three dollars when she came uptown to Harlem. She rented a room, explained her circumstances to her landlady, and is getting her meals there. I know that landlady. She has other roomers who are on relief. She trusts them until they get their relief checks. They never cheat her.”

  “Oh, thank God! I must give you something to give to that woman. How good Negroes are. I am so glad it was you who came. You are so sympathetic. I could not have talked so freely to a white investigator. She would not have understood.”

  The investigator’s smile was wintry. She resented this well-meant restatement of the trusted position of the good darky.

  She said civilly, however, “I’m going back to Mrs. Mason’s as soon as I leave here. I hope I can persuade her to return to you tonight.”

  “Thank you! Mammy was happy here, believe me. She had nothing to do but a little dusting. We are a small family, myself, my daughter, and her husband. I have a girl who comes every day to do the hard work. She preferred to sleep in, but I wanted Mammy to have the maid’s room. It’s a lovely room with a private bath. It’s next to the kitchen, which is nice for Mammy. Old people potter about so. I’ve lost girl after girl who felt she was meddlesome. But I’ve always thought of Mammy’s comfort first.”

  “I’m sure you have,” said the investigator politely, wanting to end the interview. She made a move toward departure. “Thank you again for being so cooperative.”

  Mrs. Coleman rose and crossed to the doorway.

  “I must get my purse. Will you wait a moment?”

  Shortly she reappeared. She opened her purse.

  “It’s been ten days. Please give that woman this twenty dollars. No, it isn’t too much. And here is a dollar for Mammy’s cab fare. Please put her in the cab yourself.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” The investigator smiled candidly. “It must be nearly four, and my working day ends at five.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Coleman said distractedly. “And now I just want you to peep in at my daughter. Mammy will want to know how she is. She’s far from well, poor lambie.”

  The investigator followed Mrs. Coleman down the hall. At an open door they paused. A pale young girl lay on the edge of a big tossed bed. One hand was in her tangled hair, the other clutched an empty bassinet. The wheels rolled down and back, down and back. The girl glanced briefly and without interest at her mother and the investigator, then turned her face away.

  “It tears my heart,” Mrs. Coleman whispered in a choked voice. “Her baby, and then Mammy. She has lost all desire to live. But she is young and she will have other children. If she would only let me take away that bassinet! I am not the nurse that Mammy is. You can see how much Mammy is needed here.”

  They turned away and walked in silence to the outer door. The investigator was genuinely touched, and eager to be off on her errand of mercy.

  Mrs. Coleman opened the door, and for a moment seemed at a loss as to how to say good-bye. Then she said quickly, “Thank you for coming,” and shut the door.

  The investigator stood in indecision at the elevator, half persuaded to walk down three flights of stairs. But this she felt was turning tail, and pressed the elevator button.

  The doors opened. The boy looked at her sheepishly. He swallowed and said ingratiatingly, “Step in, miss. Find your party all right?”

  She faced front, staring stonily ahead of her, and felt herself trembling with indignation at this new insolence.

  He went on whiningly, “That woman was in my car is mean as hell. I was just puttin’ on to please her. She hates niggers ’cept when they’re bowin’ and scrapin’. She was the one had the old doorman fired. You see for yourself they got a white one now. With white folks needin’ jobs, us niggers got to eat dirt to hang on.”

  The investigator’s face was expressionless except for a barely perceptible wincing at his careless use of a hated word.

  He pleaded, “You’re colored like me. You ought to understand. I was only doing my job. I got to eat same as white folks, same as you.”

  They rode the rest of the way in a silence interrupted only by his heavy sighs. When they reached the ground floor, and the doors slid open, he said sorrowfully, “Good-bye, miss.”

  She walked down the hall and out into the street, past the glowering doorman, with her face stern, and her stomach slightly sick.

  The investigator rode uptown on a northbound bus. At One Hundred and Eighteenth Street she alighted and walked east. Presently she entered a well-kept apartment house. The elevator operator deferentially greeted her and whisked her upward.

  She rang the bell of number fifty-four, and visited briefly with the landlady, who was quite overcome by the unexpected payment of twenty dollars. When she could escape her profuse thanks, the investigator went to knock at Mrs. Mason’s door.

  “Come in,” called Mrs. Mason. The investigator entered the small, square room. “Oh, it’s you, dear,” said Mrs. Mason, her lined brown face lighting up.

  She was sitting by the window in a wide rocker. In her black, with a clean white apron tied about her waist, and a white bandana bound around her head, she looked ageless and full of remembering.

  Mrs. Mason grasped her rocker by the arms and twisted around until she faced the investigator.

  She explained shyly, “I just sit here for hours lookin’ out at the people. I ain’ seen so many colored folks at one time since I left down home. Sit down, child, on the side of the bed. Hit’s softer than that straight chair yonder.”

  The investigator sat down on the straight chair, not because the bedspread was not scrupulously clean, but because what she had come to say needed stiff decorum.

  “I’m all right here, Mrs. Mason. I won’t be long.”

  “I was hopin’ you could set awhile. My landlady’s good, but she’s got this big flat. Don’t give her time for much settin’.”

  The investigator, seeing an opening, nodded understandingly.

  “Yes, it must be pretty lonely for you here after being so long an intimate part of the Coleman family.”

  The old woman’s face darkened. “Shut back in that bedroom behin’ the kitchen? This here’s what I like. My own kind and color. I’m too old a dog to be learnin’ new tricks.”

  “Your duties with Mrs. Coleman were very slight. I know you are getting on in years, but you are not too feeble for light employment. You were not entirely truthful with me. I was led to believe you did all the housework.”

 
The old woman looked furtively at the investigator. “How come you know diff’rent now?”

  “I’ve just left Mrs. Coleman’s.”

  Bafflement veiled the old woman’s eyes. “You didn’t believe what all I tol’ you?”

  “We always visit former employers. It’s part of our job, Mrs. Mason. Sometimes an employer will rehire our applicants. Mrs. Coleman is good enough to want you back. Isn’t that preferable to being a public charge?”

  “I ain’t-a goin’ back,” said the old woman vehemently.

  The investigator was very exasperated. “Why, Mrs. Mason?” she asked gently.

  “That’s an ungodly woman,” the old lady snapped. “And I’m God-fearin’. Tain’t no room in one house for God and the devil. I’m too near the grave to be servin’ two masters.”

  To the young investigator this was evasion by superstitious mutterings.

  “You don’t make yourself very clear, Mrs. Mason. Surely Mrs. Coleman didn’t interfere with your religious convictions. You left her home the night after her daughter’s child was born dead. Until then, apparently you had no religious scruples.”

  The old woman looked at the investigator wearily. Then her head sank forward on her breast.

  “That child warn’t born dead.”

  The investigator said impatiently, “But surely the hospital—?”

  “T’warn’t born in no hospital.”

  “But the doctor—?”

  “Little sly man. Looked like he’d cut his own throat for a dollar.”

  “Was the child deformed?” the investigator asked helplessly.

  “Hit was a beautiful baby,” said the old woman bitterly.

  “Why, no one would destroy a healthy child,” the investigator cried indignantly. “Mrs. Coleman hopes her daughter will have more children.” She paused, then asked anxiously, “Her daughter is really married, isn’t she? I mean, the baby wasn’t … illegitimate?”

  “It’s ma and pa were married down home. A church weddin’. They went to school together. They was all right till they come up North. Then she started workin’ on ’em. Old ways wasn’t good enough for her.”

  The investigator looked at her watch. It was nearly five. This last speech had been rambling gossip. Here was an old woman clearly disoriented in her Northern transplanting. Her position as mammy made her part of the family. Evidently she felt that gave her a matriarchal right to arbitrate its destinies. Her small grievances against Mrs. Coleman had magnified themselves in her mind until she could make this illogical accusation of infanticide as compensation for her homesickness for the folkways of the South. Her move to Harlem bore this out. To explain her reason for establishing a separate residence, she had told a fantastic story that could not be checked, and would not be recorded, unless the welfare office was prepared to face a libel suit.

  “Mrs. Mason,” said the investigator, “please listen carefully. Mrs. Coleman has told me that you are not only wanted, but very much needed in her home. There you will be given food and shelter in return for small services. Please understand that I sympathize with your imaginings, but you cannot remain here without public assistance, and I cannot recommend to my superiors that public assistance be given you.”

  The old woman, who had listened worriedly, now said blankly, “You mean I ain’t-a gonna get it?”

  “No, Mrs. Mason, I’m sorry. And now it’s ten to five. I’ll be glad to help you pack your things, and put you in a taxi.”

  The old woman looked helplessly around the room as if seeking a hiding place. Then she looked back at the investigator, her mouth trembling.

  “You’re my own people, child. Can’ you fix up a story for them white folks at the relief, so’s I could get to stay here where it’s nice?”

  “That would be collusion, Mrs. Mason. And that would cost me my job.”

  The investigator rose. She was going to pack the old woman’s things herself. She was heartily sick of her contrariness, and determined to see her settled once and for all.

  “Now where is your bag?” she asked with forced cheerfulness. “First I’ll empty these bureau drawers.” She began to do so, laying things neatly on the bed. “Mrs. Coleman’s daughter will be so glad to see you. She’s very ill, and needs your nursing.”

  The old woman showed no interest. Her head had sunk forward on her breast again. She said listlessly, “Let her ma finish what she started. I won’t have no time for nursin’. I’ll be down on my knees rasslin’ with the devil. I done tol’ you the devil’s done eased out God in that house.”

  The investigator nodded indulgently, and picked up a framed photograph that was lying face down in the drawer. She turned it over and involuntarily smiled at the smiling child in old-fashioned dress.

  “This little girl,” she said, “it’s Mrs. Coleman, isn’t it?”

  The old woman did not look up. Her voice was still listless.

  “That was my daughter.”

  The investigator dropped the photograph on the bed as if it were a hot coal. Blindly she went back to the bureau, gathered up the rest of the things, and dumped them over the photograph.

  She was a young investigator, and it was two minutes to five. Her job was to give or withhold relief. That was all.

  “Mrs. Mason,” she said, “please, please understand. This is my job.”

  The old woman gave no sign of having heard.

  THE RICHER, THE POORER

  Over the years Lottie had urged Bess to prepare for her old age. Over the years Bess had lived each day as if there were no other. Now they were both past sixty, the time for summing up. Lottie had a bank account that had never grown lean. Bess had the clothes on her back, and the rest of her worldly possessions in a battered suitcase.

  Lottie had hated being a child, hearing her parents’ skimping and scraping. Bess had never seemed to notice. All she ever wanted was to go outside and play. She learned to skate on borrowed skates. She rode a borrowed bicycle. Lottie couldn’t wait to grow up and buy herself the best of everything.

  As soon as anyone would hire her, Lottie put herself to work. She minded babies, she ran errands for the old.

  She never touched a penny of her money, though her child’s mouth watered for ice cream and candy. But she could not bear to share with Bess, who never had anything to share with her. When the dimes began to add up to dollars, she lost her taste for sweets.

  By the time she was twelve, she was clerking after school in a small variety store. Saturdays she worked as long as she was wanted. She decided to keep her money for clothes. When she entered high school, she would wear a wardrobe that neither she nor anyone else would be able to match.

  But her freshman year found her unable to indulge so frivolous a whim, particularly when her admiring instructors advised her to think seriously of college. No one in her family had ever gone to college, and certainly Bess would never get there. She would show them all what she could do, if she put her mind to it.

  She began to bank her money, and her bankbook became her most private and precious possession.

  In her third year of high school she found a job in a small but expanding restaurant, where she cashiered from the busy hour until closing. In her last year of high school the business increased so rapidly that Lottie was faced with the choice of staying in school or working full time.

  She made her choice easily. A job in hand was worth two in the future.

  Bess had a beau in the school band, who had no other ambition except to play a horn. Lottie expected to be settled with a home and family while Bess was still waiting for Harry to earn enough to buy a marriage license.

  That Bess married Harry straight out of high school was not surprising. That Lottie never married at all was not really surprising either. Two or three times she was halfway persuaded, but to give up a job that paid well for a homemaking job that paid nothing was a risk she was incapable of taking.

  Bess’s married life was nothing for Lottie to envy. She and Harry lived like gypsies, H
arry playing in second-rate bands all over the country, even getting himself and Bess stranded in Europe. They were often in rags and never in riches.

  Bess grieved because she had no child, not having sense enough to know she was better off without one. Lottie was certainly better off without nieces and nephews to feel sorry for. Very likely Bess would have dumped them on her doorstep.

  That Lottie had a doorstep they might have been left on was only because her boss, having bought a second house, offered Lottie his first house at a price so low and terms so reasonable that it would have been like losing money to refuse.

  She shut off the rooms she didn’t use, letting them go to rack and ruin. Since she ate her meals out, she had no food at home, and did not encourage callers, who always expected a cup of tea.

  Her way of life was mean and miserly, but she did not know it. She thought she lived frugally in her middle years so that she could live in comfort and ease when she most needed peace of mind.

  The years, after forty, began to race. Suddenly Lottie was sixty, and retired from her job by her boss’s son, who had no sentimental feeling about keeping her on until she was ready to quit.

  She made several attempts to find other employment, but her dowdy appearance made her look old and inefficient. For the first time in her life Lottie would gladly have worked for nothing, to have some place to go, something to do with her day.

  Harry died abroad, in a third-rate hotel, with Bess weeping as hard as if he had left her a fortune. He had left her nothing but his horn. There wasn’t even money for her passage home.

  Lottie, trapped by the blood tie, knew she would not only have to send for her sister, but take her in when she returned. It didn’t seem fair that Bess should reap the harvest of Lottie’s lifetime of self-denial.

  It took Lottie a week to get a bedroom ready, a week of hard work and hard cash. There was everything to do, everything to replace or paint. When she was through the room looked so fresh and new that Lottie felt she deserved it more than Bess.

  She would let Bess have her room, but the mattress was so lumpy, the carpet so worn, the curtains so threadbare that Lottie’s conscience pricked her. She supposed she would have to redo that room, too, and went about doing it with an eagerness that she mistook for haste.