She’d begun calling me Sister when I was ten, and calling Fred Lee Brother when he was nine. We hated those pet names more than we hated the old-folksy names, Aunt Rose and Uncle Fred.
I shielded my face from the sun with my hand. “I ain’t acting shameface,” I said, squinting at Mama. “I just don’t wanna come in right now.”
With a wide grin plastered on her face, Mama gestured toward the door. “Well, you better git on in here and say bye to us ’fore we leave.”
I cringed. Those were the exact words she’d used the day she pranced off to the courthouse in Greenwood and married Mr. Pete. I had stayed awake all that night, lying in the bed we shared, worried. Waiting for her to come home. Of course, she never did. Now she was heading to Chicago, and she’d probably never come back from there, either.
Instead of following her through that squeaking screen door, I wanted badly to make a run out back to the toilet to settle my gurgling stomach. Plus, with Ma Pearl’s cheerful chatter flowing from the parlor, I knew I didn’t want to go in there and watch her awe over Mama’s new family as if they were a collection of Mrs. Robinson’s fine china.
Yet somehow I managed to stand and stumble toward the screen door. Then I stopped, my stomach flipping, my heart pounding, as I hesitated before Mama.
She smiled. Her brown eyes, warm, glowing like a welcome fire on a cold night, beckoned me, as always, to do what I didn’t want to do. But before I took two steps inside the parlor, Ma Pearl, with her ample frame crammed in the chair right next to the door, took one look at me and frowned. “Gal, what the heck jest happened to you?”
Chapter Two
SATURDAY, JULY 23
THE CHATTERING STOPPED. AND EVERYONE—Mr. Pete, Sugar, Li’ Man, Fred Lee, Papa, and Mama—all stared at me. They knew Ma Pearl wasn’t one to reckon with. She’d as soon give any one of her fourteen grandchildren a taste of the backside of her hand if we just smiled too long.
“Why is you so dirty?” she demanded.
When my eyes shifted to my stained beige dress, handcrafted by Ma Pearl herself from old croker sacks that had once held flour, my mouth fell into an O. The tobacco splashes on my legs were the ones I felt when Ricky spat at me. The splotches on my dress—from the bottle hitting the tree—were the ones that caught me by surprise.
I reshaped my mouth to explain, but the look on Ma Pearl’s fleshy face made the incident with Ricky feel about as scary as a church picnic. If she was that upset about my dress, I knew she wouldn’t take lightly to those cracked eggs frying on the side of the road.
With no other options, I smoothed down my soiled dress and muttered, “I accidentally fell when Sugar and Li’ Man ran out to meet me.”
When Ma Pearl’s nostrils flared, I braced myself for a scolding.
Luckily, Sugar pointed at Li’ Man and said, “He did it.”
Not so lucky for Li’ Man.
Mr. Pete squinted at him.
Li’ Man fidgeted.
Sugar smiled.
Mr. Pete, a huge man with heavy hands and an even heavier voice, creased his forehead and said, “Christopher Joe, apologize to your Aunt Rose. You got her dress all dirty.”
Li’ Man dropped his head to his chest and muttered, “Sorry.”
Before I could defend him, Ma Pearl cut me off. “Go take off that nasty dress.” She pointed toward the porch. “Don’t come in here. Go through the front room.”
Humiliated, I backed out of the parlor doorway, took three steps across the porch, and entered the house through the front room as I had been commanded. I hurried to the back of the house, to the bedroom I shared with my fifteen-year-old cousin Queen, to change into clothing more suitable for entrance into Ma Pearl’s parlor.
The parlor was a space she reserved for special people, like Mr. Pete—or for herself and Queen, her favorite grandchild, when they wanted to sit and listen to their daily radio programs. The parlor also held Ma Pearl’s good furniture: the worn powder blue sofa, settee, and chairs that were no longer welcome in Mrs. Robinson’s parlor. As a matter of fact, everything in Ma Pearl’s parlor, from the sofa to a pair of melted-down white candles, all came from the Robinsons’ grand white house up the road.
Papa always said, “Don’t never turn down nothing the white folks gives you. And make sure they sees you using it.”
Ma Pearl should have turned down those outdated Sears and Roebuck catalogs she kept stacked in the corner, collecting dust. The only use we got from them was flipping through the pages, dreaming of things we’d never own.
By the time I found another homemade dress to slip over my head and returned to the parlor, the chatter had returned as well. Like a bird in the early morning darkness, Ma Pearl twittered incessantly about the dangers of living in the city. She had been listening to radio programs about crime in big cities like Chicago and Saint Louis, and she wanted to impress Mr. Pete with what she thought she knew about living up north.
Papa, his expression serious as always, sat in one of the powder blue chairs next to the window. He wore his Saturday-going-to-town clothes—creased khakis and a starched white shirt—for the occasion. His black pipe, filled with Prince Albert tobacco, but never lit, rested between his lips.
Though tall, Papa was not a hulk of a man the way Ma Pearl was an amazon of a woman. Farm work kept him slim. Also, unlike Ma Pearl, he was not impressed with Mr. Pete. As “ruint” as Mama was, he was not fond of her being married to a man who, at forty-nine, was closer to Papa’s fifty-nine years than Mama’s twenty-eight, regardless of how much land he farmed.
Even though I had changed into a clean dress, I hesitated to enter the parlor. With Ma Pearl and Papa being the only two privy to Mama’s visit—and obviously to her northern migration—their appearance almost matched the crispness of the Chicago-bound family. Plus, I hadn’t thought to wet a rag and wipe the dust from my ankles and feet. I was about to turn around and head back to my room before Ma Pearl noticed and gave me another scolding, but when Mama saw me lingering in the doorway between the parlor and the front room, she invited me to join her. She patted the spot next to her on the settee and said, “Come set beside me, Sister.”
As soon as I sat next to Mama (and scooted my feet as far under the settee as possible), Sugar left her spot next to Mr. Pete on the sofa and wedged herself between us. “I wanna set beside you too,” she said, glancing up, grinning at Mama. When Mama smiled her consent, I scooted over and made room for Sugar. If Mama had waited a bit to nickname her the way she did me and Fred Lee, perhaps she could have named her Salt instead, seeing that sometimes she could be just as salty as she was sweet.
Mr. Pete smiled at Fred Lee, who stood rather than sat. “Me and Christopher Joe don’t bite,” he said.
Fred Lee, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes cast to the floor, ignored Mr. Pete. I could tell he was as angry as I was that Mama was leaving for Chicago.
Fred Lee was tall like Mama. As a matter of fact, even at age twelve, he was almost as tall as the burly Mr. Pete, without the bulk. But we both, according to Ma Pearl, looked like our daddy, Johnny Lee Banks. She also claimed that’s where Fred Lee got his “slow wits.” Of course, I could confirm neither, seeing I had never met the man myself, even though he lived right there in Stillwater with his wife and children.
When Fred Lee didn’t answer him, Mr. Pete turned back to Ma Pearl to continue exchanging notes on city life. As he bragged about the things they would do once they got to Chicago, Papa took his pipe from his mouth and regarded him curiously. Leaning back in his chair, Papa crossed his right foot over his left knee and interrupted the conversation. “What kinda work you say you got up there again, Pete?”
Mr. Pete sat straighter. “I got a position with Armour and Company,” he said proudly. “The meat factory.”
Papa furrowed his brow. “They ’low coloreds to handle meat up there in them factories?”
“I won’t be handling meat,” Mr. Pete said matt
er-of-factly. “I’ll be making soap.”
“Soap?” Papa said, uncrossing his legs. “At a meat house?”
Mr. Pete tilted his head to the side. “You never heard of Dial soap, Mr. Carter?”
“I makes my own soap, Pete. No need to concern myself with the store-bought kind.”
Mr. Pete jerked back, his face flustered. “You never heard the radio advertisements?”
Papa placed the pipe back in his mouth. He shook his head and pretended to puff as he uttered, “Nope.”
“Can’t believe you never heard the advertisements,” Mr. Pete said, his voice low.
After a moment of silent staring, his expression bewildered, Mr. Pete cleared his throat and said, “‘Aren’t you glad you use Dial? Don’t you wish everybody did?’”
I suppressed a chuckle. But Ma Pearl, with a grin as wide as the room, couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. “Oooh, Pete,” she said, clasping her hands like a child before a candy counter, “you sound jest like the man doing the abertising on the radio.”
Mr. Pete beamed like a lighthouse.
Papa, still not impressed, countered, “Don’t much listen to the radio, Pete. So I reckon I ain’t never heard of a meat house making soap.”
“Aw shoot, Paul,” Ma Pearl said. “Ain’t no different than the rough lye soap you makes from the hog fat.”
Papa rubbed his chin, pondering. “I reckon it ain’t.”
As Mr. Pete, Ma Pearl, and Mama prattled on about Armour and Company, Chicago, and their shiny new apartment awaiting them on the South Side, Papa continued to regard Mr. Pete with a furrowed brow. “Pete,” he said finally, his forehead wrinkled, his pipe dangling from his hand, “you sold all that land and bought a fancy car just so you could drive up to the city to make soap?”
Mr. Pete’s expression soured. “Mr. Carter,” he said, his voice booming, “a Negro can own all the land in Mississippi and still be treated worse than a hog. I can’t even register to vote in this county without the threat of being gunned down on the courthouse steps.” He placed his arm around Li’ Man’s shoulders and pulled him close. “I didn’t sell my land to buy a car,” he said, staring intently at Papa. “I sold my land to buy an opportunity. A future for my children.”
“Well, making soap still don’t sound like a proper way to make a living to me,” said Papa.
Mr. Pete shook his head. “I don’t want this kind of life for Callie and Christopher.” He gestured toward the open window, suggesting the cotton fields beyond it. “They deserve better.”
“Better than what?” asked Papa, his brows raised.
Mama interjected. “They got real good schools up there,” she said. She smiled awkwardly and tugged at one of Sugar’s long braids. “Our babies can even go to the same school as white children if they want.”
Good schools for Sugar and Li’ Man, huh? With white children. Well, what about me and Fred Lee? Don’t we deserve good schools too instead of that haunted school for coloreds where everything in it is junk the white folks didn’t want in their children’s schools anymore?
When I was little, watching Mama pamper Sugar and Li’ Man, I used to think that maybe if I had light skin and long hair like Sugar’s, she would love me that way too, maybe even let me live with them. And the same for Fred Lee, except his hair would be curly and coal black like Li’ Man’s. So every night after I finished reciting the Lord’s Prayer to Ma Pearl, I prayed earnestly, “Jesus, please let me wake up in the morning with bright skin and long hair like Sugar’s.” But every morning I woke with the same chocolate complexion and short, nappy hair I had the day Mama left.
I finally gave up on the prayer after two years and two seriously callused knees.
Now all I wanted was to scream at Mama and shake her till her head rattled. But of course I didn’t. I didn’t say a word as she and Mr. Pete sang the glories of their new life up north. And neither did Fred Lee. He was as silent as a stump.
When Mama got ready to leave, she hugged me and kissed my cheek. She smiled at Ma Pearl and said, “Take good care of my babies, now.” When she tried to hug Fred Lee, he pulled away.
“I’ll write soon as we get settled,” she said. Surprisingly, her voice held a slight quiver.
As Ma Pearl and Papa walked the Chicago-bound family to their train of a car, Fred Lee, with his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched, left the house and headed to God only knew where.
Me? I collapsed in the chair next to the window and peeled back the curtain, my heart breaking when I peered out. Piling into that shiny black car, smiling, Mama and her family looked so happy, as if they had stepped off the pages of one of those Sears and Roebuck catalogs in the corner. And I would’ve torn off my right arm to join them if I could have. I spent six years wishing I could be a part of her and Mr. Pete’s family. Now they were heading to Chicago, leaving my life and Fred Lee’s for good.
I tried to hold back. I had promised myself I would never cry over Mama again. But I couldn’t stop the flood. Tears gushed out before I knew it, racing down my cheeks, rushing over my trembling lips. I hugged my knees to my chest, dropped my head, and sobbed into the folds of my dress, welcoming the tears, urging them to hurry, to flush the pain from my heart. I sat there trembling and sobbing, burying my face in my dress, wanting to block out the world, until the sound of slamming car doors jolted me to my senses.
My tightening chest reminded me that I couldn’t bear another chastisement from Ma Pearl for wearing that tear-soaked dress in her pristine parlor. I gave my face a final swipe, sprang from the chair, and fled to the back room to release my tears in private.
Chapter Three
MONDAY, JULY 25
BEFORE OUR OLD ROOSTER, SLICK CHARLIE, even had time to crow, Ma Pearl called my name from the doorway of the bedroom. “Rose Lee,” she said. “Git up, gal.”
I didn’t move. Monday meant laundry, cooking, and cleaning. And that was all before noon. After that, I had to go to the field. Besides, with Mama gone, the heaviness in my heart had radiated down to the rest of my body, paralyzing my arms and legs. When Mama was a car ride away in Greenwood, I knew I would occasionally see her when she felt the need to have Mr. Pete drop her off for a visit on a Saturday afternoon. But with her all the way up in Chicago, I’d be lucky to see her once a year, when all the other northern Negroes paid the South a visit. If she ever decided to come back, that is.
“Rose Lee,” Ma Pearl said again. As long as her voice remained low enough so she would wake only me and not Queen, I pretended to be asleep. But when she leaned inside that sheet-covered doorframe and said, “Gal, git up. You going to the field this morning,” I shot up faster than a stalk of corn in the middle of July. Laundry, cooking, and cleaning were bad, but going to the field all day was worse.
I didn’t bother putting my housecoat on over my thin nightgown or even rubbing the crust from my tired eyes. I dashed out of that room and chased Ma Pearl through the house, asking, “How come I gotta go to the field this morning, Ma Pearl?”
I stumbled through the moonlight of Fred Lee’s room, on through the darkness of Ma Pearl and Papa’s room, all the way to the soft glow of the kerosene-lit front room. The floorboards of our old house creaked with every step.
For a big woman, my grandma sure could move fast. I panted as I tried to keep up. By the time we reached the kitchen, I was sweating. And it didn’t help one bit that our old woodstove in the corner was lit up like a campfire.
Ma Pearl lumbered over to the icebox and pulled out a bowl of butter. A basket of fresh eggs from the henhouse waited on the table while the nutty aroma of coffee percolated in the pot. Without even a glance at me, she finally answered my question. “Albert and his boys cain’t make it today.”
I shaped my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “Don’t complain.”
When she sealed her words with a steely-eyed look, I plopped down on the rickety bench next to the window and yanked back the faded yellow curtain. It was still black outside. The only indication o
f morning was a pink haze lingering over the horizon at the end of the long rows of cotton. The yellow glow in the barn meant that Papa was already in there preparing for a long, hot day. I yawned and wondered why I was up before Fred Lee, seeing that he had to go to the field as soon as the sun came up too.
On a normal Monday, before I worked like a slave in the house, I would go out to milk Ellie while Queen lay around somewhere curled in a ball, pretending she had the monthly cramps. I let the curtain fall and peered at Ma Pearl. “Is Queen go’n milk Ellie this morning?” I asked.
With her face in a tight frown, Ma Pearl dipped flour from the croker sack with a tin can and poured it into her sifter. She held the sifter over her scratched-up mixing bowl and cranked the handle. Like a soft dusting of fresh snow, flour flowed into the bowl. When she was good and ready, Ma Pearl paused, pursed her lips, and glared at me. “You know that gal cain’t tell a tit from a tat,” she said. “You go’n milk Ellie. You got time.”
Like a small child, I crossed my arms and pouted. I couldn’t believe I would have to go to the field all day and still be expected to work around the house. With the help of Mr. Albert Jackson, who lived a few miles down the road from us, and his two sons, Levi and Fischer (Fish for short), I at least got a break from the field two mornings a week.
“What happened to Mr. Albert ’n’em? How come they can’t come today?” I asked.
Ma Pearl’s pudgy fingers pinched the butter into the flour. While she worked at the mixture until it resembled yellow cornmeal, her eyebrows knit into a deeper frown. “I said they cain’t come.”
“But Levi already took off early on Friday,” I complained.
Ma Pearl’s face hardened. “Stay outta grown folks’ bizness.”
Well, it was my business if I had to go out there to that hot cotton field and do the work of three men, one full‑grown and two almost grown. But I couldn’t say that to Ma Pearl. She would’ve slapped me clear on into July of 1956.
She wobbled over to the icebox and pulled out a quart-size bottle of buttermilk. With a heavy sigh, she lumbered back to the table and slowly poured the buttermilk straight from the bottle into the mixture of flour and crumbled butter. While turning the stiff mixture with a fork, she mumbled under her breath, “Anna Mae and Pete did right leaving this dirn place. Nothing here but a bunch a trouble.”
Midnight Without a Moon Page 2
