Jam on the Vine (9780802191571)

by Barnett, Lashonda

  .

  On the street Ivoe was too angry and frightened to sit and wait. She walked past the #17 stop, pulled up the collar on their collective best coat, and commenced a chilly stroll that lasted nearly an hour. Vine Street’s colored businesses thrived inside handsome two- and three-story redbrick buildings. Scarcely a dozen steps delivered you to all your living needs, a claim she had tested and found true her first full day in the city. A dress purchased at Lady’s Ready-to-Wear Emporium could be fitted around the corner on Highland Street at Dibble’s tailor shop and cleaned just up the way on Vine at Green and Sons, across the street from the graceful stone colored library.

  At the lighted candy cane pole she slowed her pace to look inside the three-seater barbershop and tobacconist filled with men like her father. For those hard on luck or faith, pawnshops and storefront churches dotted the four corners of Eighteenth Street, where she crossed for the northern end of Vine. She averted her gaze from the women’s stores. Shop-window cajolery. The thought of things she could not buy would only make her feel worse. Four weeks of trolley fare, meager lunches out, and new stockings had added up fast. Less than ten dollars of the money saved in Texas remained. Worse yet, Momma had taken none of it. “Girl, keep your little money,” she had said whenever Ivoe tried to help. Humiliation and worry were enough to drive her into hopelessness as she opened the door to Ruby’s Five-and-Dime.

  The woman at the counter nodded hello over shimmying saucers and the clink of silverware. “Cold out there, huh, baby? Coffee or tea?” Ivoe felt a knot lodge in her throat as she quickly batted back tears. She had been tossed by harsh winds all day, needed a soft place to land and had found it. “Tea,” she said, smoothing her dirndl skirt across her lap as she took the stool. She removed the stationery purchased at Halls Brothers earlier that week from her pocketbook. Thoughts of Ona arose like the steam curling up from her cup of tea. There was no sense in fighting the urge to tell her everything—even what shamed her.

  Kansas City, November 14, 1916

  Dear Ona,

  I begin with a pitiful and funny story. We are three women with one decent coat between us and a little luck from Father Time, since Irabelle is still in school, or else the following scheme would never have worked. We decided that Momma should wear the coat daily because the family she cooks for lives on Ward Parkway, a boulevard that surpasses all other streets in Kansas City and is, according to the Star—the city’s organ of reputation and record—the greatest parade in America. It would not do for Momma to be seen coming and going in a tattered coat. Today I wanted desperately to make a fine impression at the Kansas City Palladium, so I rode the trolley out in the afternoon to pick up the coat, with a mind to return when Momma’s workday ends. In just an hour I will execute the final part of our master plan (I will wear my raggedy coat on the journey home with her). All the day’s luck was spent on the scheme of the coat. The I. L. Williams the newspapers expect to meet is clearly of a different gender and should be a much fairer hue! My own articles are routinely flashed before me as I am asked whether I wrote them. I have been urged to consider janitorial work and frequently respond that I came to this city to write for a paper, not to mop the floors for one.

  Kansas City is starting to feel more like a dead end than a crossroad. Timbo still can’t find work. And Roena can’t work while keeping house for us all and caring for the twins. Irabelle is hoping to bring in a little money playing music, but Momma (with good reason) won’t allow her in any club until she has graduated. Everything costs much more here. Momma returns from the grocery disgusted with the price of food that, in her words, don’t taste half as good as the dirt it grew in. I want so desperately to shoulder some of this burden, but how? The beautician needs a license and requires equipment (and really, think back to my first month setting type—should I wield a pressing comb in the direction of any woman’s head?). I never learned to sew and cannot train to become a dressmaker—a good living, so I am told—nor can I teach. If I try to enter the vocations in which white women are employed (secretary or saleswoman), my would-be employer stares at me blankly: “But I didn’t advertise for a colored girl.” Surely by now I have racked up enough lessons in degradation for the dean of life to confer upon me a degree in bitterness.

  I am downhearted and wishing to be near you. A word from you would lift me.

  Yours truly,

  Ivoe

  Austin, November 20, 1916

  Dear Ivoe,

  In your long silence I feared you had forgotten me. I have been thinking of you and wondering what you are about. When has it not been true that a colored woman has a hard row to hoe? The path to livelihood is by no means smooth but let this be no impediment! You might consider joining any number of women’s groups (NACW) that have helped to stabilize our people. You would benefit from those women and they, no doubt, would benefit from you. Have you visited the YWCA?

  No need to write that any word from you brings long-lasting cheer, but there you have it, along with my wishes for a letter from you, soon.

  As ever,

  Ona

  .

  The newly mopped hallway of the YWCA reeked of pine, but Ivoe’s hunger and nervousness were to blame for the uneasy flip her stomach made. That morning she had buttered the last slice of bread and reached for the jam when Irabelle grabbed the toast up. She’d looked at her sister, books under one arm, the clarinet case in the other hand, and let her keep it. Together they listened to Roena and Timothy bickering in the next room. “You say we ain’t been here long. Timbo, even a chicken know to run for cover when it hears thunder. Now we fixing to have real trouble if you don’t find no work.” Timbo told her to stop worrying. Roena said she was long past worry. Worry had gotten tired and gone off somewhere. “Can’t you find something?” Irabelle said to Ivoe. “’Cause Momma can’t do it all.” Presently, Ivoe’s mind lingered at her sister’s question as she strained to keep her attention on the girl inside the office.

  The job placement coordinator noted the sleeves of Ivoe’s coat—a little too short—and her long legs. She was certain of the match; Lois Humphrey could use Ivoe. The YWCA had deployed dozens of young women—runaways from crazy men, desperate mothers, or those just itching for a scratch at city life—to numerous jobs. She couldn’t figure out which type Ivoe was, distracted by the way she talked. Educated, even if it didn’t sound all the way like it. Texans had a funny way with r’s. Sometimes they disappeared altogether, like how she said “shoaly appreciate any help you could give me.” Other times the roving r crept in where it had no business being. When questioned about hygiene, Ivoe responded about the care she took in “warshing” and pressing her clothes.

  Tall, willowy girls fared best with Lois. The short and stout ones returned a week later, “too slow” or “tardiness” given for their dismissal. For an especially good match the forewoman at Alton Clover donated butter, sugar, flour. Sometimes flavored extracts found their way into the YWCA pantry. Over the years, praise for the branch increased. No other YWCA in the city served cake daily. “Be smart,” the coordinator said, handing Ivoe the address. “Park bench turn awfully cold at night.”

  There was a bustle and a roar on the corner of Vine Street. A man in a grimy coat with jaundiced eyes snatched up a toddler, yelling at the driver of a Model T whose face registered the almost-accident as Ivoe climbed the trolley car steps. The threat of rent due made her resolution swift and easy. Whatever job offered, she’d follow every order, do every task better than well. Across the aisle from her a woman combed her bangs to cover the scar on her forehead. “Lye,” she whispered. “Got to be careful with it.” At the next stop a man with a wooden crutch tucked beneath his arm hobbled to the seat vacated by a dark-skinned woman in an ermine coat. In the city, even the maimed and crippled were on the move, and Ivoe was determined to move right along with them: south on Paseo Boulevard, left turn into Twelfth Street, straight to the corner of Ma
in.

  She stepped into a drone of whirring machines, asked for directions, and headed to the back of the fragrant loft. The handsome woman in a gray lady’s dress with white pinafore was fairer than her mother, fair enough to pass, but Ivoe knew a Negro woman no matter the brightness of complexion; it had nothing to do with pigment and everything to do with carriage.

  “Williams?” the woman said in a funny, earthy drawl distinctly not southern. “I got a call about you.”

  Papa used to say when a person looked you straight in the eye that he was bonded by his word. If she could make the forewoman like her—for whatever reason—she might have an ally. In the country family and neighbors were enough, but in the city she needed alliances. Ivoe smiled at the forewoman, pulling her hand slowly apart from their handshake. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lois Humphrey eyed her with curious satisfaction. Ungloved in this weather? Poor but not city-poor. Not desperate. This girl had never dashed out of a restaurant midway through the meal, or noticed the style and make of a woman’s pocketbook for a clue to its contents, let alone fainted before a copper just to be brought indoors. Lois had forgotten how many nights she had escaped the streets, laid up in a hospital in Beacon Hill. Who knows, if the hospital had permitted one more night she might still be there dealing with a winter far worse than this one. But a woman on her hospital floor had pointed her out to the police. She remembered the accuser’s bag—maroon ostrich. Tremont Street.

  The paddy wagon doors flung open to a gang of sporting women and a nun. Grateful that her daily round had yielded one white among the fallen colored women, Sister Adelaide listened to Lois’s story and proposed she join the Oblate Sisters of Boston to serve God instead of time. The gloom of the convent suited. Mother Superior remarked on Lois’s tranquillity and placed her at the boarding school. A dark-haired Irish girl with bangs sharply flattened against her face touched her with a sensuality that shook her. Merciful Savior. Up the stairs to the choir stall in the chapel’s nave where there was no pew, Lois begged for salvation’s release against the cold tiles. Who knows, if the door to the chapel had not been left open that afternoon she waited in the gardens for the Irish girl to run away with her, she might still be there calling on Jesus. A gold crucifix caught her eye, along with the brass chalice and silver communion trays. The habit suited the crime. In no time she was beyond the gate.

  Clean nails. At least the country girl knew that much. The coat had seen too many winters and was dump-ready, but underneath her brown skirt molded nicely to narrow hips and long, shapely legs. A second and third mention of Willetson was supposed to impress her. Studied long and wrong was what she’d done, filling her head with grand ideas, working for newspapers and such.

  There were more than a few reasons why the woman before her was not a good hire: she was new to the city—likely to struggle with transportation; she was no dipper (only girls with petite hands were any good at bonbons); she was dicty and stuck-up (knowing how to operate a press didn’t benefit Mister Clover); and she had no children—those who did said so right away to increase their chances of getting hired. She preferred family women. Women with families worked harder because there is no heartache like a hungry child or a man whose own work is not enough to take care of you. This one in front of her was a dutiful daughter or sister, helping out. In a month or two, she would walk away without giving a thought to who would cover her shift. Still, there was a hint of something Ivoe shared with the others. Yes. There was one thing Ivoe might do well and it had nothing to do with her fine diction, polite ways, or candy. She slid a blank card and pencil across her desk. She disdained weak women. Had no patience for complainers, whiners, fools. But a woman who managed to do what her own mother never could—face the world, take what she needed from it or die trying—well, she admired the type. There was a sense of urgency about Ivoe. She was trying to do something.

  “We’re getting ready for Valentine’s Day. I need to know the shifts will be filled.”

  “If you give them to me, I’ll fill them, ma’am.” Ivoe softened her eyes. She had seen a look that reminded her of Ona Durden. For too long she had been Ivoe the help, Ivoe the daughter, Ivoe the sister, Ivoe the auntie. Not since Willetson had she truly felt like Ivoe the woman. A love like Berdis’s hadn’t existed in Little Tunis. She hadn’t known where to find it. But in the city . . . She returned a gaze that said she felt Mrs. Humphrey’s once-over and didn’t mind.

  “No latecomers. And I expect you to work until that whistle blows. Better get yourself a pair of comfortable shoes.” Lois told her the rate of pay and made her fill out a medical form while she looked for a uniform. “See you in the morning at half past seven. And you can stop with all that damn ma’aming. It’s Mrs. Humphrey until I like you. Then it’s Lois.”

  In the city politeness didn’t pay. If anything it reminded white folks that you knew your place and that they should treat you accordingly, Lois thought. Her mother had made the same mistake, no-sirred and yes-sirred herself from the domestic’s room into his bedroom. The photographs of her parents told the awful fairy tale. Mother had done the worst. She had accepted the invitation to the white ball not understanding she was merely the entertainment. Whites would never accept her and colored people would never trust her—either she looked down on them (not even the lowest man wants pity), or she found greater comforts in the white world (who was she to deserve them?). One was worse than the other, but both were grounds for keeping her and her funny-looking children at a distance.

  Folks said Father did right by her, married her and everything. But it was never right. Mother married into money but not into kindness or compassion or any of the goodness she herself came from. After the trip to the altar, the marriage went to hell. Mother privileged Father and all he came from. You could tell by the food she prepared, what she read, how she prayed. Reached so far outside of herself—and for so long—she couldn’t feel for what truly belonged to her. Aping his manners, his vocal inflection, his everything, she would die lonely from all that reaching because she was not interesting enough to be accepted by any of the women he charmed in her presence. Colored women denied her their easy, pleasant smiles—wouldn’t dream of breaking bread with her. Why should she be trusted with their recipes for fixing disaster, mending broken hearts?—especially since she didn’t have any of her own to give in return. White or colored, no lady-friend of Mother’s ever brought her warmth and big laughter into the house for a visit. Lois counted it a miracle then that she knew how to love women.

  After Ivoe left, Lois tried not to dwell on the quality that landed Ivoe the job, because the last time it had ended very badly. The girls called it a catfight when the puny colored girl with strong arms from stirring chocolate all day flipped a switchblade and cut the Polish blonde from packaging and receiving. Both had been bragging about the raise she had received. Both claimed to be Lois’s bulldagger. And both would do in a pinch. Really, the extra two cents she gave to each was not about all of that. Both worked hard for Lois at the factory and at home. Homemade pierogi and collard greens were worth the raise alone. When they carried the blonde out on a stretcher, cussing so much she foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog, Lois understood something about women: no matter how tough she was, a woman was made to show her love.

  .

  Lois Humphrey ran a tight ship, the proof of which was all around Ivoe as she followed her through the factory. Fruit and flower juices and extracts used to flavor the candy sat cheek by jowl in the storeroom like the bottled herbs in May-Belle’s cellar. The pans and kettles shone like noonday sun. Sieves and trays sparkled clean as did the floors and white caps worn by all the girls. Her gaze followed Mrs. Humphrey’s finger to wooden trays of freshly molded candy centers, packed tight and smooth before delivery to the dippers. In a closet-sized room, four women worked over cherries piled high and bowls of creamy pink paste. “Almonds,” Mrs. Humphrey said, pointing across the hall to the costliest bonbons.
“Be a while before you good enough to be in there.” The next door opened to a cavernous room filled with large marble-topped tables where girls sat in rows, each with a pot of melted chocolate before her. Ivoe’s eyes wearied at the rapid motion of more hands than she could count dunking tiny white balls that came out lusciously brown.

  “Williams, this is you.”

  .

  Kansas City, January 5, 1917

  Dear Ona,

  I write to you on stationery from money I earned. The IW in the corner of the page you now hold is the same font once embossed on the perfumed yellow paper of Susan Stark many yesterdays ago back in Starkville. As a child, I coveted that paper, the envelopes, the unknown destinations they were headed to. Now I have my own, paid for by labor not sweated on behalf of the Starks—like my mother and her mother—progress!

  You may blame the five-week lapse since my last correspondence on an unjust world. I hesitated to write without good news, but now that I am convinced a colored woman must sweep her crumbs of happiness off other people’s tables, there is no need to wait. Hunting a job has bruised the ego Willetson had no small hand in raising up. I have wasted nearly two months writing letters and placing telephone calls to the K.C. Times, Post, Border Star, Far West, Liberty Banner, Liberty Tribune, K.C. Gazette, Kansas City Kansas Globe, Kansas City Kansas, and Wyandotte Herald. Except for the Kansas City Star, where I cannot acquire so much as an acknowledgment for my inquiry, every newspaper in this city and the next has turned me away. My new employment in a downtown candy factory brings with it a hard lesson and new empathy for the vast portion of the world performing jobs they’ve no heart to do. As for my family, they are fine. Irabelle enjoys her music studies at the high school (and a nameless young man I believe she has her eye on there); and today Timbo started his job at a meatpacking plant. Of course, Momma will never appreciate working for somebody else’s family though they are decent. By age twenty-eight I had hoped to be much further along in life than I am and in much better spirits. I am friendless in a city I hoped would befriend me and without any meaningful thing to do. If I went without drinking for days and someone arrived with a canteen and a letter from you, I would reach for the letter first, sure that it would quench me. I long for your correspondence.