by Ann Petry
She had picked out a house for him, a brick house, on the other side of town. The instant she saw the For Sale sign on it, she’d managed to marry Link to a nice girl, and get them moved into the house, all in her mind. There were lilacs in the dooryard, big old lilacs, and orange lilies, great clumps of them, in bloom there, last August. And a fence across the front, one of those iron fences that you rarely ever see any more. She didn’t know who Link’s girl was. She was sure he had one. All young men had girls. But she’d never seen him with a girl, never heard him mention one. He seemed to have skipped the girl-crazy stage they go through in their teens. When he was seventeen and home from Dartmouth for the summer, he saw girls every Sunday after church, and sometimes he talked to them, briefly, laughed with them, briefly, and turned away from them quickly. She didn’t know that she blamed him. They fidgeted so, and their heads seemed to have been turned out by some kind of machine, all exactly alike, all slick with grease, and they used too much perfume, apparently the same kind of perfume, so that they smelled alike; most of them had pimples under the powder and rouge. They perspired easily, their dresses darkening under the armpits, beads of perspiration appearing on their wide, bridgeless noses, as they teetered toward Link on their highheeled shoes, shoes that made their thin straight legs look brittle, teetering toward seventeen-year-old Link after church, and perspiring as they talked to him.
But those were the good girls, the ones who went to church, the ones who wanted husbands and homes and children. And they were absolutely all wrong for Link. The ones who didn’t go to church were the ones with the shapely legs and the smooth brown skins that didn’t need any heavy concealing layers of powder, the ones with the artfully curled hair, the ones who didn’t want husbands and children and wellkept homes. They wanted boyfriends, an endless succession of boyfriends and a perpetual good time. And they were absolutely all wrong for Link too.
“He’ll get married one of these days,” Frances said easily. “Most of the things we worried about never happened. Now that he’s grown-up, we have to remember that he is grown-up. He’ll be all right.”
Link had said that Frances was right, ninety-nine point nine times out of a hundred. She could be wrong, though, one one-tenth of the time. That afternoon she had hurried to tell Frances that she couldn’t have Mamie Powther living in her house, Frances had laughed at her. She couldn’t make her understand how shocked and frightened she had been when Mamie Powther told her that Bill Hod was her cousin, couldn’t make her understand that moment of pure terror she had known because Bill Hod came down the back stairs, no sound of footsteps, but the sound of a whistled tune, the tune of the song that Mrs. Powther had been singing when she was hanging up clothes in the backyard, the whistled tune coming down the stairs, high, sweet, down, down the stairs, no sound of feet descending, just the whistle, so that it seemed to descend by itself, and then Bill Hod went past the back door, went around the side of the house, still whistling, the same Bill Hod who had supported the Major down the street, who for a space of sixty seconds, probably less time than that, had glared at her, shouting as no one had ever shouted at her before, “You fool—you goddam fool—get a doctor!” His face, so contorted, his voice, so furious, that she had picked up a poker, with the intention of striking him with it if he came any nearer, and his face had changed, and he shrugged and walked away. Cold, cruel face. Face of a hangman. Frances either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand why she was so disturbed by the knowledge that Bill Hod was Mamie Powther’s cousin.
Frances had listened, that afternoon, and said, impatiently, “Sooner or later, Abbie, you’ll have to make up your mind to accept defects in your tenants or else stop renting the place. You’ll never find a perfect tenant. There’s no such thing. If you stop renting the place you’ll cut off a big important part of your income. It’s unfortunate that Mr. Hod should be Mrs. Powther’s cousin, bad for your peace of mind, but there isn’t anything you can do about it.”
Mamie Powther. Just listening to her, not seeing her, but listening to her voice, you could tell what kind of woman she would be, the big soft unconfined bosom, the smooth redbrown skin, the toosweet strong perfume, it was all there in her voice. Emanation of warmth, animal warmth, in her voice.
Abbie sighed. “I can’t tell you how much I wish Link would fall in love and get married.”
Lately his getting married had taken on an urgency in her mind. Because of Mamie Powther. She was afraid of Mamie Powther. Afraid of Bill Hod. She had always been afraid of Bill Hod but at least there had been the street between them; now it was just as though he had moved into her house. “Hi, Mamie, what’s the pitch?” Didn’t this fear of Mamie Powther suggest a doubt about Link? Why should she expect him to succumb to the blowsy charms of a married woman, mother of three children, a big young woman, a careless young woman, who went gallivanting off, with never a thought as to who would look after her children?
“It’s getting late,” she said. “I’ll go and get J.C.”
In the modern, lightfilled kitchen, Miss Doris was wrapping up a package. J.C. stood watching her. He had a cooky in each hand. The kitchen was filled with the fragrant, delicate, buttery smell of freshbaked cookies.
Miss Doris said, in that cold hard voice, “Now here you is, Jackson. This here’s your midnight snack. If’n you should wake up in the middle of one of them night horses you were tellin’ me about, you eat one of these cookies. And you carry this package, careful.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Doris,” J.C. said.
Abbie said, “I forgot to tell you, Miss Doris, but his name is J.C.”
Miss Doris gave Abbie a swift, hard stare. “Yes, Mrs. Crunch. I know that. He told me. But I don’t plan to have no children around me without no Christian names. So I named him. When he’s here with me, he’s Jackson.”
She woke up, suddenly. Pitchdark in the room. She felt cold. No covers over her chest, her arms. And an outing flannel nightgown, even a longsleeved one, was no substitute for blankets. Wind blowing, too.
It must have been the sound of the metal screen banging, back and forth, against the window that had awakened her. She pulled the covers up, way up, under her chin, remembering how the Major slept, on his side, a big man, a Teddy bear of a man, so that the covers were lifted by his shoulders, forming a tent, and drafts blew about her shoulders, her neck, all night long.
She ought to get up and put the window down. But she couldn’t sleep in a room that was all shut up, but then, neither could she sleep with that ventilating screen rattling, banging, moving back and forth against the window. She wondered if it was still foggy, if J.C. was awake and eating his midnight snack. Thought of Deacon Lord’s funeral, remembered that fog was just beginning to drift in from the river when she and J.C. left Frances’ house. Thought of Frances’ New Year’s Eve party. She gave it every year, a kind of mass entertainment that took care of all her social obligations, a big buffet supper, set up in that dark gloomy dining room, and Sugar, who was Miss Doris’ husband, did the carving, served the plates, and Miss Doris carried trays, too, and managed to convey her disapproval of the proceeding just in the way she walked, slapping her feet down on the floor, slap, slap, slap. “Coffee?” Slap, slap, slap.
Thought of Mamie Powther, appearing suddenly at the back door, two weeks ago, with a fruit cake, “Missus Crunch, you been so nice to J.C. I thought it bein’ New Year’s Eve, and all, you know, if you was havin’ friends in, this’d be nice to have in the house,” smiling, affable, easy-voiced. Mamie Powther had been wearing another new coat, a purple coat, fitted, with brass buttons in a double row down the front, the big bosom making the buttons look as though they were ascending and descending a hill. She had so many coats. Not a badlooking woman. But so much bosom, always so unconfined, even under the coats you knew it was there. Taller than little Mr. Powther. How had he ever come to marry her? The past. The answer in the past. Miss Doris and the Orwells. Frances and her father.
Howard Thomas went from lawyer to undertaker because of his past. Abbie Crunch went from schoolteacher to coachman’s bride to widow to landlady-needlewoman, now able to go to funerals, to smell liquor without shuddering, to be tolerant of the occasional, unexpected vulgarities that crept into Frances’ conversation, “Rub up against him just as though he were catnip and they were cats.” “I wish his behind didn’t wiggle—”
She had the queer disconcerting feeling that a hand, or hands, had come at her out of the dark. Vague, directionless, groping hands were pulling at the blankets, at the sheet, at the woolfilled comforter. She edged away, thinking, I always knew this would happen, all my life I’ve been afraid of this, waiting for this, always known that something would come at me out of the dark, feeling, groping, for me. It’s my imagination. I’m always picturing disaster.
King of England. King of England. He said it on the radio at Christmas, a few years ago. What was it? I saved it. I never can quite remember it. Safer than a known way. Better than a light. Anonymous. Put your hand into the hand of God. Reach out your hand. Into the darkness.
She put her hand out, reaching out, into the darkness. Something brushed against it. She jerked her hand back, away from whatever it was, and tried to scream, and couldn’t. She said, “Oh,” and it was like a sigh.
J. C. Powther said, “Missus Crunch—”
For a moment she couldn’t answer him, still thinking, I always knew—always in the back of my mind was the fear, formless, shapeless—that something dreadful would come at me, out of the dark. I was certain that that small hand, J.C.’s hand, was the—
“Yes?” she said.
“She’s here, Missus Crunch.”
“Why aren’t you in bed?” Abbie asked.
“Not sleepy.”
“Of course not. You don’t get up until noon. What kind of way is that to bring a child up? Up all night. In bed all day. It’s bad enough for grown people.”
J.C. ignored her. “She’s here,” he repeated.
“Will you please go back upstairs and get in bed and go to sleep. Why do you walk around all hours of the night? Why does your mother allow it? You walk in and out of here and most of the time I don’t even know you’re in the room.”
“Mamie’s out,” he said.
“That’s no excuse. Aren’t Kelly and Shapiro in bed?”
“Yes,” he said, something very like impatience in his voice. “Missus Crunch, the printhess is in Link’s room.”
“I’ve asked you not to tell lies. It’s wrong. It’s a bad thing to do. I don’t know why you make things up.”
“She’s all gold,” he said, his voice dreamy. “’N she and Link walk gumshoe when dey come in through de door. Dey gumshoe in, through de door.”
“Have you got to go to the bathroom?” He didn’t answer. “J.C., have you got to go to the bathroom?” That woman didn’t have sense enough, or was too lazy, to get up and take him to the bathroom. It was the only way to keep them from wetting the bed when they were that young, and it was probably why he walked around at all hours of the night. He was uncomfortable.
“I just wet. I don’t need to.”
“Very well. Now go upstairs and go to sleep.”
“It’s dark in here,” J.C. said. “You want a light on?”
“No, I don’t. Don’t you touch that lamp! Go on, J.C., go on upstairs.” Silence. But he was still there, right by her bed. She could hear him breathing.
“Missus Crunch,” he said.
She didn’t answer. If she didn’t answer, he’d go.
“Missus Crunch,” he said softly. “I gotta go to de bathroom.”
“You haven’t. You told me you just went.” Oh, dear, she thought. I’m sure he hasn’t got to, he’s just saying so to get me out of bed, and yet, he might have to.
“I gotta go to de bathroom, Missus Crunch,” he whined.
She turned the light on by her bed. He was wiggling, standing first on one foot and then on the other. And he must have dressed himself in the dark. He had his overalls on backwards, the pockets in the back, the stubbed brown shoes were on the wrong feet. She reached for her heavy gray bathrobe, put on her slippers, and then looked at the clock. It was four in the morning.
In the bathroom, J.C. said, “I had to,” triumph in his voice, “You hear dat?”
She looked away from him, down the hall. It was better to ignore some things. The night light was still burning. Link wasn’t home yet. Where did he go? Four o’clock in the morning. Oh, dear, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. She’d turn the light out. It would be daylight soon, and there wasn’t any point in wasting electricity.
“I’m going to turn this hall light out, J.C. You go up the stairs before I turn it out so you can see where you’re going.”
J.C. followed her obediently. He stopped and sniffed. “It’s her smell,” he said. “It’s the printhess smell.”
Smell of perfume in the hall, faint, sweet, lingering there.
“Run along before I turn the light out.”
“Mamie said don’t tell,” J.C. said. “Mamie’s a robber. Her took de pretty-pretty. It was all gold and her took it and wouldn’t give it back. I’m goin’ to tell. Her’s in dere,” he said, pointing at the door of Link’s room.
Abbie was suddenly angry. “There’s no one in there. Link’s not home yet.” Where does he go? What is he doing? “There’s no one in there. I don’t know what’s going to become of you if you don’t stop making things up.” There were times when J.C. was absolutely unintelligible, she doubted if his own mother knew what he was talking about. Cold in the hall. She’d never get rid of this bulletheaded little boy.
“Here,” she said and flung open the door of Link’s room.
And stood still. Light on. Link in bed. In that bed that didn’t look like a bed, the one the decorator put in there when he did the room over, and threw out the walnut bedstead, this bed just some kind of rubber mattress that stood on legs, no headboard, no footboard, and when she said, “How perfectly dreadful,” Link had said, “But try it, Aunt Abbie. It’s comfortable. It’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in,” and even now whenever she looked at it, all these years afterwards, she felt resentful, to think of the way in which her perfectly good furniture had been tossed out as though it were—
A girl there in bed with Link. Both naked. The girl’s head, the hair yellow, head on his chest, yellow hair on his chest, his shoulder. A white girl. How dare he? In her house, her house, “Abbie—the house—the house—” speech thickened, light gone out of the Major’s eyes, as though he were blind, and inside she had already started to cry, a faint smile about his mouth, the effort, desperate, to sit up and Frances helped her prop him against the pillows, and then that awful, horrible-to-watch struggle to talk. “The house, Abbie, the house—”
For a moment she could not speak, could not move.
Then she was shaking the girl, shaking her, shaking her back and forth, trying to talk, no control over her tongue, her throat, having to talk, having to let the girl know, let Link know how she felt. Something seemed to explode inside her head. Spots dancing before the eyes. Heat and heat. Pressure, unbearable pressure, up and down the back of the neck, the head, pressure behind the eyes, the ears, the face. Ringing in the ears. A roaring, a pounding, inside her head.
“In my house,” she said, “in my house, hussy, plying your trade, get out, get out of my house.”
She looked for something, anything, grabbed a newspaper, not even knowing what it was, brandished it about the girl’s head. “Get out before I kill you.”
Hands aware of the newspaper. Mind remembering the newspapers under the chair where the Major sat. Monmouth Chronicle.
“Abbie,” Link protested. Asleep, she thought. He was asleep. He sat up, then reached for the sheet, and pulled it over himself.
“Don’t,” Link
said.
She pushed and pulled the girl out of bed, pushed her into the hall. Went back in the room, picked up the girl’s clothes, picked up a coat, a fur coat. Coat soft, silky. Her hands aware of it, and her mind ignoring it. She flung the coat at the girl. She opened the front door. Fog outside. She threw the girl’s clothes, dress, slip, stockings, out on the sidewalk. Hall filled with fog.
The girl stood in the hall, bending over, trying to pick the coat up, trembling with rage or fear or shame. Abbie pushed her, so that she stumbled, half fell down the steps.
Fog outside. Fog obscuring the sidewalk. Fog billowing up from the river. Lean over and see what was written on the sidewalk. Cesar the Writing Man. Moment of confusion in which she stood in the doorway, lost, not here, not anywhere. Don’t let him die. Fog cold against her face.
Fog billowing up from the river. Where am I? She heard laughter. Someone was laughing, outside, standing in the street, laughing.
J.C. said, “Was she a bad printhess?”
Abbie turned toward him, waved the newspaper about his head. “Go upstairs. Go to bed. Go away.” The girl was taller, younger, stronger than she was, but she could have strangled her, killed her.
“Go before I kill you,” she said to J.C.
He scuttled up the stairs.
Someone was laughing, outside, on the street. Dumble Street. She slammed the front door, banging it shut. Where am I?
She went back into her room, closed the door, still wanting to shout at the girl, even though she was gone, How dare you, dare you, in my house, tramp, in my house, yellow hair on my pillowcases, the bridal ones, the ones that I made with my own hands, as part of my trousseau, with lace edges, filet lace, that I crocheted, smiling, dreaming about my wedding day. Schoolteacher, teaching at the Penn School, children of the Gullahs, beautiful, the first time I knew that black people could be beautiful, the fathers and mothers and the children, and I teaching, and dreaming of my wedding day, fifty years ago, dreaming of the white brocaded satin that cost three dollars a yard, and that I didn’t make up because I decided that we didn’t need a big wedding, the Major and I, it would be too expensive, and it is still wrapped in black paper, thin black paper between the folds, black tissue paper, rustles when you touch it, wrapped up, in the back of the middle drawer of my bureau, and I thought if I had a daughter, she would have it made up, we would make it up together, for her wedding, and then later, that the girl Link would marry would have it made up.
