by Maxine Clair
Some of the teachers at Coles had cars or rode with other teachers, though some did ride the bus to and from school. Rain or shine found October walking the three blocks to the bus stop, and the early dark descending on a November evening found her hunched against the cold.
And that evening who was walking ahead of her? Was that Walter Jean with no scarf and coat flying open like it was eighty degrees? And why was she out here at this hour, when cars already had on their headlights?
“Walter Jean?”
The child turned around. “Aw, hi, Miss Brown,” she said.
“Don’t you live on Twenty-seventh Street?” October asked. “Where are you going?”
“No, ma’am,” Walter Jean said, teeth chattering. No buttons on that coat. October wished for a safety pin. Those arms in the sleeves of that coat had to be shivering. Those fingertips showing had to be cold.
“We moved,” she said. “I went over to my friend’s house next door where we used to live. We live down on Vine now.”
“Does your mother know where you are?” October asked. Too much time had passed for a mother not to know.
“No, ma’am,” the little girl said. “She don’t—”
“Doesn’t.”
“She doesn’t get home till late. My brother is home. He’s fourteen.”
“You should go straight home from school every day. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want you out here at dark.”
“I’m going,” Walter Jean said.
But Vine was six or so blocks, and it was cold.
“I’ll walk you,” October said “Next time, don’t go over to your old neighborhood unless somebody takes you over there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
On the way over the six blocks, October managed to find out that Walter Jean’s mother worked for the Fairfax plant different shifts, and from what she could tell, evenings sometimes. The brother was responsible for warming the dinner pot and locking the door.
They walked. October tried, but little Walter Jean wouldn’t wear October’s gloves, not even one. A shame, because every child needs somebody looking after the little things like lost gloves and buttons on coats. They got to the apartment house. Not bad. Not great, but relatively clean and no winos hanging around. For whatever reason, October felt grateful for that, glad she had come to see for herself. At the door on the second floor, Walter Jean slapped the door with her open palm and yelled, “Billy! Open the door.”
Silence on the other side. Maybe the brother wasn’t there.
“Billy! It’s me. My teacher is here!”
The door flew open. The sandy brother looked sheepish and said, “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” October said to the boy. “I just came to make sure your sister gets in all right.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Walter Jean went in. “’Bye, Miss Brown”—proudly, like having an escort had changed her station in life.
Two more such evenings October just happened to see Walter Jean up ahead near dark, and just decided why not? and walked the child home, pressing her to promise that she wouldn’t go to her old neighborhood every day. Saying that she would call her mother if it happened again.
Once again, October had an opportunity to admire the ingenuity of children. Walter Jean had been timing her jaunts to meet up with October, actually waiting a couple of times, not even pretending an accidental meeting when she stepped out into the sidewalk near the bus stop. Three or four evenings a week. Just to be walked home? October supposed that the child was afraid to go alone to a strange neighborhood, or maybe she just liked having this one woman who bothered to see that she got there.
Usually the brother—unfazed that his sister’s teacher was there, too—opened the door after a few knocks. Fourteen-year-olds. Inevitably there came the evening when he didn’t open the door, wasn’t there at all, and Walter Jean didn’t know anything about a key, and looked in terror at the next door, where new neighbors might know something. October was suspicious, but Walter Jean swore, “No, ma’am, I don’t have the telephone number to Fairfax.”
And so October wrote a note for Walter Jean’s mother, included her telephone number, pushed it under the door, and took sandy little Walter Jean home with her on the bus.
She got her out of her coat and went straight to the kitchen for the cocoa.
“Sit down and I’ll make you something hot to drink,” she told the girl. As she heated milk, she took peeks at the sandy one, who looked lost, sitting on the sofa, hands in lap, looking around the foreign country of Miss Brown’s apartment.
“Come sit over here,” she called to her, and sat two cups of cocoa on the Formica table near the kitchen.
As Walter Jean passed the dress form she looked up and smiled. “What’s that?” she said. October could see a giggle wanting to bubble up.
October explained a dress form, and the clever little sandy girl asked, “What’s her name?”
October had never thought of giving a name to it. “What do you think her name should be?” she asked.
Walter Jean hunched her shoulders and sang, “Um-um-ummm” She didn’t know.
“Think of one,” October said. They sipped their cocoa.
“I’m going to call your mother,” October said. “But first what do you like to eat for dinner?”
“I like everything,” Walter Jean told her.
“Like what?”
“I like fried chicken and stew and rice and pork and beans, and hot dogs, and corn on the cob and chili and cabbage and black-eyed peas and cornbread...”
The child was hungry. With a hungry child, Aunt Frances and Aunt Maude would have expected no less from her than a well-laid feast. October had to hurry. When had she last made cornbread? And there was half a pint of ice cream left in her Frigidaire.
Probably the girl’s mother was working the evening shift and the brother was out playing somewhere. He would get home and wonder. October would phone the plant first. Then try calling the brother. If he was at their apartment she would call a cab and take Walter Jean home. Right after dinner.
Walter Jean gave a baby “Yes, ma’am” when October said she could use some help, and for the smothered pork chops they let the flour fly. Mashed potatoes—let them boil first. Break the crispy bacon into little pieces for the canned green beans. Break the egg into the milk before you add it to the cornmeal. You like applesauce? Put in one spoonful of maple syrup, too.
They heaped their plates from the feast laid out on the kitchen counter. When they sat down and October blessed the table, she felt the blessing of someone to eat with. It tickled her to watch Walter Jean put away huge forkfuls in a single chew-and-swallow.
“You like it?” October said.
The girl nodded and kept right on going.
“You can have some more,” October said. “Just ask for it.”
“May I have some more?” Walter Jean said plate, not yet empty.
“Finish what you have; then you can help yourself.”
Walter Jean polished her plate and sat for a moment with her hands in her lap.
“Who is that?” she asked, pointing to the one photograph in the apartment.
“That’s my family,” October said.
“Your mother?”
“No,” October said, “my sister and her husband and their little boy.”
Their little boy. She had never disowned him to another person before now.
“What are their names?” Walter Jean wanted to know.
October told her.
“Where are they?”
“Ohio.”
“Oh.”
And October brought Walter Jean’s plate over and filled it up again.
After dinner and before ice cream, October got out t
he phone book and found the number for the Fairfax munitions plant. It was only seven o’clock.
Sure enough, Mrs. Campbell was at work that evening and could come to the telephone.
October said who she was and that she had brought Walter Jean home with her because—
“Lord have mercy,” the mother said. “We’ve been calling all over for her. Where is she?”
“Right here,” October explained “You see, her brother wasn’t—”
“Put her on the phone,” the mother said.
October handed the telephone to the girl. “Your mother wants to speak to you.”
Walter Jean happily took the receiver. “Hi, Momma,” she said. But as she listened to her mother on the other end, October could see the crest falling. “Yes, ma’am” a dozen times. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then, “She wants to speak to you.”
October took the phone again.
“Where do you live?” the mother asked. October gave her the address but said not to bother. “I was planning to leave in a few minutes. I’ve already called a cab,” she lied. “I gave her something to eat and I’m taking her home now unless you want to wait ...”
“I’ll be there when you get there,” the mother said and hung up.
All the way over in the cab the air was like flint. Walter Jean was afraid. October sensed that one brush of two wrong words together and a fire would break out. And so she didn’t ask the questions that might give her a clue to what was coming.
The mother stood waving, flagging down the cab at the curb. Before it came to a complete halt, she snatched open the door. “Come on, girl,” she said, reaching in for her child.
Walter Jean got out and surrendered to her mother.
October got out too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No one was at home.”
The mother stood still long enough for October to get out whatever it was she wanted to say, but it was clear that the mother didn’t want to hear it.
“I didn’t want to leave her there by herself,” October said. “I probably should have tried to reach you earlier.”
“Um-hmm,” the mother said. “Well, you didn’t did you? Come on, girl,” and October watched her pull her child along.
She should have called the woman earlier.
In the normal pecking order, Aunt Frances dialed all the phone calls to October. When she had finished what she had to say, she would put Aunt Maude on, and then Vergie would say hello while Aunt Frances complained in the background about the cost of long distance.
This time, Aunt Maude called. On a Wednesday night. Thanksgiving was almost here, and she wanted to know October’s holiday plans.
Where were Aunt Frances and Vergie? Gene had driven them to church. Aunt Maude had stayed home.
October, who had hoped for the miracle that would deliver her from all that was wrong in Chillicothe, considered the out-of-normal order, and the urgency in Aunt Maude’s voice. But Aunt Maude said, no, nothing was wrong.
After a short how-are-things, Aunt Maude said, “I know you’re hurtin, but nobody’s any worse off, now are we?”
Of course they were, October thought. She was. If the baby ever found out that she had given him to Vergie, he wouldn’t be so well off. It might destroy him.
“We’ve been through a lot,” Aunt Maude said. “We’re a family. You don’t want to go making it worse now, do you?”
“l can’t come home,” October said. “I just can’t.” She didn’t see why they would want her there.
“Me and Frances ain’t gettin no younger,” Aunt Maude said. “Keep it under your hat but she’s retiring. Can’t cut it anymore. You and Vergie are all we’ve got. You know that. We need to see you.”
October wouldn’t be ready to face them by Thanksgiving. She’d have a month, six weeks to get herself ready for Christmas. “Christmas,” she told her aunt.
On the eve of Thanksgiving, though October could read between the lines, Cora pleaded for help. In Ed’s old kitchen with Ed and two friends making a party in the front room, October and Cora chopped and braised, sautéed and boiled, whipped, baked, and iced without stepping on each other, even as they sipped too many fingers of sherry. Weary of being a long-distance wife, Cora had made plans to move to St. Louis as soon as there was an opening, which seemed likely in the spring. October would see even less of her.
“I worry about you,” Cora said. “You spend too much time alone. You need to get out some.”
“You’re the one we should worry about,” October said. “New place, new job, new marriage ...”
“Yes,” Cora said. “But at least I’ll have a decent social life.”
“Who’s getting a social life?” Ed asked, coming into the tiny kitchen.
Cora told him, “You and me, sweetie.”
“I was just telling her,” October said. “I’m really going to miss her, but I know the way to St. Louis.”
He slid his arms around Cora’s waist “Didn’t we have us a good ol’ time? ... Which reminds me—Lonny’s supposed to be here for dinner tomorrow. He’s got a gig in the Ozarks, but getting him to drive up here for the day was like pulling teeth.”
October thought of the long and boring ride back from St. Louis with Leon when Cora and Ed had gotten married.
“I guess he’ll be bringing his horn,” she said.
Ed laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s climbing the ladder in New York. Us peons have to pay to see him show off now.”
All evening, as they cooked, people dropped by. People October didn’t know. She had begun to cover the cooled dishes and put them away for the next day’s banquet. She held the roaster pan while Cora lifted out the golden-glazed goose.
“Auntie always saves the drippings for the gravy,” she said.
As Cora wrapped the bird in foil, she said, “You don’t talk much about David and Vergie. I’m wondering how it is for you these days. What are you going to do?”
October hadn’t come prepared to dredge it all up. “It’s not something I rattle on about every day,” she said “There’s nothing to do. It’s all done.”
She hadn’t intended that pitiful tone, either.
“You don’t want to hear this,” Cora said, “but I’m glad he’s with family, so when you change your mind—”
“Who says I haven’t changed my mind already?” October said. “But it’s too late, Cora. He’s Vergie’s son now.”
“How do you know? Did you ask her? You don’t let people walk all over you, girl.”
“It wasn’t like she took him,” October said. “I gave him up. I just didn’t know.”
“I know, I know, but you brought him into the world, didn’t you? He’s your son. Tell her you made a mistake.”
So simple. Cora didn’t understand. She couldn’t just walk up and take him. Not after all the mess she had made in their lives. Now make another mess, in his life? She couldn’t.
It was Leon who actually uttered the most telling word for the Thanksgiving Day celebration. Swell with a lot of attitude. A good idea that never took off. No real spirit. October did meet some new people who might have been interesting some other time. Two of Ed’s friends from St Louis; a woman friend whom Leon knew from his days in Jefferson City; Alvin, a lawyer from Cora’s church, who October suspected had been invited for her sake; and another teacher Cora knew—Donetta something.
They rigged a dining table from a desk and the kitchen dinette and covered them with a white tablecloth, used Cora’s new china. Correct glassware and forks. Everybody polite. Bored and boring.
At the end of the so-so dinner, when Leon decided to grace them with the history of his climb in the jazz world so far, October began thinking up her good-bye speech. Bless Ed for yawning “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” which bothered Leon and the woman he had intended to impress.
And so Leon took his friend’s hand and said, “We’d better split. Thanks, everything was swell.”
It was October’s cue. One holiday down, one to go.
She’d be brushing her teeth, or walking to the bus, or opening a can of tomatoes, and Cora’s words would come back to her in a very sane, very reasonable voice. Ask Vergie. Tell her you made a mistake. Then work out the details.
And then the details would explode her into panic. Whose baby? Where is the daddy? Raise him by myself? And further explosions, memories of Carrie and Franklin and what happens to children without real parents, what didn’t have to happen to David. What he would never have to know.
And October would be back at thinking about saying no to Christmas.
But she didn’t. Just like before, Gene met her evening train at Columbus. After weeks of carrying on, she had settled down to being glad about the idea of just seeing David, and holding him, having him in a room all to herself for five minutes. She dared not think the word love.
When they got to the Monroe Street house, she helped Gene bring up the footlocker and suitcases. Peered into the oval glass in the heavy door, hoping to see before being seen. She could hear David wailing.
Gene came up behind her. “Knock hard,” he said. “Frances and Verge are probably putting David down, and Maude can’t hear nothing.”
She could see Aunt Frances coming down the stairs.
“Lordy, lordy,” she called and swung open the door. “Here’s my girl.”
My girl. From years ago. My girls. Her and Vergie. Wishes. And Aunt Frances looked older, smaller.
Aunt Maude came through the dining room—frail-looking, too, with her cane—but October had tuned in to Vergie cooing upstairs.
“Lemme see you,” Aunt Maude called.
