October Suite

by Maxine Clair

  And went on, “Don’t come telling me nothing about how you love him. You don’t know nothing about loving him.”

  October wanted to jump up and slap Vergie for that. She wanted to throw into her face that Vergie and Gene had grabbed so fast—too fast—because they couldn’t have their own baby.

  But the picture of her sitting at the sewing machine, ignoring that little boy who had never asked to be born, was too vivid. It cut her down too far to come back. Her own tears cramped her throat. How was it she had thought they could have a nice Christmas with all this between them?

  Through tears, Vergie said, “He’s my son, October—mine.” She stormed out of the kitchen and went upstairs.

  The whole house left her alone in the kitchen to boil the sweet potatoes and drink two cups of tea. It came like a new idea. David was Vergie’s son, not October’s son whom she had allowed Vergie to keep forever.

  Later, when Vergie came down again to the kitchen, eyes red, she said, “I guess it doesn’t have to be just one thing. I mean something else, like one of the little cars or something.”

  “Okay, Vergie—I’ll think of something,” October said quietly.

  October settled on the shorty-pants suit that she would never see him wear. In the bedroom she laid it aside, imagining his determined face as he tried to pedal the miniature red fire engine Gene had gotten him—the one that unlike a tricycle, was sturdy all around and would never tip over.

  What you must know is that my last breath had indeed been a prayer—I would call it a special petition—for Lillian and Vergie. It seemed that perhaps this Christmas the bud of their joined lives became a blossom opening sweetly for one and swallowing the other. Whatever the case, I held for them.

  chapter 12

  Just like always, every now and then they heard from October. Vergie was satisfied that the line had been drawn with a sharp stick, and that October would be wary of trying ever again to cross it. Aunt Frances, though, was the problem. After all her urging and fixing, dropping hints here and putting in a word there, Vergie would have thought Aunt Frances would be satisfied, too. The die being cast, and all that.

  When it came to David, though, and the way Veggie and October had left things, Aunt Frances acted like she had an itch she couldn’t reach. She never let Vergie get through the week without pushing her—“Talk to your sister, talk to your sister.” Auntie mailed little cards to October, started calling her all the time, putting Vergie on the phone and making David say hi.

  Just as Vergie had expected, October wasn’t coming home for the summer. Said she was teaching summer school, saving money for a car and other things. She wrote many letters but addressed them only to Aunt Maude. Trying to say something, Vergie guessed. From time to time she sent little cards to the rest of them: How are you? I’m fine. Say hi to David. She sent him another pop-up card once. Signed it Aunt Tee.

  According to Aunt Maude, October had met someone, a new man. “Going out with a nice man” was how Aunt Maude put it, and when Aunt Frances asked his name and what he did for a living, Aunt Maude didn’t know. “She didn’t tell me nothing else. Just said she’s going out, that’s all.”

  Aunt Maude told them too, that October had gotten herself into a “little bit of trouble” with the school board in Missouri. Something about taking some little girl home with her without the mother knowing. The mother wanted her fired, but the school board didn’t take any action. They did warn October.

  Aunt Maude showed them the picture October sent of herself all dressed up. Supposedly she was in a fashion show and she had made the outfit. Letting them know she was doing just fine without them. Didn’t bother Vergie. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to her sister, but they were adults now. She suspected things would go along just fine with spaced-out visits, and none of this every-holiday and every-summer nonsense.

  Vergie was no fool. She could see what October was doing. After a year of letters and cards and pictures, she said she was going to St. Louis to have Christmas with her friend Cora. Cora needed her, she said. Cora had a new baby. October wasn’t coming for Christmas.

  Aunt Frances and Aunt Maude had a fit. They had never had a Christmas with anybody missing. This wasn’t about to be the first, and Aunt Frances laid on Aunt Maude to talk some sense into October’s head. Laid on Vergie to write her a nice letter. “You-all are sisters. We’re family.”

  But October didn’t come. As far as Vergie was concerned, they did fine. They got David a tricycle—he was big enough now. They invited Mrs. Hopp and her nephew over for dinner. Gene’s first cousin from Oklahoma was in Columbus and drove down to Chillicothe for Christmas dinner, so they had a fine table and a new way of celebrating.

  Aunt Frances started her crusade then. Somebody needed to go out to Missouri to see about October. Families didn’t do that—just drift apart like that. Everybody knew what the trouble was, but it was time to put it away. And Aunt Frances was taking charge. Once she drafted Gene, it was all over but the shouting. A Missouri vacation would do them all good.

  Trouble was, Aunt Maude’s hip gave her more pain than two canes could relieve. How was she going to get around, and didn’t October live on the third floor? By the time June rolled around, Aunt Maude hardly ever left the house anymore. Aunt Frances wasn’t about to go without her. And so Vergie, Gene, and three-and-a-half-year-old David took the train to Oklahoma. To see Gene’s first cousin, and since they were out that way, they might as well stop through Missouri and spend a weekend with October. What did she think of that? She sent a long letter to Aunt Maude, telling her to tell them to come for a week, two weeks, but a weekend was no time at all.

  Dust bowl. And real Indians. That was Oklahoma. Down country, with David chasing grasshoppers and running from chickens. Gene’s cousin had connections and got them into a real Indian ceremony. And then to Missouri.

  October met their train at Union Station in downtown Kansas City, Missouri. Huge place, with taller buildings than they had in Columbus. October fed them the best barbecue Vergie could ever remember eating. Kansas City barbecue. She gave up her bedroom to the three of them and she took the sofa.

  Their first morning waking up in October’s little bitty place, Vergie saw that David had already gone out to the living room and heard him already begging breakfast. She stood in the crack of the open door and watched to see what she might see.

  October lay on the sofa, looking into his face. Vergie realized October hadn’t seen him since he could really talk. In fact she hoped that David would talk to his auntie. He was something else, and Vergie didn’t care if the whole world knew it.

  David was asking for Post Toasties, and Vergie started to walk away from the half-opened door when she saw October take his hand in hers and run her hands all over his arms like she was feeling for lumps.

  October sat up and said, “Give your auntie a hug,” swept him right up. David was stiff at first; then, when she tickled him, he started giggling. She kissed him on the cheek, a little smack, the little smack Vergie could taste on her own lips. When October let go of him, he stood and looked at her like he was wondering if it was all right. And October smiled to herself. Vergie smiled to herself, too. October was her sister. She was glad they had come. Glad, too, that it was only for a weekend.

  She went to the bathroom and heard David begging for cornflakes. Heard October tell him, “We’ll let Vergie decide.” And David tell her, “We have a whole bunch at home.”

  Vergie said sure, cornflakes was all right. David loved them. She and Gene could go for some more of that barbecue, but of course they had eggs and sausage and all the trimmings for breakfast.

  Vergie had brought a little something she thought October might like. A little present and after breakfast, she sent David to the bedroom for the surprise. Oh, he was quite the little man when he came back barely able to manage the box. And handed it to October
.

  “Mommie said this is for you,” he said, just as clear as a judge. October took the box from his hands and opened it. Vergie had bought a crimson leather photograph album, spent large money on it, too. When she saw October’s face looking at the first page, she knew she had done a good thing. On the first page, in an oval frame, Vergie had put the sepia-tone picture of a pretty, ginger-colored young woman with long hair, wearing a simple print dress, standing against a photographer’s painted backdrop of a flower garden. It was Aunt Frances’s old picture of their mother, Carrie, at sixteen, before she had run off with Franklin Brown. Vergie knew October had always liked that picture, and when Aunt Frances started divvying up old pictures, Vergie had saved it for her sister.

  And other really good ones, too. The three Cooper sisters—Frances, Maude, and Carrie, all young women then, posed in front of the same backdrop, looking like gorgeous was coined for them in their flapper-looking dresses and thick crimped hair, side-button pumps. Movie stars.

  October got teary. “I thought you might like them,” Vergie told her. “Aunt Frances finally let somebody go through her old pictures. All these are yours.”

  Vergie watched October see the pictures of the two of them as girls, and the group picture of the two of them with Aunt Frances and Aunt Maude and a bunch of orphans taken in front of the Children’s Home. Who could forget?

  “That’s me when I was a baby,” David said.

  Vergie watched October take the picture all the way out of the paper brackets holding it, and held it up close to her face. She hoped October could accept it now without too much to-do. There was no reason for her not to have one.

  October smiled and said to Vergie, “This is really something. Thank you, Vergie,” and she put back the picture. Vergie had included one of her bathing David, Aunt Frances lighting candles on his birthday cake, Christmas with his first tree, one of October leaving in the snow on New Year’s Day. Many, many pictures.

  October didn’t finish right then. She closed the album and hugged it. “I think you know what this means to me. Thank you for remembering.” Vergie could see that she was happy. Maybe they were going to be all right.

  About this Arthur man, Vergie had heard little. Only what Aunt Maude had told them. Nothing about who he was, how old he was, or what kind of job he had.

  Once they were all dressed, October gave them the map for the day.

  “I want my friends to know that I have a family,” she told them. “And so I’ve planned a picnic where you can meet them. Little kids will be there, too. And Arthur.”

  “Arthur?” Vergie said. Like she had never heard of him.

  October laughed a little. “I know Aunt Maude told you I’ve been seeing Arthur.”

  Vergie laughed too. “Well, she didn’t give us anything to chew on. Just told us his name. I want to know if he’s rich and handsome, and is he going to buy you a house?”

  “Nothing like that,” October said. “We’re just going out, but I do like him. He’s a teacher, too. At Lincoln Junior High. You’ll meet him, but please don’t tease him about getting married or anything.”

  Vergie couldn’t wait. Finally October had met someone they could meet. And he might be nice. Her sister deserved that. A nice man who would take care of her.

  Swope Park, October told them—the largest in the city, and it had one perfect spot for a picnic. As she drove her new, little-used Plymouth, she pointed out fir and pine, the zoo, the swinging bridge, and then the park’s Area Number Five, with its stone picnic pavilions fitted with new pine tables and open hearths for barbecuing.

  She introduced Vergie and Gene and David to her friend Donetta, who had brought her boys but not her husband. Another woman friend, Martha, had a teenage daughter, and her husband didn’t come, either. Vergie had started to worry about company for Gene when still another woman friend arrived. Vergie had made deviled eggs, and was glad to help set out the food. Another couple arrived—the man, Alvin, young enough to be Gene’s son, and they had a little boy, too. As Vergie watched the older children school the younger ones in the art of kickball, she noticed that David was shorter than Donetta’s three-year-old.

  She stirred lemonade and set out bowls and platters, and saw—along with the other women—that one of the white children from a shelter nearby had made his way over to the field to make friends. He stood near what would have been first base, swinging his arms, probably hoping to play. He looked to be five or six.

  Then a man hollered out so loud everybody jumped, “Jeffrey! Get over here.”

  Even the wind stopped blowing. The ball stopped rolling. All the children stopped running and Vergie held her breath. She looked around. None of the other pavilions had any black faces.

  The children watched as little Jeffrey loped away. The women dug in to do what womenfolk do. They took the rock salt of a day that had gone off course a little, sprinkled it over the cold, this-is-the-way-it-is reality of white folks packing up their picnics and moving farther away. And from the deep well of the women’s shared hopes, they poured the sweetness of their children making friends and the age-old promise of good food to be had, and they became like the fingers of one hand, churning a summer day into magical whorls of memory.

  They roasted hot dogs and loaded up plates in the first go-round at the table. David was a little wild man with so many other children around. He said whatever they said, stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to walk like the big boys, too. Vergie had never yet taken him to the zoo in Columbus, and so a trip to the Swope Park petting zoo came right on time.

  As she and October and Gene and David and two other children made their way back toward the shelter, Vergie saw October’s face light up and smile a little, before she looked away. She must have seen Arthur. Vergie strained her eyes and looked hard at the people around the shelter ahead. Yes, she saw a man squatting under a tree at the edge of the field, coat thrown across his shoulder, a big bouquet of red roses. Had to be Arthur.

  As they went toward him, he stood up. Graying at the temples. Good. Tall enough, brown enough—he would do.

  Vergie stopped and stood with her hands on her hips. “That must be Arthur,” she said. “Looks like somebody can’t stay away very long.” She tickled herself.

  October stopped, too. “I told you he would be here later. He’s just somebody I’m seeing so don’t go making a big thing out of it.” But Vergie saw how her sister skipped just a little.

  “Hey,” Arthur called to them. “Hurry up. I’ve been here all day.” He had a nice ring to his voice.

  October’s friend Donetta yelled, “Girl, come get this man before he drives us crazy.”

  Gene chimed in under his breath, “Ain’t never been a Cooper woman that couldn’t get a man to beg.”

  “Hush, man,” Vergie told him, trying to find the degree of sober that an older sister should have.

  October took Vergie’s hand. “Arthur, these are my folks.”

  “Hi,” he said to Vergie. “You must be Eugene,” he said, and shook Gene’s hand. “And this must be David.” Vergie wondered what October might have said about David. She smiled as her smart little boy put out his hand, too. Then Arthur hugged October like she and Gene weren’t even there. Vergie took David’s hand and went on up to the shelter.

  Under the shelter, the women herded the children into the cool, where a white tablecloth had been spread, and in the middle of it a sheet cake the size of a pillow case. Giant blue letters spelled out “SIX.”

  Nobody seemed to know why, until Arthur and October joined them. “I thought we ought to celebrate,” Arthur said.

  Vergie looked at October, who looked as blank as the stone they stood on.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot,” Arthur said to her, brushing her cheek with his finger. Whatever it was, she still wasn’t remembering.

  “Six months,
” he said. “Our sixth-month anniversary—remember?”

  The other women oooed and ahhhed. “We were afraid to ask, just in case it was something big and he had it wrong,” Donetta said.

  October was all grins, now.

  “Momma, buy me one of those,” Donetta said. “Arthur, you are a woman’s dream—flowers and cake for six months. Please, man, talk to Kenneth.”

  Vergie thought it was nice—probably Arthur was showing off a little for the family, but that was okay. The roses had already brought him up a few levels in her book.

  After the picnic, Arthur wanted to take them all out for the evening. A show at the outdoor Starlight Theater, where they could bring David, and where Vergie was sure to see at least one famous person. Vergie looked forward to spending the evening picking apart this Arthur man so that by the time they left, she would know what he was all about. When they got to October’s place to change clothes, however, Aunt Maude phoned, sad and scared. Aunt Frances was in the hospital. She had had a stroke.

  Vergie wouldn’t be consoled. They never should have left her—they had to get back. Couldn’t somebody drive them home? There was no way she could wait until the morning train. October got on the phone to Union Station.

  Vergie held on to a single image for strength: Aunt Frances in her nurse whites, twisting her hair into a bun and reaching for her starched LPN cap. Every morning predictable as day, Aunt Frances had planted that cap on the front of her head, and with that long pearled hatpin clenched between her teeth, had yelled, “You-all better hurry up—you’re making me late.” Every morning until they finished high school, Vergie and October had walked a few steps ahead of those two women, their aunts, to the comer where they caught the bus and the two girls turned for school. Nothing could change now.

  October finished her calls. They were in luck. The four of them took the night train to Columbus.