“Thank yuh ma’am,” said the boy. “You certainly is a nice lady. You aint mean lak some folks.”
“Thank you,” rejoined the girl, “and where do you live?”
“I lives down in Fifty-Third Street. My mama, she dead when I wuz a baby an’ my fadder, too, he dead.”
“Who takes care of you?”
“My grand’ma, an’ she teached me th’ Lawd’s prayer an’ I goes tuh Sunday school when I got shoes. See this coat? Aint it nice? A lady gave it to me.”
“It is a pretty coat,” agreed the young woman, “and do you belong to the church yet?”
“Naw, not yet, but I guess I will some day. A lady that used to live wid us she got religion, but after a while her sins come back on her. Do you know my teacher?”
“No, I don’t. What does she teach you?”
“She, she teach me how to read and count a hundred, but I forgot what comes after ninety-seven. Do you know? Let’s see, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven—gee. I can’t learn that.”
“Of course,” laughed the girl, “ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. What else does she teach you?”
“She say when I go to Heben I be white as snow an’ the angels goin’ to take this lump out of my back an’ make me tall. I guess maybe they roll something over my back like dat machine, what dey rolls out the street wid.”
The girl felt very much like laughing at this original idea, but seeing his serious face she resisted and asked him very kindly how old he was.
“Let’s see,” answered the boy. “Grand’ma she say I’m fifteen, teacher she say I’m sixteen. I guess I’m sixteen cause once, long time ago, I wuz fifteen before.”
The young lady exhibited signs of flagging interest and asked no more questions but the boy showed no inclination to go. His eyes never left her face, and at last he asked, “Where is yo’ mama and papa?”
“Both dead.”
“Who takes keer of you, then?”
“Why, I do, myself.”
“Nobody buys you nothin’ to eat, neither?”
“No.”
The hunch-back looked pitying at the girl, at himself, at the floor, and at last said in a voice full of pity, “I guess maybe I can put on some long pants an’ marry you an’ then I’ll buy you something to eat.”
The girl would have laughed but the world of sympathy, understanding, and fellowship that showed in the boy’s face and choked his voice restrained her. How often had she sought that same understanding fellowship within her own class, but how seldom had she found it!
“Well, lady, I’m goin’ now cause I got to make a fire in the stove for Grand’ma. But I come back again some time cause youse a nice lady. Maybe I bring you some Easter candy if I have some nickels—that’s the day the Jews nailed Jesus in a box an’ put rocks on it, but he got out—ask the Bible, he knows.”
Drenched in Light
You Isie Watts! Git ’own offen dat gate post an’ rake up dis yahd!”
The little brown figure perched upon the gate post looked yearningly at the gleaming shell road that lead to Orlando, and down the road that led to Sanford and shrugged her thin shoulders. This heaped kindling on Grandma Potts’ already burning ire.
“Lawd a-mussy!” she screamed, enraged—“Heah Joel, gimme dat wash stick. Ah’ll show dat limb of Satan she kain’t shake huhseff at me. If she ain’t down by de time Ah gets dere, Ah’ll break huh down in de lines” (loins).
“Aw Gran’ma, Ah see Mist’ George and Jim Robinson comin’ and Ah wanted to wave at ’em,” the child said petulantly.
“You jes wave dat rake at dis heah yahd, madame, else Ah’ll take you down a button hole lower. You’se too ’oomanish jumpin’ up in everybody’s face dat pass.”
This struck the child in a very sore spot for nothing pleased her so much as to sit atop of the gate post and hail the passing vehicles on their way south to Orlando, or north to Sanford. That white shell road was her great attraction. She raced up and down the stretch of it that lay before her gate like a round eyed puppy hailing gleefully all travelers. Everybody in the country, white and colored, knew little Isis Watts, the joyful. The Robinson brothers, white cattlemen, were particularly fond of her and always extended a stirrup for her to climb up behind one of them for a short ride, or let her try to crack the long bull whips and yee whoo at the cows.
Grandma Potts went inside and Isis literally waved the rake at the “chaws” of ribbon cane that lay so bountifully about the yard in company with the knots and peelings, with a thick sprinkling of peanut hulls.
The herd of cattle in their envelope of gray dust came alongside and Isis dashed out to the nearest stirrup and was lifted up.
“Hello theah Snidlits, I was wonderin’ wheah you was,” said Jim Robinson as she snuggled down behind in the saddle. They were almost out of the danger zone when Grandma emerged.
“You Isie-s!” she bawled.
The child slid down on the opposite side from the house and executed a flank movement through the corn patch that brought her into the yard from behind the privy.
“You lil’ hasion you! Wheah you been?”
“Out in de back yahd,” Isis lied and did a cart wheel and a few fancy steps on her way to the front again.
“If you doan git tuh dat yahd, Ah make a mommuk of you!” Isis observed that Grandma was cutting a fancy assortment of switches from peach, guana and cherry trees.
She finished the yard by raking everything under the edge of the porch and began a romp with the dogs, those lean, floppy eared ’coon hounds that all country folks keep. But Grandma vetoed this also.
“Isie, you set ’own on dat porch! Uh great big ’lebon yeah old gal racin’ an’ rompin’ lak dat—set ’own!”
Isis impatiently flung herself upon the steps.
“Git up offa dem steps, you aggavatin’ limb, ’fore Ah git dem hick’ries tuh you, an’ set yo’ seff on a cheah.”
Isis petulantly arose and sat down as violently as possible in a chair, but slid down until she all but sat upon her shoulder blades.
“Now look atcher,” Grandma screamed, “Put yo’ knees together, an’ git up offen yo’ backbone! Lawd, you know dis hellion is gwine make me stomp huh insides out.”
Isis sat bolt upright as if she wore a ramrod down her back and began to whistle. Now there are certain things that Grandma Potts felt no one of this female persuasion should do—one was to sit with the knees separated, “settin’ brazen” she called it; another was whistling, another playing with boys, neither must a lady cross her legs.
Up she jumped from her seat to get the switches.
“So youse whistlin’ in mah face, huh!” She glared till her eyes were beady and Isis bolted for safety. But the noon hour brought John Watts, the widowed father, and this excused the child from sitting for criticism.
Being the only girl in the family, of course she must wash the dishes, which she did in intervals between frolics with the dogs. She even gave Jake, the puppy, a swim in the dishpan by holding him suspended above the water that reeked of “pot likker”—just high enough so that his feet would be immersed. The deluded puppy swam and swam without ever crossing the pan, much to his annoyance. Hearing Grandma she hurriedly dropped him on the floor, which he tracked up with feet wet with dishwater.
Grandma took her patching and settled down in the front room to sew. She did this every afternoon and invariably slept in the big red rocker with her head lolled back over the back, the sewing falling from her hand.
Isis had crawled under the center table with its red plush cover with little round balls for fringe. She was lying on her back imagining herself various personages. She wore trailing robes, golden slippers with blue bottoms. She rode white horses with flaring pink nostrils to the horizon, for she still believed that to be land’s end. She was picturing herself gazing over the edge of the world into the abyss when the spool of cotton fell from Grandma’s lap and rolled away under the whatnot. Isis drew back from her contemplation of the not
hingness at the horizon and glanced up at the sleeping woman. Her head had fallen back. She breathed with a regular “snark” intake and soft “poosah” exhaust. But Isis was a visual minded child. She heard the snores only subconsciously but she saw straggling beard on Grandma’s chin, trembling a little with every “snark” and “poosah.” They were long gray hairs curled here and there against the dark brown skin. Isis was moved with pity for her mother’s mother.
“Poah Gran’ma needs a shave,” she murmured, and set about it. Just then, Joel, next older than Isis, entered with a can of bait.
“Come on, Isie, les’ we all go fishin’. The perch is bitin’ fine in Blue Sink.”
“Sh-h—” cautioned his sister, “Ah got to shave Gran’ma.”
“Who say so?” Joel asked, surprised.
“Nobody doan hafta tell me. Look at her chin. No ladies don’t weah no whiskers if they kin help it. But Gran’ma gittin’ ole an’ she doan know how to shave like me.”
The conference adjourned to the back porch lest Grandma wake.
“Aw, Isie, you doan know nothin’ ’bout shavin’ a-tall—but a man lak me—”
“Ah do so know.”
“You don’t not. Ah’m goin’ shave her mahseff.”
“Naw, you won’t neither, Smarty. Ah saw her first an’ thought it all up first,” Isis declared, and ran to the calico covered box on the wall above the wash basin and seized her father’s razor. Joel was quick and seized the mug and brush.
“Now!” Isis cried defiantly, “Ah got the razor.”
“Goody, goody, goody, pussy cat, Ah got th’ brush an’ you can’t shave ’thout lather—see! Ah know mo’ than you,” Joel retorted.
“Aw, who don’t know dat?” Isis pretended to scorn. But seeing her progress blocked for lack of lather she compromised.
“Ah know! Les’ we all shave her. You lather an’ Ah shave.”
This was agreeable to Joel. He made mountains of lather and anointed his own chin, and the chin of Isis and the dogs, splashed the walls and at last was persuaded to lather Grandma’s chin. Not that he was loath but he wanted his new plaything to last as long as possible.
Isis stood on one side of the chair with the razor clutched cleaver fashion. The niceties of razor-handling had passed over her head. The thing with her was to hold the razor—sufficient in itself.
Joel splashed on the lather in great gobs and Grandma awoke.
For one bewildered moment she stared at the grinning boy with the brush and mug but sensing another presence, she turned to behold the business face of Isis and the razor-clutching hand. Her jaw dropped and Grandma, forgetting years and rheumatism, bolted from the chair and fled from the house, screaming.
“She’s gone to tell papa, Isie. You didn’t have no business wid his razor and he’s gonna lick yo hide,” Joel cried, running to replace mug and brush.
“You too, chuckle-head, you, too,” retorted Isis. “You was playin’ wid his brush and put it all over the dogs—Ah seen you put it on Ned an’ Beulah.” Isis shaved some slivers from the door jamb with the razor and replaced it in the box. Joel took his bait and pole and hurried to Blue Sink. Isis crawled under the house to brood over the whipping she knew would come. She had meant well.
But sounding brass and tinkling cymbal drew her forth. The local lodge of the Grand United Order of Odd Fellows, led by a braying, thudding band, was marching in full regalia down the road. She had forgotten the barbecue and log-rolling to be held today for the benefit of the new hall.
Music to Isis meant motion. In a minute, razor and whipping forgotten, she was doing a fair imitation of the Spanish dancer she had seen in a medicine show some time before. Isis’ feet were gifted—she could dance most anything she saw.
Up, up went her spirits, her brown little feet doing all sorts of intricate things and her body in rhythm, hand curving above her head. But the music was growing faint. Grandma nowhere in sight. She stole out of the gate, running and dancing after the band.
Then she stopped. She couldn’t dance at the carnival. Her dress was torn and dirty. She picked a long stemmed daisy and thrust it behind her ear. But the dress, no better. Oh, an idea! In the battered round topped trunk in the bedroom!
She raced back to the house, then, happier, raced down the white dusty road to the picnic grove, gorgeously clad. People laughed good naturedly at her, the band played and Isis danced because she couldn’t help it. A crowd of children gather[ed] admiringly about her as she wheeled lightly about, hand on hip, flower between her teeth with the red and white fringe of the tablecloth—Grandma’s new red tablecloth that she wore in lieu of a Spanish shawl—trailing in the dust. It was too ample for her meager form, but she wore it like a gypsy. Her brown feet twinkled in and out of the fringe. Some grown people joined the children about her. The Grand Exalted Ruler rose to speak; the band was hushed, but Isis danced on, the crowd clapping their hands for her. No one listened to the Exalted one, for little by little the multitude had surrounded the brown dancer.
An automobile drove up to the Crown and halted. Two white men and a lady got out and pushed into the crowd, suppressing mirth discreetly behind gloved hands. Isis looked up and waved them a magnificent hail and went on dancing until—
Grandma had returned to the house and missed Isis and straightway sought her at the festivities expecting to find her in her soiled dress, shoeless, gaping at the crowd, but what she saw drove her frantic. Here was her granddaughter dancing before a gaping crowd in her brand new red tablecloth, and reeking of lemon extract, for Isis had added the final touch to her costume. She must have perfume.
Isis saw Grandma and bolted. She heard her cry: “Mah Gawd, mah brand new tablecloth Ah jus’ bought f’um O’landah!” as she fled through the crowd and on into the woods.
II
She followed the little creek until she came to the ford in a rutty wagon road that led to Apopka and laid down on the cool grass at the roadside. The April sun was quite hot.
Misery, misery and woe settled down upon her and the child wept. She knew another whipping was in store for her.
“Oh, Ah wish Ah could die, then Gran’ma an’ papa would be sorry they beat me so much. Ah b’leeve Ah’ll run away an’ never go home no mo’. Ah’m goin’ drown mahseff in th’ creek!” Her woe grew attractive.
Isis got up and waded into the water. She routed out a tiny ’gator and a huge bull frog. She splashed and sang, enjoying herself immensely. The purr of a motor struck her ear and she saw a large, powerful car jolting along the rutty road toward her. It stopped at the water’s edge.
“Well, I declare, it’s our little gypsy,” exclaimed the man at the wheel, “What are you doing here, now?”
“Ah’m killin’ mahseff,” Isis declared dramatically, “cause Gran’ma beats me too much.”
There was a hearty burst of laughter from the machine.
“You’ll last sometime the way you are going about it. Is this the way to Maitland? We want to go to the Park Hotel.”
Isis saw no longer any reason to die. She came up out of the water, holding up the dripping fringe of the tablecloth.
“Naw, indeedy. You go to Maitland by the shell road—it goes by mah house—an’ turn off at Lake Sebelia to the clay road that takes you right to the do’.”
“Well,” went on the driver, smiling furtively, “could you quit dying long enough to go with us?”
“Yessuh,” she said thoughtfully, “Ah wanta go wid you.”
The door of the car swung open. She was invited to a seat beside the driver. She had often dreamed of riding in one of these heavenly chariots but never thought she would, actually.
“Jump in then, Madame Tragedy, and show us. We lost ourselves after we left your barbecue.”
During the drive Isis explained to the kind lady who smelt faintly of violets and to the indifferent men that she was really a princess. She told them about her trips to the horizon, about the trailing gowns, the gold shoes with blue bottoms—she insisted on the
blue bottoms—the white charger, the time when she was Hercules and had slain numerous dragons and sundry giants. At last the car approached her gate over which stood the umbrella China-berry tree. The car was abreast of the gate and had all but passed when Grandma spied her glorious tablecloth lying back against the upholstery of the Packard.
“You Isie-e!” she bawled, “You lil’ wretch you! come heah dis instunt!”
“That’s me,” the child confessed, mortified, to the lady on the rear seat.
“Oh, Sewell, stop the car. This is where the child lives. I hate to give her up though.”
“Do you wanta keep me?” Isis brightened.
“Oh, I wish I could, you shining little morsel. Wait, I’ll try to save you a whipping this time.”
She dismounted with the gaudy lemon flavored culprit and advanced to the gate where Grandma stood glowering, switches in hand.
“You’re gointuh ketchit f’um yo’ haid to yo’ heels m’lady. Jes’ come in heah.”
“Why, good afternoon,” she accosted the furious grandparent. “You’re not going to whip this poor little thing, are you?” the lady asked in conciliatory tones.
“Yes, Ma’am. She’s de wustest lil’ limb dat ever drawed bref. Jes’ look at mah new tablecloth dat ain’t never been washed. She done traipsed all over de woods, uh dancin’ an’ uh prancin’ in it. She done took a razor to me t’day an’ Lawd knows whut mo’.”
Isis clung to the white hand fearfully.
“Ah wuzn’t gointer hurt Gran’ma, miss—Ah wuz jus’ gointer shave her whiskers fuh huh ’cause she’s old an’ can’t.”
The white hand closed tightly over the little brown one that was quite soiled. She could understand a voluntary act of love even though it miscarried.
“Now, Mrs. er—er—I didn’t get the name—how much did your tablecloth cost?”
“One whole big silvah dollar down at O’landah—ain’t had it a week yit.”
“Now here’s five dollars to get another one. The little thing loves laughter. I want her to go on to the hotel and dance in that tablecloth for me. I can stand a little light today—”
Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick Page 8
