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This is to certify that the

thesis entitled

Frederick Street

presented by

Christine Jeanette Hammond

has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

Master of Arts degree in_Engli§h_

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Frederick Street

BY

Christine Jeanette Hammond

A THESIS
Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1993

ABSTRACT

FREDERICK STREET

BY

Christine Jeanette Hammond

Frederick Street is a collection of short stories

 

about life in a contemporary urban community. Each

story can be read independently of the others, yet the
stories are related on two levels. First, the characters
all know one another, or know something about one another.
The lady card players in ”Josie" know Lucille, the main
character in ”Sweet Honey Lucille and Johnny Ray," for
example.

The second, more fundamental, way in which the
stories connect is that the main character in each story
experiences internal confusion about intimacy and autonomy.
For example, young Lindsey Nelson makes a conscious de-
cision to avoid emotional attachments for fear of being
rejected, but at the end of ”Touching Day" she is be-
ginning to sense she's made a bad decision. Each

character on Frederick Street faces such choices.

for Ernestine

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could not have completed this project without
help from many people. I want to thank William Penn
for his encouragement and support, and Gordon Henry
for grace in the eleventh hour. Thanks to Arthur
Athanason, Lister Matheson and Diane Wakowski for
cogent questions that helped me re-view this work.

Thanks also to Rosemary Johnsen, Bob McDonald and
Rod Phillips, good friends and gentle readers.

And special thanks to Ulysses, my partner in life,
who believed when I didn't, and to Shayna, my daughter,

my teacher.

ii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Frederick Street - An Essay ...... . ............. 1
Lindsey's Home ........................... ...... 11
Janey's Fortune ................................ 23
Sweet Honey Lucille and Johnny Ray ............. 39
Touching Day ............... . ................. .. 51
Trying To Connect ............. ................. 57
Josie ............... ...... ........... ..... ..... 66
Going to Town .................................. 71
BJ and Kevin . ...... . ........................ ... 78

Graduation Day ............ ..................... 89

iii

Frederick Street - An Essay

Tobias Wolff said, ”the writer is not necessarily
the best interpreter of the story, because the writer
is bound by intention, by what he meant to say...some
of the most interesting things we say are those things
we do not mean to say." Conversely, some of the things
we mean to say never get expressed on the page. With
these thoughts in mind, I have nevertheless, undertaken
to write this essay in the hope of explaining what I have
tried to create.

This project began with the idea of writing a col-
lection of short stories all narrated from the point of
view of a little girl who lived in a community called
Frederick Street. (Does every writer begin by telling
her own story, whether consciously or not?) These
would not be children's stories, but mature stories in a
child's voice. The limitations inherent in this approach
became apparent right away.

"Touching Day," the first completed story, created
the persona and voice of a young person with the sophis-
tication to tell some stories about Frederick Street,
but there were some things that Lindsey Nelson could not

know. For example, I soon realized that Lindsey would

not understand enough of life to tell Janey's story in
"Janey's Fortune." Lindsey's youth precluded her from
discerning the delicate shades of behavior between men
and women. A child's reaction to Rufus' behavior would
be fear, anger, indignation, perhaps, but without under-
standing much about motivation. Janey's story told from
Lindsey's point of View might have more directness, but
less depth and truth. A child can't read the shavings
left over when people rub against one another. So I
realized early it would be essential to include a range
of points of view to tell the stories of Frederick
Street. The heart, though, of the narrative, remains a
youthful one.

I also discovered that the story of Frederick
Street was the story of the characters more than the
place where they lived. Frederick Street exists as a
concrete place in the mind of this author, of course,
and it was necessary to create specific physical charac-
teristics of that urban community and hold that vision
as each story unfolded. But I made a conscious decision
to minimize descriptive narrative about Frederick Street,
because I think the interesting part of each story is
the conflict that arises when characters try to main-
tain (or establish) autonomy while they continue to
remain (or try to become) connected to others emo-

tionally. This struggle between intimacy and autonomy

is essentially an internal one, and therefore, the ter-
rain upon which this conflict arises, and plays out to
resolution might be Detroit or Manhattan or Peoria, or
Paris or Timbuktu. Readers are encouraged to fill in
the details of their own "Frederick Street" as they re-
act to the characters in the stories.

In developing this project, I have tried to create
a unit of connected tales. The stories are intended to
relate to one another on two levels; the first one super-
ficial, and the second not quite so readily apparent.
The first, and more obvious, relationship between the
stories is that the characters all know or know of one
another. That knowledge might be literal, as in the
case of Lindsey and Bruce Radlow in "Touching Day" and
"Trying to Connect," or that knowledge may be inferred
by the content of the stories, as in the lady card
players in the story "Josie," and the main character,
Lucille, in the story "Sweet Honey Lucille and Johnny
Ray."

These relationships exist even though the stories
cover a span of time of roughly twenty years, circa 1955
to 1975. For example, while Janey and Lindsey never
meet, Janey's disappearance becomes community folklore.

In another example, Lucille of "Janey's Fortune" and

4
other stories, becomes Janey's confidante and Lindsey's
mentor, some years later in "Sweet Honey..." Of course,
Bruce Radlow from "Trying to Connect," is a familiar
figure to many children and adults in the community.
These are but a few examples in which the characters
reach across households and across time from story to
story.

But there is another underlying and more funda-
mental way in which these stories connect, a theme
threading through the collection. The main character
in each story experiences internal struggle and con-
fusion about intimacy and autonomy. The struggle it-
self is common enough, and necessary for human growth
and development. A mature adult is autonomous and
comfortable with intimacy as well. But it can be in-
teresting to watch as people have to, or feel they have
to make choices between having close personal relation-
ships marked by affection and love, and being indepen-
dent, free and self-directed human beings.

A conscious decision to avoid emotional attach-
ments can serve as both a defense mechanism against pain
of rejection, and as a personal affirmation of existence.
This is Lindsey's choice in "Touching Day." In "Trying

to Connect? Bruce Radlow substitutes "involvement"

5
with his students for "intimacy" with Ann, and Lindsey
teaches him the dangers of miscommunication when know-
ledge and understanding between individuals is shallow
and incomplete.

Janey is just beginning to discover independence
and self-direction as "Janey's Fortune" ends. In
"Josie" the main character relishes her independence,
but also yearns for a level of intimacy with Eugene
that eludes her.

The young narrator in "Going to Town" is just a-
wakening to the possibilities of freedom and indepen-
dence as she begins to experience an emotional distancing
from her good friend Patrice. Lucille, in "Sweet Honey
Lucille and Johnny Ray," reveals the bittersweet exis—
tence of a woman who insists on fashioning her own free
and independent self in a time when women had few choices.
She understands that sometimes, especially for women,
autonomy and intimacy don't go hand in hand.

In "Lindsey's Home," the main character, again
Linsdey Nelson, has mastered autonomy, but she is still
running from emotional connections. In the two stories,
"BJ and Kevin" and "Graduation Day," the theme of intimacy

and autonomy is less well—developed. At the end ofrmu story,

Sarah knows her close relationship with BJ has changed,
but she's not sure how or why. And the conflict for the
commencement speaker in "Graduation Day" is essentially
a question of how to "stand up" and claim her autonomy
by making a solo decision. The element of intimacy is
not directly at issue in this story.

The extent to which this theme of tension between
autonomy and intimacy is developed in each story is, in
some measure, also the extent to which each story is
able to stand independently of the others as an example
of one character's struggle. And the major objective
for this author was to write connected tales, each with
the strength to stand independently of the others.

This essay also attempts to anticipate some of the
criticism of the work and respond in advance. First of
all, the criticism that Frederick Street is not as well-
written, in the general sense, as it might be is a given,
and a shortcoming in the author which only more writing,
reading, writing and re-writing can help to remedy.

Some other concerns that might occur to the
reader include:

Aren't your characters all living in poverty and

 

disadvantaged means? You don't really show that. Why

 

not?

7

The short answer to this criticism is simply that
despair as a theme does not interest me. Characters
without hope do not have interesting stories to tell.

For those willing to act, however mean their circum-
stances, their choices, their decisions, their actions
are what matter. More importantly even tumulthis, how-
ever, is the idea that fundamental themes of human
existence transcend economic stations

No themes are so human as those that re-

flect for us out of the confusion of life

the close connection of bliss and bale, of

the things that help with the things that

hurt, so dangling before us forever that

hard bright metal, of so strange an alloy,

one face of which is somebody's right and

ease and the other somebody's pain and

wrong. (James 143)

Janey and Rufus were dirt poor in "Janey's Fortune,"
but Janey's decision to finally act against Rufus and for
herself had nothing to do with poverty. She might easily
have been wealthy. The story is about her making a choice,
deciding to act, taking responsibility. Some may argue
that Janey's actions were dictated by her financial re-

sources. Perhaps, but that's another story.

Another criticism might be: What about the men?

 

Where are they? Why do they all look so bad?

 

For this criticism I have only a thin shield, but I
hold it high. I understand the lives of black women
better than I understand the lives of any other people.

Our entire experience in reading fiction is

based on a tacit contract granting the

[author] the right to know what he is

talking about. It is this contract which

makes fiction possible. To deny it would

not only destroy all fiction, but all

literature, since all art supposes the

artist's choice. If you destroy the

notion of choice, it is art that is

annihilated. (Booth 53)

Fictions writers would be reduced to writing propa-
ganda for one cause or another rather than creating art.

All I can do is write about what I know.

Another criticism might be: It seems incomplete,

open-ended. What happens next on Frederick Street?

 

In some ways the Frederick Street project repre-
sents an extended character study of young Lindsey, one

of its most interesting characters. She makes a con-

9

scious determination not to connect with others, to
minimize association with even her closest kin, per-
haps as a defense against being misunderstood or misused.
The lives of the women could all be seen as possible al-
ternative futures for an adult Lindsey. Her withdrawal
from Radlow, her decision to leave her home town and
never return, her choice of a career, all help her put
physical and psychological distance between herself and
everyone else. It will be interesting to explore the
adult Lindsey's character and discover what happens
after she leaves Frederick Street. What were some of
her experiences during the twenty years away? Was her
decision a wise one? Was it a salvation, a saving grace?
How does she change and grow? What does she learn?
Finally, once she returns to Frederick Street, will

she stay or go, and why?

I plan to explore these questions in a novel which
begins after Lindsey's father's death and telescopes
backward over her adult life, examining her career and
relationships with friends and lovers, then moves for-
ward to the present where she's staying on Frederick
Street temporarily to settle her father's affairs and

contemplating what to do with the rest of her life.

10

Booth, Wayne, The Rhetoric of Fiction. University of

 

Chicago Press: Chicago, 1983.

James, Henry, The Art of the Novel. C. Scribner's Sons:

 

New York, London, 1934.

Wolff, Tobias, "Interview Conducted by Bonnie Lyons and
Bill Oliver, Contemporary Literature, Vol. XXXI,

No. 1, University of Wisconsin, 1990.

Lindsey's Home

When Linda called to say he was sick, she wanted me
to fly home right away. The doctors said hepatic
carcinoma, but that wasn't it. I knew rage was killing
my daddy, swelling in his heart, spilling over into his
gut, eating him alive from the inside.

I told her I'd drive. Leaving first thing in the
morning, I'd be home by evening. Meanness made me delay,
but I needed time to think. I had been gone from
Frederick Street for twenty years.

Linda's call had awakened memories long buried. I
fixed myself a tall scotch, heavy ice, and took it out
on my postage stamp of a balcony which looked over the
Potomac. Easing into a chair, cradling my drink, I
stared into the distance beyond the monuments, into the

past I had left behind in Detroit.

Most of my early memories of my father involved his
temper. Though he was always angry, you never knew
when he would explode. Once he overturned a table full

of food because mama had oversalted the rice. A minute

11

12

before he had been talking softly to Glenn about the
Tigers' chances in the pennant race that year. More
went unsaid than said in our house. Everyone was
stretched thin with feeling things, but never feeling
safe enough to say them.

He drank in the dark and talked to himself. The
moon cast eerie shadows on his dusky face and lit the
bottle of Four Roses as I hid in the dark and watched
him. We all watched him, trying to memorize the signs
that would warn us in time to move out of the way of
his random Violence.

His laughter, rare as rubies, was triggered as
often by the hilarious as by the calamitous. Always a
bright surprise, it could fill a room like the sun,
lighting dark corners and shining on clean surfaces.
The honest laughter of black men is one of the world's
beautiful sounds. I remember when I was little, in the
years before I was ten, holding my breath for long days
waiting to hear that laughter brighten everything
around.

When mama died the laughter.disappeared altogether.
Daddy was drunk most of the time after that. Glenn and
I took care of each other. Both in our teens, we were
just biding our time until we could get away. Glenn
joined the Navy at eighteen, and for three bitter years

I was alone with daddy. Then I escaped to college on a

13

scholarship, vowing never to return. But now one of the

ancient duties was calling me back.

I left before dawn, heading east toward the
Pennsylvania Turnpike, driving against the bumper-to-
bumper traffic heading out of Montgomery County. I
usually felt lucky to be heading opposite Washington's
legendary traffic snarls, but not today. What I was
heading for had already begun to tie my stomach up more
than any traffic jam ever could. The engine of my big
Oldsmobile hummed reassuringly as I sped along I-49
to Breezewood. Usually, being on the road put me in a
good mood, but not today. I was thinking about daddy

and home.

Once we were walking in the snow, daddy and I,
rushing for a reason lost to me now. I couldn't have
been more than four. The day was bitterly cold. I
shoved one hand deep in my pocket, the other lost in
daddy's huge fist. In our haste my feet seemed barely
to touch the ground. I remember my right foot was much

colder than my left, the sole of my brown saddle oxford

14

worn neatly through in a round hole the size of my
thumb. Daddy's big, black work boots plowed the
glistening snow out of the way as we hurried along,
and suddenly he stopped short. I nearly toppled over
into the snow, surprised at the sudden halt. My eyes
followed daddy's to the sidewalk and the bright coins
on the ground revealed in the snow. He kneeled quickly
to pick up three quarters and a dime. Eighty—five
cents! Daddy was smiling and I could hear that be-
ginning rumble deep in his chest become a chuckle in
his throat and finally unrestrained laughter, as he
snatched me up and tossed me in the air. It was
sunny and warmer as we hurried on our way. A thin,

shining memory for holding on to.

I stopped to gas up in Breezewood and called Linda
to let her know I was on my way.

"He's hanging on, hurry Lindsey," was all she
said.

I got back into the car and sped away.

One of the few things that D.C. did not have was
Linda Blake. Married now with six kids, Linda was one
of the few young people never to go away from Frederick

Street. Her family was desperately poor, but she

15

seemed not to know it. Her husband Luke worshipped her
and doted on their kids.

Linda was one of the smartest people I knew when we
were in school. She still read whenever she could, but
that wasn't often. Once a year we could talk together
about a book we had both read. It wasn't enough for
me, but it was a treat for her. We have been writing
letters back and forth to one another since the day I
left for college and continued to share our lives with
one another across the miles, wherever my journalism
career had taken me.

Linda was after me to settle down with somebody, but
I knew that until I met a man who considered it as much
his responsibility as mine to scrub piss from toilets,

I was not going to be happily married.

I had come close with Edward. But he got anxious
if I had to be away on assignment for more than a couple
of days. He was very gracious about my absences and
understanding about my work. He said the right things,
but I didn't trust those fingers drumming on the table.
So I called the engagement off.

I had kept my vow never to return to Frederick
Street, even though Linda wrote and told me daddy had
quit drinking. I did convince him to visit me in
Washington once, a few years ago. I wanted to give him

a chance to see something else of the world. I was sur-

16

prised that he agreed to come, and more surprised at
how pleased I was that he did. He complained the
whole time.

"There's something wrong with the nation's capital
not having a team participatin' in the national past
time. That's the trouble with this country. The
guv'mint says one thing, mean something else, and
think they mean something else again."

"What kind of life is this for a woman, livin'
all alone a hundred feet off the ground, don't even
have a decent set of pots?"

"Ain't you never goin' get married? How old you
think you have to be?"

He was proud of my job at the Star, but he wouldn't
come again.

The Olds was eating up the miles. Just east of
the Ohio state line I stopped to rest. Half way home.
Several children were playing hand games while their
parents sat at a picnic table nearby. Their voices
reached me as I sat in my car.

Old Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,

All dressed in black, black, black,

With silver buttons, buttons, buttons,

All down her back, back, back...

Their clear, young voices melted time. It was the

same chant Linda and I and the other little girls on

17

Frederick Street sang and played in the courtyard be-

behind our houses years ago.

When I was little, I used to sit on the back porch
in the shadow of the railing, making myself as small as
I could, and watch the neighbors. We lived in the
center of a long block of row houses, divided by tiny
wooden porches. Peeking through the slats in either
direction, I could watch the activities of ten families
in my neighborhood, including my own.

Granny called me a watching child. She called me
lots of things, actually, but she meant I saw more
than I was supposed to see of grown folks' business.

It was true. People came and went from the front doors
on Frederick, but the living took place out back, in
the large courtyard common to all ten families, maybe
fifty yards wide and twenty-five feet deep. Today,
people would draw a line around their property and put
up a fence, but it hadn't seemed important back then,
or maybe just nobody thought of it. Or somebody else
owned the space. It didn't matter to us.

Kids were everywhere, playing jump rope and tag,
and hopscotch in the dirt. Sometimes I joined in games

of Red Rover, but my favorite thing was watching.

18

I saw Mrs. Davenport slice her husband on the
wrist with a butcher knife when I was five. It was
in the courtyard on a sweltering August afternoon
that he came bursting out of their house, fell on to
the dusty ground, threw his hands up, and she sliced
him. Blood mixed with pale dirt as they rolled a-
round on the ground until the police came and broke it
up. They dragged her off to jail, wild-eyed and
screaming. She was home the next day, and things went
on as usual.

I had to be inside at dusk, when the street lights
came on. The courtyard became the territory of the
teenagers then. I would sneak to the window upstairs
looking out over the courtyard, and try to make out the
shapes in the dark, and make sense of the sounds coming
from the shadows.

Sometimes the boys sang, harmonizing in voices so
fine you'd want to cry for no reason. My cousin Eddie
was one of the singers. He had a beautiful, deep
rolling voice that sounded like melted caramel flowing
over crumb cakes. He was killed in Vietnam when I was
sixteen, before it became an unpopular war.

At one end of the courtyard was an old wooden
basketball backboard and rim. The boys played all day
and after school during the year, well into the night

until they could no longer see the ball. Shirtless

19
sweating, grace in motion, they jostled relentlessly
in their struggle to establish dominion over one an-
other. The players changed, some dr0pping out, others
joining the game, but always the competition continued.
Always more players wanted to get in the game than
there was room for. There were strict rules about who
got "next.“ Anyone violating the established order was
severely censured, sometimes banished from the court for
some indeterminate period. The game went on, always, a
backdrop to whatever else was happening in the court-

yard.

After a while the little girls stopped their
chanting and began running in the grass, laughing and
tumbling to the ground. I started my engine and pulled
back onto the turnpike, rolling toward Frederick Street.
As I got closer, I tried to remember the things Linda
had warned me about in her letters. It was more run-
down than ever she'd said. Some of the houses had
been torn down and not replaced. It wasn't so safe
after dark anymore. She said she and Luke had talked
about moving. I was certain it couldn't be worse than
anything I'd seen in other cities, I'd assured her.

But this is Frederick Street, Linda had written back.

20

The first thing I saw when I pulled off the free-
way and onto Frederick Street was Bruce Radlow's old
brownstone, now boarded up and crumbling with decay.

My old homeroom teacher, he had taught me the first
things I learned about the newspaper business, and con-
vinced me I could make it there. One of the few white
peOple who cared what happened on Frederick Street, he
had not always been appreciated by those who thought he
was in the way and meddling. I was one. Mean as a
whip. Listening to every word he said and pretending
not to care.

Thinking about Mr. Radlow made me remember screaming
Victor. He'd been in my class that year. Victor was
still screaming thirty years later, but he was screaming
in that radical rag he published out of Boston now. Still
beautiful and still angry.

Up the block, Lucille's house was gone. A vacant
lot overgrown with weeds was all that remained of the
first lady that treated me like I had something worth-
while to say. Granny had hated Lucille, and that made
her immensely interesting to me. Warned to stay away
from her, for a long time I did, half afraid of the
stories about how evil she was. Then I met her one day
and began to know her better. I didn't understand
everything she told me back then, but I was so hungry
for information I soaked up every word and saved it for

later.

21

"Know your own body, what it likes, so you won't
be caught unawares,” she'd told me. "And don't be
afraid to enjoy yourself, it's your right. No man,
woman or book has ever given me better information on
sex. Lucille was a woman way ahead of her time.

And there, five doors from where Lucille used to
be was my daddy's house. Ten hours of driving, col-
lecting my thoughts, girding myself for the moment had
not prepared me to climb the steps and face him, but I
had arrived. I felt like a little girl again, angry,
uncertain, afraid.

Linda was waiting for me inside, as I knew she
would be. She hugged me tight, too full of emotion to
speak, and pushed me gently toward the room where my
father lay dying.

The sheets were pulled up tight to his chin, his
arms outside the covers at his sides. His head, a
shock of kinky cotton, rested against plump pillows.
The stubble of his beard was varying shades from black
to white. I was stunned to see how frail he had be-
come. This skeleton-man bore no resemblance to the
hulking bear of a man I knew as my father. I drew
closer to the bed and he Opened his eyes, almost
buried now in folds of useless skin. Those eyes that
could dance with laughter or spit fire when he was

angry held only a faint glint of light now, but were

22

unmistakably his.

"Daddy."

He turned to me then and said, Lindsey's home,"
then closed his eyes. I was afraid for a moment that
he was gone, but when I leaned over I could hear his
thin, labored breathing. I held dad's hand and wept.
Out the window above his head I could see six young men

playing basketball in the courtyard in the waning light.

Janey's Fortune

The day began for Janey like all the other long,
hot Saturday's in July. She heard Grady creeping down
Frederick Street in his produce truck. The old van
had been repainted many times in various shades of
blue. Chipped here and there, the paint created an
irridescence not intended. Loaded with tomatoes,
melons, peaches, beans, greens, cabbage, potatoes, and
corn, the truck was a small, dilapidated farm on wheels.

"Fresh, fresh, get your fresh vegetables here.
Fresh fruit, freeeshhh."

Grady's cries sent Janey to her kitchen cupboard
for spare change. She hOped there was enough for fresh
peaches to make a cobbler. She kept the rusting Hills-
boro coffee can hidden from Rufus, and she had to reach
high and stretch far for the money. Janey saved her
money in the big tin because it sounded like much more
when she dropped the coins in. Two quarters, a nickel
and a dime rattled around in the can. The sixty-five
cents would buy just enough peaches if she sliced each
one extra thin. Janey poured the coins into her hand
and headed for Grady's truck.

She was usually the first to greet Grady on

Saturday mornings, but today someone was there ahead

23

24

of her, waving her arms, talking loud and pointing to
the watermelons. When she got closer, Janey realized
the new woman was complaining about Grady's prices for
the melons.

Janey couldn't ever remember more than a mild
grumble from anyone about Grady's prices, and here was
this woman screaming and calling him a cheat. Janey
reached the truck just as the woman was stomping off,
hands empty.

Janey could tell Grady was hopping mad. He was so
angry he couldn't stand still. He shifted his weight
from one foot to the other, and turned in little half
circles, trying to contain his rage.

"Who was that?"

"Ed's cousin from Memphis. That woman is nothing
but trouble. She got sent out of there just ahead of
the law, I heard. Told me I'm trying to cheat people!
Say my prices too high! I told her to get on away from
my truck. I don't want her business!”

Janey hadn't heard that part, but she just said,
"you got some good lookin' peaches today Grady. That's
all I want. Gonna make a cobbler."

Grady calmed down right away. "Beautiful peaches,
Janey, straight from Georgia. Sweet and juicy. How
much you want?“

Janey opened her hand, showing Grady her coins,

silent.

25

"Let's see," said Grady.

He snapped open a brown paper sack and began pick-
ing over the tender, yellow-orange fruit. Janey watched
as one peach after another disappeared into the bag,
until, finally, Grady turned to Janey and said,

"okay, Janey, that will be sixty-five cents."

Janey started to protest.

"You're one of my best customers, Janey, take
these, take these."

Janey backed away from Grady's truck, pleased and
confused in turn. Good fortune was so often a stranger
to her, she wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad.

As she busied herself in the kitchen making the
cobbler, Janey wondered what kind of trouble made Ed's
cousin have to run away. Her own husband Rufus had
escaped from Bruce, Mississippi in a hurry. He had hit
a white man with a spade. Rufus liked to brag about
this to Janey when he was drunk and crazy. She had
heard a dozen versions of the tale, and the facts were
lost in a maze of half-truths and exaggerations. But
Big Mama told Janey long ago that Rufus was wanted by
the law in Mississippi and could never go back. Janey
believed Rufus' mother.

She put the peaches in a wire basket and lowered
them into boiling water while she tried hard to imagine

what kind of thing a woman could do to be run out of

26

town. Had she shot somebody? Stolen money? How did
they let her get away then?

Janey realized with a start that daydreaming had
almost made her leave the peaches in too long. The
skins were brilliant yellow and red. She took two
potholders from above the stove, grabbed the handles
of the wire basket and carried it, dripping, to the
sink. She became engrossed in her task, and didn't
think about the woman anymore. Every now and then her
thoughts fluttered around Rufus -- when he would come
home, what kind of mood he would be in, how long he
would stay.

Janey was taking the cobbler from the oven when
she heard Rufus' key in the lock. The door slammed
back against the wall and she heard his muttered ”damn"
as he staggered down the hallway toward the kitchen,
mumbling angry, incoherent phrases.

It was early afternoon and Janey hadn't seen Rufus
since Friday morning when he left for work. He'd been
drinking and gambling all night, and judging from his
mood, had lost big. She would have a bad afternoon
before he fell into a drunken sleep. Rufus appeared in
the kitchen doorway, weaving slightly and reeking of
gin. Janey looked at her husband of eight years and
tried to remember when she had ever loved him.

"Fix me somethinaeat...fix me some eggs, Janey, honey.

27

Janey hurried to do his bidding. "Sure, Rufus,
I'll scramble you some right now."

"I don't want no goddamn scrambled eggs, I want
sunny-side up!"

"All right."

"And hurry up. You move so slow you make me sick!"

Rufus slumped down in a chair while Janey moved
quickly, trying to anticipate his demands.

"Sons-a-bitches think they can shoot some craps.
Show 'em. I'll show 'em who know how to roll some dice.
Eddie think he know so goddamn much. Think he can do
any goddamn thing. Don't know shit. Don't know who
shoulda won...make me a winner...myself. He the best!
Ain't that some shit! I can make 'em sing...sing...
Janey! Janey! Where is mah dinner!"

Janey placed the food before Rufus and got the salt,
pepper and ketchup for him.

"I want some toast, goddammit! Where is the bread?"

Janey had it ready for him as soon as he yelled.

Rufus fell on the food hungrily, shoveling it into
his mouth with fork and fingers. His eyes were half-
closed, and Janey hoped he would fall asleep from the
meal rather than find new energy. She got lucky. As
she watched, his left hand fell into his plate, egg
yolk staining his sleeve. Then his head began to dr00p

low over the plate, and his right arm dropped heavily

28

by his side. Janey stood perfectly still near the
doorway with her fingers crossed until she heard
Rufus begin to snore softly. Then she removed the
plate from under his arm and left him. Janey's good
fortune was still holding.

She hurried to close the front door. She hadn't
dared leave Rufus' sight before. She stepped out on
the front porch to breathe some fresh air, and spotted
the new woman, several doors down, watching her. She
smiled at Janey and waved. Janey did not wave back.
Instead she slipped back inside and closed the front
door.

Janey hurried upstairs to gather her keno chips
and good luck charms for Saturday night cards at
Lucille's. She wanted to be out of the house before
Rufus woke up.

On the way to Lucille Montgomery's house, Janey
thought about her ladies night out. Many of the wives
on Frederick Street went to Lucille's on Saturday
nights. Not everyone got away from home every Saturday,
but most weeks seven or eight ladies were there. Janey
was a regular. She and Rufus fought about it often, but
Janey was stubborn, and recently Rufus had backed off
and let her alone about it. Lucille's house was the
logical place for the ladies to gather. She was a
widow with no children and could plan her days any way

she wanted.

29

Janey wondered what stories the ladies would tell.
Anna Cartwright would have a new tale about something
her twins had done. Joyce Blackmun would tell another
outrageous story about the people on her job, and Linda
Davenport would probably drink too much Old Grandad
again, and they would have to try to sneak her home
before Jack got in. Tonight, even she had a story,
about the new woman and old Grady. Janey raced up the
porch steps, and Lucille snatched open the front door
before Janey could knock.

"Come on in, chile. Me, Anna and Linda been waitin'
for you so we could set up the first keno table."

Lucille threw an arm around Janey's shoulders and
squeezed her tight. She was unlike anyone Janey had
ever known. Lucille appeared to be about her mother's
age. She would never say. And she was loud, but not
just loud talking. Janey didn't know anyone except
Lucille who had a purple, and a red, and a gold lame
dress. And her furniture! She had a red velvet chair
and settee in her living room with red and gold crushed
velvet drapes at her windows. She laughed loud too,
and slapped people on the back. Her hair was orange,
and she painted her long, pointed nails a vivid red.
If Janey met Lucille at the market, or the laundromat,
she was always reserved and correct, but sometimes

she'd wink.

30

Anna and Linda were already seated, thumbing through
the keno boards. Janey was especially glad to see Linda
who had missed the last two Saturday nights.

Janey sat down and began setting up her charms.
First she pulled her lucky coin out of her keno bag.

She had found this coin on the beach at Atlantic City
years ago. There was some foreign writing on it that
Janey couldn't read, but that didn't matter. She never
played keno without her lucky coin. She put it on her
right. Next, she pulled out the tiny elephant her

Aunt Esther had given her. Aunt Esther had told Janey
the elephant was lucky and wise. This conversation was
one of Janey's earliest memories, and she treasured the
elephant. She put it on her left. Now she was ready to
play. The ladies always teased Janey about her super-
stitions. None of them knew she also kept a lucky
Roosevelt dime in her shoe. Janey didn't care about
the teasing. She felt safe in her routines. Before
they could rib her about it tonight, she said, "guess
what? I saw Ed's cousin givin' old Grady the business
about his melons this morning!"

"What you talkin' about girl?" Anna asked.

"Who?" said Linda.

Even Lucille was surprised.

Janey had everyone's attention, and was delighted

to be the first with news.

31

"Girl, this morning that woman was givin' Grady the
down in the country about his prices. Called him a
cheat, do you hear me! She didn't buy nothin' either.
Said she'd go to the Wrigley! I didn't know Grady could
get so mad. He said she was the crook. Got run off
from her home town with the law right in after her!

"What she look like?"

"A big woman, I know that, wearing blue jeans,
overalls. That's all I can remember she was movin' so
fast away from that truck!"

”She sound like Sam's sister Eva," interrupted
Linda. She wear Sam's pants to do her housework in."

Jane gladly let Linda take over the conversation.
She was more accustomed to listening.

In the next hour several more women joined the
group. Flo Ellis came, and Lula Evans and Stella Gibbs.
Stella brought a huge pot of spaghetti. She never went
anywhere without bringing food. By eight o'clock the
women had two spirited keno games going. They played
cards, sipped whiskey, ate spaghetti, and told stories
and laughed until near midnight, when the party began
breaking up. Janey couldn't remember when she'd had a
better time at Lucille's. She hated leaving, so she
lingered, helping Lucille clean up, until nearly one
o'clock. Finally, she collected her charms and went

home.

32

When she got home, Janey slipped the key into the
lock and tried to ease the front door Open. Strong
hands snatched the door and threw it wide open. Rufus
grabbed Janey's arm, pulled her inside, and shoved her
against the wall.

"Where the fuck have you been?" he screamed.

"At Lucille's," Janey replied softly.

"I told you to stay away from that bitch!"

Rufus held Janey against the wall, fists gripping
her upper arms, while he screamed threats and obsceni-
ities. The heat of his breath, the stench, the hate
rushed out and engulfed Janey.

"Answer me! Answer me!" he raged, and slapped
Janey, knocking her to the floor.

Trying desperately to give him what he wanted,
Janey looked up at him and said again, "I was at
Lucille's, Rufus."

It only enraged him further. Janey sensed rather
than saw the upraised boot. She scrambled along the
floor trying to escape, but Rufus' boot crashed down
on her ankle and she screamed. Rufus was off balance
from the blow, and Janey was able to get up and run,
limping, into the kitchen. Rufus recovered quickly and
followed her,bellowing.

Janey didn't have time to open the back door and

escape. There was nothing between her and Rufus' rage

33

but the kitchen table. She spotted the fork she had
used for the eggs earlier in the day. She snatched it
up and just as Rufus lunged across the table she raked
his face from temple to chin with all her strength.
Rufus' hands went up to grab his cheek and Janey ran
past him out of the house, his screams following her
into the street.

Janey ran to Lucille's. She flew up the steps,
hammered on the door, and Lucille pulled her inside
quickly and closed the door. Confused and disoriented,
she struggled to tell Lucille what had happened.

"Shush...shush...chile. It's all right. Every-
thing's going to be all right."

Janey knew Lucille was talking to her but she
couldn't understand. She nodded, vaguely certain a re-
sponse was called for, and a glass of brandy appeared
in her hand. Janey could hear Lucille talking on the
phone.

"That's right, officer. Frederick Street. And
they better send an ambulance. There's been some cuttin'
and bleedin'."

"Not the police! They'll take me to jail, Lucille!"

Nobody's going to jail. You just wait here with me.

They sat on Lucille's red settee and waited. For
the first time Janey thought plainly about what she had

done. She saw her husband's face a bloody pulp, and

34

knew her fortune was changed forever. The women could
hear the sirens in the distance, coming closer.

"Now don't you be scared. You was protecting
yourself and you tell it like that. Show 'em how he
tried to stomp you and tore up your leg."

Just then the wailing stopped and flashing red
lights flickered on and off the windows and walls of
Lucille's living room. The effect of all the red, walls,
furniture, faces, so much red made Janey want to scream,
but she regained control when Lucille squeezed her hand
and hugged her just as they heard the sound of the
officers' boots on the steps.

After the policemen were done with their questions,
Lucille followed them to the door. When she came back
she told Janey, "you won't see them no more." "You're
staying here tonight. Tomorrow we will see what there
is to see."

Janey offered no resistance as Lucille led her up-
stairs. She sat on the side of the bed while Lucille
went to find one of her nightgowns that wouldn't
swallow Janey up. While she waited, she glanced around
the room, and she had to smile a little at the style of
Lucille. The walls were lilac; the ceiling, rug and
drapes, purple. There was a massive pink comforter on
the bed and mounds of pillows, pink, purple and lilac.

On one wall hung a portrait of a beautiful young woman.

35

Janey was getting up for a closer look at the portrait
when Lucille came back.

"That was me a long time ago. Good looker. Looks
like you a little, Janey. I've seen some things since
then. Here's your gown. You go on and get some rest.
This mess is not quite over yet."

The next day Lucille went home with Janey. As
soon as they walked through the front door, Janey
wanted to turn and run. But she kept going into the
hallway, through to the kitchen. Blood was on the
floor, the table, bloody handprints on the countertops
and the sink. Janey was shocked.

"Is he dead, Lucille? He should be dead, all
this blood!"

"No, he's not dead, Janey. Bled like a pig, but
he'll be all right. Let's clean this mess up."

In a daze, Janey went to the cupboard under the
sink to get rags and cleanser. She spied the peach
cobbler on the counter, just as she had left it a
lifetime ago. Silent tears began as she and Lucille
set to work scrubbing the kitchen, washing away pain
and dirt and fear.

Janey didn't visit Rufus in the hospital. She
didn't want to see him all bandaged up, and she didn't
want to say she was sorry. She heard that Rufus

blamed Lucille for everything. Told everyone it was

36

Lucille's fault he'd almost lost his eye. Lucille's
fault that his face would be scarred for life. Her
fault that he couldn't go home anymore. Because Lucille
was a witch who poisoned the minds of women. Proved she
was no good when she took up hanging around with that
Barbara Jean woman from Memphis. He was staying with
Big Mama. She blamed Janey that Rufus was always drunk
now and had lost his job. Janey tried telling Big Mama
that she didn't force Rufus to stay away from home. She
was still his wife. But Big Mama said, "He's ashamed.
Can't you see that?"

Janey and Lucille and Barbara Jean talked about
all this one Saturday while they waited for the other
ladies to come and play cards.

"I been called much worse than witch," said
Lucille. ”There surely are a few spells I'd cast if I
could, though, sure 'nuf."

"Maybe I should see Rufus, talk to him," Janey
said. "If our marriage is over, I want us to end it,
not Big Mama or anyone else."

Since Janey cut him she had not seen or talked to
Rufus once. The odd thing was she heard more about
what he was thinking and feeling now from other people
than she ever had from Rufus when they were together.
She wondered if it was the same for him.

Someone knocked at the door. Lucille went to

37

answer it and came back with one of the others.

"Now we have a foursome. Deal those cards,
Janey," said Barbara Jean.

"I can't stay, Lucille," said Anna, still standing.
"I just came to tell you not to count on me. Lucas is
raising hell about me being gone all the time, and I'm
going to have to stay in for a while to keep the peace."

"I understand, Anna."

Lucille spoke in a voice softer than Janey had ever
heard her use. She walked Anna to the front door. She
was gone for a long while, and when she came back, she
said, "Joyce and Linda are staying in too. And all the
other ladies. Some scared of me. Some scared of their
husbands."

"You mean they believe that stuff Rufus is talkin'
about? About you being a witch?" Janey was stunned.

"Don't matter whether they believe it or not, Janey.
It's all the same. They can't take chances,” said
Barbara Jean.

The three ladies sat together drinking and talking
late into the night about all manner of things such as
pride and shame, witches and warlocks, freedom and for-
tune. The other women of Frederick Street did not speak
to them after that. It hurt, but it could not be changed.

Janey saw Rufus only once more. They met by acci-

dent when she went to Ed's to visit Barbara Jean. He

38

was coming out of the house and they met on the steps.
She gasped when she saw him. His face was lined with
raised welts, his right eye shot through with red.
What hurt Janey most was how Rufus had shrunk. He was
still a big man, tall and wide, but he was folded in
on himself somehow. It was something Janey felt rather
than something she could see. They didn't speak. He
halted only for a moment then hurried past, trying to
pretend he had not seen her or been seen.

At home that night Janey slept very little. The
next morning she gathered her good luck charms in her
keno bag, closed the door on 201 Frederick Street, and

left town.

Sweet Honey Lucille and Johnny Ray

The minor differences between houses on Frederick
Street involved details of exterior decoration, gar-
dening knowledge, that sort of thing, and, of course,
degree of disrepair. But in the end, all the houses
were pretty much the same.

And then there was Miss Lucille's house. The
front of her house, the door, the porch, the steps,
the bricks, the railing were all painted pink. The
trim bordering the windows was a deep rose for contrast,
and her awnings were lime green. Her house hadn't al-
ways been pink, though. Two years ago it was mint
green with forest green trim.

As for flowers, most everybody tried to put a
little color out front, even if it was just a few limp
petunias or pale impatiens. A few folks nursed some
rosebushes. Miss Lucille planted peonies, the Queen
of the Flowers, lush, shiny green bushes which grew
four feet high then burst forth with bright, bold,
bodacious blooms of pink, white and red.

The youngest women, the teens of Frederick Street,
were warned by their mamas to stay away from Miss
Lucille. She was considered a "bad influence" which

made her very attractive to me and my friend Lindsey.

39

40
We were dying to meet her. Trouble was we couldn't
think of any reason for going there. We had no busi-
ness at Miss Lucille's. That was the problem, and we
worried about it all summer.

"What are we going to say when she answers the
door?" I asked Lindsey.

"I don't know. Maybe we could ask her to buy
something," Lindsey suggested.

"What we got Miss Lucille can use, girl? That
ain't going to work."

"Well, what you think, then?"

"I don't know. Maybe we can do some favor for
her."

"What can we do for Miss Lucille? That ain't
going to work."

We were mired in this kind of circular thinking
for weeks before fortune smiled. Lindsey and I were
sitting out back in the courtyard on the swings one
day, not swinging, mind you, just sitting, when Miss
Lucille spied us and waved us over to her pink palace.
I looked at Lindsey and she looked about as stunned as
I felt. While I was still glued to my swing, wondering
if Miss Lucille had read my mind, Lindsey was already
racing over to Miss Lucille's back porch. I dashed to
catch up with her, and we both staggered up the steps
gripping the rail, gasping for breath.

"Who can go over to Earl's Market and get me a

41

pack of Lucky Strikes?"

“I will," we said in unison.

"Ain't you a pair. You ever seen without one a-
nother?

"Yes ma'm," we said again.

Miss Lucille laughed her deep, throaty laugh. "Come
on inside while I get my change.“

Miss Lucille opened the screen door and we stepped
into dangerous territory. It was cool inside Miss
Lucille's kitchen, and very clean. A fan sat in the
window facing the courtyard, spinning noislessly. The
kitchen was white and gleaming, a surprise after all
the pink out front.

"See any toads, lizards, kettles?"

It was embarassing to be caught with your eyes agog,
but Miss Lucille wasn't mad. She just winked at us,
then reached down in her bosom and pulled out a small,
red leather change purse, opened it and took out two
quarters and handed them to Lindsey.

"Go on you two. Hurry up, and don't forget my
matches."

And that's how our friendship began, slowly at
first, like the best friendships. She would call us
to do an errand for her every few days or so, or she'd
just wave at usfrom her porch or yard, Gradually it
got so we would stop over often to see if she needed

anything, and wind up staying for an hour or so lis-

42

tening to Miss Lucille talk about life and love. But
I will never forget the day Lindsey asked Miss Lucille
why she never got married. I'll remember her story
until my dying day.

"So you think old Lucille ain't never married and
had children of her own, do you? Well, sit down girlies
and, if you promise to keep it to yourselves, I'll tell

you a love tale."

I was young as green cane when I first saw Johnny
Ray Sims and fell in love. It was nearly forty years
ago. He came looking for work at my daddy's confec-
tionery store. Not much of a store -- more like a
shack propped up on every lean' side, still, my
daddy was a businessman when it was mighty uncommon
for a black man.

I was working the cash register behind the coun-
ter when Johnny came in. He went straight to the back
of the store, to where my daddy was doing the books,
and asked him for any work he had, sweeping up, de-
livering groceries, anything at all.

I never will forget. I was waitin' on Miss
Jenkins, picky as could be. Counted and recounted her

change before she left the counter. Like I didn't

43

know 'rithmetic. But I knew to smile up all the cus-
tomers and be polite, even to Miss Jenkins, so I couldn't
turn my full attention to Johnny right away. But when he
strode out from the back and headed for the door, I was
staring for all I was worth, willin' him to look at me.

I didn't dare say a word. Aunt Lu might hear about my
fresh actin' from Miss Jenkins.

I was raised by my Aunt Lu. Named after her, for
a fact, my great aunt Lucille, my daddy's mother's sis-
ter. She took care of me after my mama died. And Aunt
Lu was mighty particular about appearances. Anyhow, I
didn't get to speak to him before he walked out the
door. But at the last possible moment before it closed
behind him, he turned and winked at me. At least I
thought he did.

Johnny Ray Sims was a pretty man. Proud too. You
could tell it in the way he held his head tilted a little
to one side and kept his shoulders square when he talked
to you. And you could tell by the hint of a strut in
his walk. Even though he was down on his luck when he
walked into daddy's store that day, the strut was there
just the same.

After that day, I couldn't keep Johnny Ray off my
mind. What little all I knew about men did nothing to
help me understand what happened when I thought about

him. I started to heat up all over, and lost strength

44
in my arms. My legs got wobbly. My tongue got thick,
and so did my brain, it felt like. It might as well
have been some disease, the way I felt, but I knew if I
could just get close enough to Johnny Ray Sims, I would
be fine. If only you could prepare in advance for love
at first sight.

Now, a tiny part of my mind always knew Johnny Ray
had a wife. The rest of my mind and all of my body
didn't give a whit though. Your body juices can oil
your mind into believing whatever you need to believe.

I took to dreaming about plans for getting Johnny
Ray to come after me. I didn't know then like I know
now, you have to lay your love light on a man, parcel it
out a little at a time. I started lolling on the stoop
around closing time when I expected he'd be walking by.
It kept up for weeks, Johnny Ray strolling by never
glancing my way, and me watching him and pretending not
to. No telling how long this foolishness would have
kept up, but something happened to throw us together.

Johnny Ray's wife took sick. My Aunt Lu made up
some soup and took me with her to visit Martha Sims.
This wasn't unusual in any way. Aunt Lu ministered to
many of the sick folk in town, and she often took me
along, teaching me what she knew.

My heart was in my mouth as we walked the dusty
mile and a half to the Sims place. I was itching to

see Johnny Ray up close and scared to death at the

45

same time. He wasn't home when we got there that
Friday noon. When Aunt Lu knocked on the screen door

a thin voice called for us to come in. We moved to the
back room and discovered Martha Sims lying in bed
underneath several covers, though it was a warm June
day.

"Thank you so much for coming Aunt Lu. I really
do 'preciate it. I've been feeling poorly, but you're
a sight to lift me up."

I hung back, studying Johnny's wife. She was a
small woman from what I could see. A thin layer of
perspiration covered her face. On the pillow beneath
her head a ring of dampness circled her hair. Her deep-
set eyes were almost black. Her tan skin had a yellowish
tint. It was plain to me she was a very sick woman. I
had never seen anyone as young as Mrs. Sims who was so
close to death. She wasn't much older than me. That
scared me so bad I forgot all about Johnny Ray for a time,
thinking about leaving this world before you had a chance
to really live. Aunt Lu had to call to me twice before
I heard her tell me to fetch some cool water.

I lost track of time as we sat there while Aunt Lu
fed soup to Martha, mopped her brow and talked softly
to her well into the afternoon. After a while she slept
fitfully, mumbling and thrashing. Aunt Lu moved her

chair closer to the bed and continued to cool her with

46

cloths as she slept. At the sign from Aunt Lu I
rushed to change the warm water for cool. It seemed
we could do little more for her.

Though I didn't hear him come in, suddenly Johnny
Ray was standing beside the bed next to Aunt Lu, staring
down at his wife. Aunt Lu stood and took my hand and
we prepared to leave.

"Thank you for coming to see after Martha, Aunt
Lu," he said.

He didn't look at me at all, didn't see me standing
there staring at him. Aunt Lu just nodded, took my arm
and we left.

Johnny's wife didn't live more than a month past
that evening. After the funeral Johnny Ray must have
holed up in his house because I didn't see him walking
past the store, or in church, or anywhere in town. I
was beginning to worry that he had moved away when he
came into the store early one morning. He looked awful,
all stooped, dirty and sad. My own heart ached to look
at him and I forgot all Aunt Lu's warnings about cor-
rectness and said to him, "I'm so sorry about your wife,
Johnny Ray." I knew I was being familiar, but I didn't
care. He had never been Mr. Sims in my mind, always
Johnny Ray.

He looked straight at me, noticing me finally.

"Sweet Lucille,” he said, and I was lost. Swept away.

47

I waited on him, but I don't remember what I was puttin'
in the sack, my mind was in such a state. Your world is
small when you're young and in love. It's you, the
person you're lovin' and everyone else is way out be-
yond the two of you and unimportant. Johnny Ray Sims
was all that I could see. It was a powerful short-
sightedness.

That's why I snuck out to his house later that
evening at dusk. I took hot food and, I hoped, all
the womanly wiles I'd heard whispers of. When he
opened the door to my knock, I took one small step
inside the door and offered him the basket of food.

"Aunt Lu said you might be needing some of this.
Chicken, pie, biscuits still warm, inside."

He took the basket from me and turned to the
kitchen while I followed close behind. He'd been
drinking. I could smell it on him. I had heard folks
talkin' about Johnny Ray going down since his wife
died.

"I'd be pleased to fix a plate for you Johnny Ray.
Won't you sit down, rest yourself," I said to him
soothing like.

He didn't say no, so I began moving quickly a-
round the kitchen while he sat watching me. When I
sat the plate in front of him, he grabbed my wrist and

said, "your Aunt Lu know you're here, girl?" He was

48

gripping my wrist hard and I suffered shivers of ex-
citement and fear.

"No sir, she don't."

"SIR! I was Johnny Ray a minute ago." He laughed
out loud and pulled me on to his lap. Wrapping both
arms around me he kissed me hard on the mouth. I kissed
him right back like I'd been born for that moment. I
was scared about what would happen next, but I didn't
have to be. Johnny was gentle with me, and I opened
myself to him naturally as a morning glory at the first
hint of sun.

Sometimes you have to squeeze a lot of happiness
into a small space and that's what we did. It wasn't
long before the whole town was talking. It's not like
you can hide in a town the size of Goolsby, Alabama.

My daddy stopped speaking to me and Aunt Lu was ashamed
to show her face in town. A thing can look quite dif-
ferent depending on where you stand to glance at it.

My daddy must have said something like that, among
other things, to Johnny Ray when he called on him to
explain how things were.

We got married in the fall, Johnny Ray and me, and
he was all mine for a time. But the truth is he never
loved me right. Johnny Ray was longing for what he
would never have again with his Martha. And I had been

lusting after everything life was holding out just beyond

49

my reach. We had been looking past each other. When
he ran off I wasn't surprised.

I had a baby by then, little Johnny, and I went
back to daddy and Aunt Lu and they let me lean on them.
But I have always wanted my own, and for that you have
to stand up. So I boarded little Johnny with Miss
Mamie Johnson while I went north to make a place for
us. Miss Mamie kept a number of little babies like
mine over the years. It was how she made her living.
Aunt Lu had a fit, but she was getting on and I wouldn't
be around to help.

I took the train to Detroit where there was plenty
of work during the war, even for colored women. I man-
aged to get a job working in the laundry. It was hot,
sweaty, hard work in those laundries. The temperature
was a hundred degrees summer and winter. My job was
running the presser, huge metal irons that flattened
sheets smooth and crisp before they were loaded in
panel trucks and shipped to hospitals around town. I
spent ten hours a day, six days a week on my feet,
sweatin' til I thought I would melt, feeding piles and
piles of bleached white cotton into the hungry jaws of
those steamers.

I planned to send for my boy as soon as I had a
place of my own. I thought it might take a year or

more, but I was young, with plenty of life ahead, and

50

he was just a baby. I was wrong though, there wasn't
enough time. He died of the influenza that winter.

I've been on my own ever since.

Touching Day

I sat at the kitchen table watching the flakes fill
up and flatten out and float on top of the watered down
milk until mama started yelling.

"Lindsey, go on, get dressed girl! You'll be late
for school! Why you hang back so lately?"

Mama didn't know it was touching day. I hurried
from the table and got dressed so Glenn wouldn't leave
me. Mama expected us to walk to school together. She
didn't know that as soon as we rounded the corner where
she couldn't see, he hightailed fast as he could to join
up with his friends. Leaving me, but I don't care. I'm
nine. Big enough to walk to school by myself.

I walked slow, taking my time. Fall is the most
fun on Frederick Street. The trees along the curb,
standing taller than the houses, are pure gold in
October, especially with the sun shining through the
leaves. I didn't have to wear boots and snowpants yet,
and I could still run fast and play hard without getting
too hot. Two streets over the trees had red and brown
leaves and the porches and lawns were on fire in the
sunshine. I surely did not want to go to school.

It was Friday, the day Mr. Radlow "touches

51

52

base with each of my students, visiting a few moments
with each one, discussing work, or anything you wish
during this time." That's how he explained touching
day when we came back to school after summer. He
don't know I call it touching day. Don't know I hate
it. Sometimes he patted your hand, or put his big,
hairy arm on your shoulder. Once he shook Leon's hand.
I don't want him touchin' me.

My brother Glenn used to play tag with me. He
always caught me and he'd hug me and swing me around
in the air, me squealing nervous joy and loving it.

We would wrestle sometimes, and he'd let me pin him
down. Now he don't even look at me hardly. Just says
sometimes, little girl you're just in the way.

I sneak in his room when he's not home. It smells
like tobacco and basketball and Brut. I look around,
study his things. He hates for me to go in his room,
and if he catches me he pinches my arm and twists it
hard. Sometimes I go crying to mama. Most times not.
She's full of worry about daddy. She doesn't have
loving-up moods much anymore.

I got to school just ahead of the tardy bell and
Teacher had already started his visits. He better not
touch me.

We're supposed to "work independently during this

period," but I spend my time watching.

53

He's way across the room now with Wynn. As usual
Wynn has a stack of papers to show off. He thinks he's
so smart, but I beat him in the spelling bee. He's
still mad enough to spit over that. Teacher will be on
that side of the room for a while.

Most people are working at their desks. Reading
or writing or drawing. Except Victor. He just sits
there. When Victor's not yellin' and swearin' he's
just sittin'. I think for the upteenth time what a
waste Victor got the best seat, right next to the win-
dows, when he don't care where he sits.

I'd like to sit there, or anywhere else in this
room, by myself, and send everybody else out. I'd be
alone to use the printing press any time I got ready to
run off pictures and stories. I'd grip the smooth, black
handle and churn the arm fast, faster to turn out many
copies, or slow the machine way down so I could watch
the rollers grip the paper and, line, by line, turn
black ink and white paper into a poem, a picture, a
news flash.

I love working on the newspaper. I can write per-
fect English, but it don't seem quite right, since no-
body I know talks that way. I told Mr. Radlow this and
he smiled, but he did not laugh. I liked him for that.
And he knows everything about how to put a story to-

gether so people care what you say.

54

If I were alone in here, I'd rush to the black-
board and grip the chalk in my hand and start figuring
on the board. Four times seventy—two is two hundred
and twenty-eight. One-half of two hundred and sixteen
is one hundred eight! Always one answer. No mistakes,
no lies.

And I'd sit in Teacher's chair, the boss of every-
thing. Or I'd go to the library corner and read all the
books I wanted. Slam the book shut and start another
one when the story turned wrong.

He's talking to Martha Issel now. He put his arm
on her shoulder like he's her daddy or something. Don't
she know he won't even know her name next year?

When daddy came home last time, mama was so happy.
She didn't laugh out loud, but she smiled a lot and she
couldn't stay in one place for long when she waited for
him to come bounding up the stairs two at a time. First
thing he does is grab mama round the waist and plant a
loud, wet kiss on her lips. Then he swings me around
and slaps Glenn on the back.

Lovin' is a curious thing. Daddy never stays for
long. When he begins complaining that mama wears her
feelings on her sleeve, and he starts smelling like
day old beer, I know he'll be leaving soon.

Teacher is talking to Leon now. Leon is a nice

boy. It's not his fault he smells a little like pee.

55

He has to sleep with his two brothers. Baby Ted is
five years old and still wettin' on hisself!

He's at Aaron's desk now, getting closer to me.

I worried and worried over how I could get away
from touching day. Get him to leave me alone. At
first I was going to ignore him. But that's what
Janey does, and he touches her anyway. Then on Monday
morning I thought of it. I marched right up to his
desk and I told him, "you're not supposed to be
touchin' young girls. You can get in real trouble
for that." I thought for a minute he was going to
yell or swear or something. I watched his face go all
pink and red, then back to whitest white. He didn't
say anything for a long time, just looked at me. Then
he smiled a little crooked and said, "you're right
Lindsey."

The other days since Monday he hardly talked to
me at all, and now it's touching day again.

Why does he have to check everybody's work all
the time? Mrs. Johnson collects our science papers
then passes them back, all red spotted with circles.
We fix them up and pass them in again. She doesn't
talk, talk, talk about them.

Teacher is laughing now. Aaron told him one of
those silly jokes he's always making. Not funny to

me, no way, but Teach always laughs.

56

Here he comes. He's at Janey Moore's desk now,
right behind me. He hardly ever touches Janey. He
talks to her standing straight up, off to one side like,
talkin' in a real soft voice. Good thing, too. Janey
is scared and jumpy like that puppy daddy used to whip
all the time. Janey don't like quick moves and loud
talking. I saw her eyes go big and round, saw her
back trembling, when that old nasty Victor started his
loud talking on the playground. Talkin' big, trying
to be bad, cussin' and carrying on. He wasn't talking
to Janey. Wasn't talking to nobody really, just talkin'
up. He scared Janey though. Everything scares Janey.

Here comes Teacher, now. My turn.

Right beside me, he nods to me, passing my by
without a word. Just like I said. Just like I wanted.

How come I feel like he's cheatin' me?

Trying To Connect

Still half asleep, Bruce glimpsed his reflection in
the mirror. He was wearing a yarmulke perched on top
of his balding pate. He blinked hard twice and the
vision disappeared. The Orthodox reflection usually
presented itself when Bruce was depressed or agitated.
Sometimes he saw himself wearing a black hat and full
beard, looking more like his father than he'd thought
possible.

The vision soured Bruce's normally cheerful dispo-
sition, and he struggled to banish its effects as he
dressed hurriedly, grabbed a roll and headed for the
door. On the way out his foot kicked a large, white
envelope lying half under the coffee table. That damned
dating service questionnaire! Bruce picked up the en-
velope, tossed it on a chair and strode out the door.

As he drove his usual route, passing some of the
houses of his students and former students, Bruce's mind
wandered to thoughts of his childhood on Frederick
Street. He had watched it change in his growing up
years from a Jewish neighborhood to the predominately
black ghetto it had become. Except for time away at
college, Frederick Street was the only community he had

ever known, and he rarely thought of moving.

57

58

His parents had come to hate it, though, as they
watched their friends and family move away while fi-
nances kept them trapped in the city. They were gone
now, and Bruce stayed on in the brownstone they had
left him when they died.

Bruce had crushed his parents' dreams that he would
become a rabbi. He wanted to be of the world he had
tried to explain to them. It was a concept he could
not express then and scarcely understood better now.

"A teacher! A teacher!" his mother would scream
at him. "So teach Torah at Yeshiva. Is that not
teaching?" It was his mother's effort at compromise.

”A rabbi, Brucie, you're born to it. Talk to him,
papa."

His mother's pain was real. She had been rock
sure her choice would be her son's. The scene was an
old one. Mother screaming, Bruce insisting he had to
go to Yale to study history, not to Lakewood to study
the Talmud. Papa struggling to quiet them both.

"That Mark, he'll make his parents proud," his
mother would say. "He's going to medical school. It's
all Sarah can talk about, her Markie."

Mark Babbitch was Bruce's best friend. Their
mothers were friendly enemies. Bruce was the only one
who knew that Mark wrote stories in secret. Mark seemed
happy enough about the future his parents planned for

him, but it made Bruce sad to think of his friend

59

stuffing his stories in a shoe box under the attic
stair.
Bruce argued with his mother all summer and his
parents finally gave in. Withdrawing their support
from their only child was, in the end, unthinkable.
The Radlows never fully recovered from their disappoint-
ment, Bruce knew, though his mother wrote him faithfully
while he was at college. Bruce came to depend upon her
weekly letters, but his parents never visited during the
four years he was away. Their disappointment shoved
aside many of love's possibilities.
Bruce's parents died within months of one another.
He was in graduate school at the time, and grief and
guilt bound him like a shroud for many months. Then
he met Ann. She introduced herself to him and Bruce
was smitten immediately. He was strongly attracted to
her and at the same time acutely distressed at the in-
tensity of his response to the beautiful blond woman.
Bruce had known few women in his life before Ann.
He preferred it that way. When he needed to, he visited
the bronze and beautiful Rochelle who listened without
demanding. He could talk to her and she would nod in
all the right places, or they didn't have to talk at all.
But Ann was different. She was the first person
Bruce let himself care about after his parents died.
Part of the reason he was blue these days was because

of Ann. They had lived together for nearly two years

60

years, and Bruce missed having someone around at the
end of the day. Convinced that it was over between
them, he still couldn't get her out of his head.

But Ann had been jealous of the time he devoted
to his students. She had said he was driven, but she
just didn't understand his commitment. She couldn't
appreciate the fact that many of his youngsters had no
one who would take an interest in them. Damn it, they
needed him and he was going to be there. Bruce fiercely
loved teaching. He knew he was doing important work,
and he was good at it.

Ann was a teacher too. She should have understood.
But she taught in a suburban high school where they al-
ways had enough textbooks for each student, and money
to fix a broken window the very next day. How could
she really know what it was like?

Bruce forced all thoughts of Ann and his parents
from his mind as he pulled into the parking lot of
Jefferson Elementary School. He began reviewing his
lesson plans for the day, mumbling to himself as he
parked his car, got out, and headed for his homeroom.

The morning sessions passed uneventfully except
for one incident on the playground. Victor flew into
one of his rages. Bruce noticed the fit, but ignored
Victor. He had learned that the best way to handle

Victor's screaming fits was to ignore them. No cur-

61

riculum design or learning skills courses at college
had taught Bruce this. It was close and dedicated ob-
servation that had taught Bruce lessons like this one.

Shortly after the start of the school year, Bruce
reviewed Victor's records and decided to visit him at
home. Victor lived with his father in a run down apart-
ment house on Ferry, not far from Bruce's brownstone.
He had no siblings and his mother was dead. Victor was
home alone the day Bruce visited, and was clearly
shocked to see his teacher. Bruce didn't stay long,
but he told Victor they were neighbors, gave Victor his
address, and invited him to stop by whenever he could.
Victor never visited Bruce, but things improved in the
classroom after that.

Recently Victor had begun to confine his screaming
and swearing to recess period, where he would wave his
arms and shake his fists at no one in particular. In
class, however, Victor now sat quietly. He and Bruce
had an unspoken truce. His playground antics were ig-
nored, and inside they were making some progress in
math and reading.

At the end of morning sessions, Bruce joined Jim
Kendricks for lunch in the teacher's lounge. Jim
brought up the dating service again.

"Did you get the questionnaire I sent you? Man,

I'm telling you, Bruce, it is the answer."

62

Everything in Bruce's background and sensibilities
railed against being fixed up with a total stranger.

"No way am I going to beg a machine for a date."

"Seriously Bruce, most of the women I've met are
just interested in meeting someone nice, you know,
compatible."

Bruce looked at his friend, divorced, lonely, sad.
"My life is full," he said. "I've got my work, the
volunteering at Boys Club, my freelance stuff..."

"There are no women in your life, man! You're
not still heping Ann will come back?"

"I'm over that."

"Then give the service a try. What have you got
to lose?"

Bruce didn't respond. He was too busy to be lonely,
but Jim didn't understand.

Most of the afternoon passed quickly. The school
day was almost over, the students enjoying a free period,
while Bruce prepared lesson plans, when he looked up from
his book to see Lindsey Nelson waiting silently beside
his desk. He was surprised because Lindsey usually
took full advantage of free time. She didn't say any-
thing for a moment, just stared, her deep-set eyes un-
fathomable. Then, without preamble, she said, "you're
not supposed to be touchin' young girls. You can get
in trouble for that."

Bruce stared back in stunned silence while a faint

63

smile touched Lindsey's lips, but not her eyes.

Bruce struggled to reply, "you're right, Lindsey."

He watched her turn and walk slowly back to her
seat without looking back. Bruce was shocked and dis-
mayed. The gentle touches, so natural for him, were
outgrowths of the concern he felt for all his students.
He was sure his kids understood that. He believed he
was reaching this child, helping her. How could she
have so misconstrued his meaning?

Somehow Bruce managed to get through the rest of
the afternoon, dismiss his class and drive home, still
dazed by Lindsey's insinuations. He climbed the stairs
to his apartment, went in and collapsed in the nearest
chair, exhausted from the emotional turmoil of his day.

How could I be so wrong about a kid, Bruce wondered
for the thousandth time. His face flushed again remem-
bering Lindsey's words. It hadn't been an accusation
really, more like a condemnation. You're not suppose
to be touching young girls. Possible consequences re—
sulting from a charge like that made Bruce's heart
pound violently. He imagined himself in court, in
prison, in the gutter, mobbed by citizens, stoned, until
the absurdity of his visions brought him back to reality.

He focused on what he knew about Lindsey and tried
to understand what had happened. Why would she do such

a thing? A highly intelligent little girl, she seemed

64

sensitive and aware of others' feelings. Which means
she knows what a bind she's put me in, Bruce thought.

He couldn't escape the possibility that every—
thing he had worked and sacrificed for could be gone in
an instant because of one confused little girl. Despair
threatened to over take Bruce as he thought first of
his parents' death, then Ann's defection, now his career
possibly stolen from him. Slowly, without warning, anger
began to swell within him, a helpless, uncontrollable
rage toward a little wench who held all the cards.

Bruce pounded his fists on the chair, then leaped up
and began pacing the apartment, his feet propelled by
the anger he was feeling.

As he struggled to regain his reason, Bruce fi-
nally decided if she wanted to make trouble for him,
Lindsey would have taken her accusations to someone
else, the principal perhaps, or her parents. But, then
he would have heard something from the authorities by
now if she had wouldn't he? He glanced around his
silent apartment, struggling to think clearly.

The furniture leaned to lines and angles, few pil-
lows, nothing overstuffed. From where he stood, facing
a blank TV screen, Bruce could just see the corner of
his bed, a solid four poster oak. Sturdy frame to
support his 250 pound bulk. In the kitchen a set of

copper pots hung, gleaming, rarely used. Bruce ate out

65

most nights. Alone. And suddenly it was clear.
Bruce understood that Lindsey just wanted to be left
alone. She couldn't take a chance on caring.

As he continued to survey his apartment, he
realized for the first time there were no photographs
in his rooms, not even tucked away in drawers. No
pictures of family and friends. Lying on the coffee
table was a plaque his student had given him last year
for being "The Greatest Teacher In The World." On one
wall hung identical frames, containing pages from news-
papers published by each fifth grade class he had taught
at Jefferson. He used to have a picture of Ann some-
where. Where was it now? He couldn't recall.

Suddenly lonliness engulfed him. He thought of
calling Rochelle. He could tell her all about his hor-
rible day. He imagined her nodding knowingly, an in-
scrutable half-smile on her face, performing diligently,
patiently, until he was spent. Knowing she would be
well paid.

Across the room he spied the white envelope on the
chair where he'd thrown it that morning. He hesitated
a moment, then picked it up, opened it and studied its
contents. Finally he sat, took out a pen, and began.

Single, white male. Serious. Bright. Slightly
overweight, with good attitude about it. Anxious, but
interested in connecting. Looking to meet female --

same .

Josie

Mama and the ladies still gossip about the day
Josie left town. I know this even though I don't
listen in on their conversations anymore. Sitting
around the table playing cards, smoking, drinking,
but mostly talking is what they do almost every
Saturday night, mama, granny, Mrs. Cartwright and the
others. Josie used to be with them too. She's been
gone more than three years now. I was ten when she
went away.

Josie would visit us often, not just on card
playing nights, driving up in her old green Dodge,
jumping out of the car almost before it came to a stop.
I remember Josie's laugh, loud as a man's but brighter.
She was tall as most men too, with long skinny arms she
liked to throw in the air and wave about when she was
excited. She always smelled like purple and rose.

Mama and daddy argued about Josie coming over so
much, staying for days at a time sometime. But driving
truck over long haul, daddy was usually away when Josie
came, and she never stayed long while he was home.

Mama and Josie laughed a lot. I can't remember, or

never knew, what was so funny to them -- maybe nothing

66

67

at all. Sometimes my friend Linda and I laugh over
much of nothing and can't stop until tears burn our
eyes. Maybe it was like that for Josie and mama.
Sometimes, though, they talked real low, in whispers
and sighing sounds.

Often Josie would go away for weeks or months at
a time. When she got back she would visit, pulling me
on to her lap to tell about her 'scursions to places
like Mobile and Chattanooga and Charleston. She
laughed out loud about the sights she'd seen in her old
Dodge. Mama listened, wide-eyed as I was when Josie
told about taking a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi
or standing at the edge of the United States looking
out over the Pacific Ocean, blue clear to China.

When she came back from her last trip, Josie was
not alone. Eugene came too. Josie was finally going
to get a chance to make somebody a fine wife, mama
said. Daddy just said 'bout time.

Eugene kept his hand on Josie's knee all the time
he was telling ma and me how they met in Atlanta. Josie
let Eugene tell it all without interrupting once. When
Josie came back with Eugene things were different. She
didn't have any new stories about the places she'd been.
It was as though Eugene was the best, the only thing
she'd seen. She was real proud of him. You could tell

by the way she looked at him while he talked, then

68

looked at mama and me to be sure we were listening.

He was a good looking man, I guess. A smooth
dresser who wore suits and ties every day and his shoes
always had a high shine. Tall and very thin, his
Adam's apple stuck way out when he threw his head back
to take a drag on the Camels he was always smoking.

His laugh sounded nice, but he always laughed first at
things that were not too funny, and he usually laughed
longest at everything. He pretended to like my brother
and me, but he had a way of looking over your head when
he talked to you, looking at anything else and hardly
listening to you at all.

Eugene moved in to Josie's house and acted like he
had always lived there. In the beginning he brought
Josie presents and kissed her and touched her all the
time when he thought nobody was looking. He brought
dresses for Josie and jewelry and perfume. They were
the talk of Frederick Street, going about town in
Josie's new Dodge all decked out, to all the clubs
and after-hours joints. Josie didn't have time for
the card players anymore, but she and Eugene gave them
plenty to talk about.

"All that high livin' going to bring them down,"
Granny said. "Where that Eugene get so much money
anyway?"

Mama shrugged her shoulders and that question just

hung in the air.

69

After Eugene had been with Josie for a while he
started acting mean. I heard mama and Josie whispering
one night when they thought I was asleep.

"I can't do enough for him anymore, Grace. He's
soured on us."

"It will pass, Josie. You'll see. Just ride it."

For a while things were better, and Josie smiled
again. Then Eugene stopped talking to Josie and he
wouldn't look at her.

Mama and Josie and some of the ladies packed a
picnic, and a bunch of us from Frederick Street went
to Perry Park to celebrate the Fourth of July. Eugene
laughed and talked with everyone that day, and even
played games with the kids. But he pretended that
Josie was not there. After that, Mean Yoo Gene started
going off by himself in Josie's Dodge. Josie would
visit mama during these times, but they didn't laugh
much anymore.

One day Eugene hit Josie. It happened in our
living room one Sunday after dinner. Mama sent me away
upstairs, but not before I saw the surprised look on
Josie's face. I heard the front door slam and I thought
I heard mama crying, or maybe it was Josie. Daddy called
him a son of a bitch. I stayed in my room and worried
about what would happen next.

The next day Josie called mama and asked if I could

70

come over and help her with dinner. At ten, I was a
better cook than Josie. I silently prayed that mama
would say yes. She didn't like me going over Josie
and Eugene's unless she and daddy were there too. But
she told Josie it would be all right and I was glad.

Josie picked me up in her Dodge, a black one now,
Eugene's favorite color. I climbed in next to Josie
and sat up tall as I could, breathing in the smell of
stale cigarettes and new leather.

We didn't drive straight to Josie's. She went
first to the park and stopped her car near the band-
shell where we could look out at the barge traffic on
the river.

Josie turned to me and said, "just think Lindsey,
there are other lands and times just across the water."

We drove back to her house after sitting a while,
but we didn't do any cooking that day. Josie showed me
pictures of herself. Josie in a hula skirt, and in a
dimly lit night club sipping champagne. Josie in a
rowboat and Josie on a double-decker bus. When it was
getting dark, Josie gathered the pictures together,
tied them with pink and purple ribbon and gave the
bundle to me. Then she drove me home. No one on

Frederick Street has seen Josie since then.

Going To Town

My best friend and I collect pop bottles all week
and cash them in so we can ride the bus downtown on
Saturdays. Patrice and I will both be thirteen in
September, old enough to ride the bus by ourselves. I
had a tough time convincing Patrice that taking the bus
to town was a good idea. Taking the bus feels like ad-
venture to me. Patrice doesn't have as much fun as I
do, I can tell, but she doesn't complain. She's a good
friend, but I'm afraid one day she won't come with me.
She checks out the fattest books on the library shelf
without even peeking inside to see if she knows the
words first, but she's real careful about some things.

Patrice wears her wiry, sandy-colored hair in a fat
braid down her back. Her body is plump too, and her skin
is the color of coffee with double cream. I think she's
beautiful, but she doesn't. Me, I'm deep chocolate brown
and skinny. Taller than Patrice by three inches. I saw
a picture of an Ethiopian princess once, with a long,
long neck and long skinny arms and legs like mine. It
soothed me to stare at that picture.

To get ready for town we scrub up and wear clean

white anklets with our Sunday shoes. Mama won't let me

71

72

wear my church clothes.

Each Saturday afternoon, after our chores are
done, Patrice and I walk to the corner of Frederick
Street and Fuller to wait for the bus. Some lines
still have street cars, but on Fuller, spanking new
buses carry people to town and back. We never wait
long before a bus pulls up and stops and Patrice and I
step up quickly while the doors hiss closed behind us.

On the bus people sit packed close together and
everyone pretends not to see anyone else. I study
everybody, trying to figure out what they do, where
they live and what they want. Some people step on the
bus with a quick, light step like the lady I saw once
wearing the smart, blue, high-heeled shoes. She moved
quickly to the back of the bus, took a seat near the
rear door, and looked straight ahead with her chin
sticking out a little.

Some pe0ple step on the bus real slow, dragging
their feet, like the old man in the baggy brown pants
and dirty work shoes. His pants were so big they hung
in folds around his shoes, and you could barely tell he
had legs at all. He sat in the seat across from Patrice
and me, wearing a dirty red shirt and a brown felt hat.
His face held secrets like the face on the man in the
moon. He looked old and tired, but I knew he was certain

about some things.

73

I saw one of the fattest ladies in the world on the
bus one Saturday. She had a perfectly round head on a
body that had no shape at all. She seemed held together
by the huge flowered dress she wore buttoned from her
neck to her knees. Her body shook and rolled with the
movements of the bus, and the button holes stretched and
pulled, but held. I stared, not wanting to miss the
sight if those buttons popped and she began to spill out
on to the seat. She was something to see raising up to
get off at her stop on Baldwin Street.

On the way downtown we pass St. Luke's Catholic
Church, set way back from a lawn so green it hurts my
eyes to look at it. In all these Saturdays, Patrice and
I have never seen a living soul come or go from that
church. At New Mt. Zion, around the corner from where
we live, there is always something going on any day of
the week, all times of day. Bible Study on Wednesday
nights, prayer meetings, revivals, four separate choir
rehearsals on different days, people about all the time
in that building that used to be the First National Bank.

We pass Lincoln High School, a school for the smart
kids. The path there from Fordson Junior High is a mys-
tery to me, and our teachers aren't saying how to get
there. That old Mrs. Quinn gave me a 3+ on my report
card instead of the A I'd earned. "I only give out a

few As. You're in the Commercial curriculum, not College

74

Prep," she said. What kind of excuse is that I'd like
to know. I wanted to wring her scrawny chicken neck.
I thought about going to Mr. Richards, the principal,
to complain, but Patrice convinced me that it probably
wouldn't do any good anyway. I'm going to Lincoln,
though, and "the Q" is not going to stop me.

Near to town, the bus travels through Grant Park,

a huge park split in two by six lanes of city traffic
passing through the middle. By then we're almost down-
town. We always ride to the end of the line, and by the
time the bus pulls into the terminal, Patrice and I are
dancing in our seats, anxious to see some new thing.

Sometimes we walk arm in arm through the streets
the way we saw two little old ladies do once, arms
locked together, each carrying a shopping bag in the
other hand. Sometimes we skip along. But most of the
time we stroll, pretending to be rich ladies shopping in
the afternoon while our husbands are working in one of
the tall buildings, and our drivers are waiting to load
our packages into a limousine and whisk us home to our
mansions on the lake.

We go into all the small shOps, walk around all the
clothes racks, and pull out things to show one another.
Patrice checks all the price tags, looking for bargains.
I don't want to know what things cost. I look for the

brightest, most beautiful things I can find. We keep

75

this up until we are so full we have to rush out of the
store before we burst into laughter.

We never have any money for real shopping, but we
stop at the five-and-dime to order chili and a coke at
the luncheonette in the basement. Sitting on the vinyl-
covered stools, it's hard not to push off and spin
around the way we used to when we were little and our
mamas brought us downtown for new shoes.

Our favorite shepping place downtown is Mason's
Department Store. We don't go in there because the
sales ladies follow us around everywhere with their
noses in the air. It hurts Patrice's feelings, but I
want to pinch them. We do love to stare in Mason's
picture windows stretched all along Fuller Avenue, a
whole city block of fantasies.

That's where we saw the wedding dress. Miles and
miles of lace with pleats and folds and tucks every-
where, held together by shimmering sequins. My eyes
followed one pleat until it disappeared into another
or took a new direction and burst all of a sudden into
a shower of beads and lace. There were no beginnings
and no endings to the smooth, flowing white lines. It
made me think of all things new and clean and possible.
Patrice said no one we knew was ever likely to have a
dress like that. She pulled at me to come, but I

couldn't stop staring. She finally went on ahead while

76

I tried to imagine what it would mean to own something
so wonderful.

Patrice ran back to tell me that a few windows
down men were dressed in suits that made them look
like penguins. I took one long last look at the dress
before following her to see the penguin-tuxedos.

Every once in a while on our trips I can talk
Patrice into going to my favorite place, the river at
the very edge of town. She thinks watching the river
is boring, and would rather shop until the last minute
before we have to board the bus for home. But I love
watching the ships and barges pass back and forth,
coming and going from exciting places on the other side
of the world.

Patrice spends her timing counting the boats, while
I watch the freighters as they disappear into the dis-
tance on their way to the St. Lawrence River and finally
the Atlantic Ocean. I try to get my mind around how
far that must be. How long it will take. But I don't
havea way to measure the distance. The farthest I
have traveled from Frederick Street is here to this
spot on the Detroit River. I dream, though, of ad-
ventures across the sea.

Too soon we have to catch the bus back home. The
trip from town is shorter. The bus is quiet. One

man in worn blue overall sat upright, back straight,

77

but his head nodded and rolled, falling forward,
bouncing slightly with the motion of the bus. His
dented black lunch pail rested on the seat beside him.

Our driver called out each stop. "Peterboro,
Peterboro, Peeeeter Boroooooo, next!" A hand reached
up to pull the rubber cord. The bell sounded and two
ladies got up and went to the back door. One carried a
dusty blue canvas shopping bag, lumpy and overstuffed.
The bus slowed, then stopped and the two ladies descended
and disappeared into the dusk.

Our stop was coming soon. I didn't want the trip
to end. The streets are shorter, darker, closer in as
we near Frederick Street. Out the front window dark-
ness had already begun to fall. Behind me, from the
back window of the bus I looked out toward town. The
sky over the towering buildings was still afire with
streaks of color, deep red to purple, a promising

tomorrow.

BJ and Kevin

We are a household of two, Granny and I. I am
Sarah Mae Lynn Jenkins, though Granny calls me Say-ra
because she's from another time. My daddy died before
I was born, and my momma passed away last year. That's
when Granny came north to take care of me, the house
and the garden. We never had much, but my momma planned
carefully and she planned ahead. Her insurance money
paid off the house and we are lucky to have a fine roof
over our heads, Granny tells me often enough.

I remember Mr. Frank, the insurance man, who came
by every week, and I remember how momma paid the policy
when she had to let other things go. Mr. Frank was one
of the few white faces we saw on Frederick Street. He
was short and squat with light brown hair slicked down
on the sides of his head and spiky on top. He always
wore dark suits that had seen better days, and run down
shoes, black, sometimes brown. He carried with him a
thick, black book with a record of all his accounts.
Inside the book were yellowed pages with many names and
line after line of tiny numbers on each page. I watched
Mr. Frank make careful notes in his book after momma

give him the crumpled dollar bill and coins she strug-

78

79

gled to set aside for the day when he would come.

So we were lucky I guess. But we still don't have
much. We don't have a television set like my friend
Betty Jean. Granny says watching television wastes
time, time I need to spend learning life lessons.
Granny's idea of life lessons are things like sewing
buttons, starching sheets, pulling weeds, dusting
figurines, and making buttermilk biscuits. These are
not the lessons I am interested in learning, though this
is how we spend every Saturday morning, Granny and I.

I don't plan ever to use any of the stuff Granny calls
"the things you need to know in life." When I'm grown,
I'm going where there is noise and bright lights, music
and dancing, where men bring me sweet treats and I
won't ever, ever iron my sheets.

But it was Saturday morning and we were snapping
beans picked fresh from our garden, picked by me, of
course. At least this was an outside job. Granny and
I sat on our front porch with a large brown sack be-
tween us full to over-flowing with green beans. We
took turns reaching into the sack for a handful of
beans, pinching off their tops with a snap, snap, snap
of the wrist, breaking the stalk into crisp thirds, and
tossing the pieces into a big, black pot readying them
for canning.

I had to stretch some to reach the pot because my feet

80

did not quite reach the ground. Granny said get the
foot stool, but I didn't want to. I was practicing
stretching my spine. Dancers need long, straight backs.
So I was getting a crick in my neck reaching for the
beans and tossing them back. And it was hot. The
sweat popped out on my upper lip and I felt a single
drOp slide down between my shoulder blades, itching in
a place too tough to scratch. There was no breeze to
cool the sweat, either, and I was damp and miserable.

A fly came buzzing around, interested in what we
were doing. It drifted lazily back and forth between
the sack and the kettle. I must have paid too much
attention to the fly and not enough to the beans, be-
cause Granny reached over and pinched my thigh, bringing
me back to the business at hand. This made me even more
miserable and I couldn't wait to get the work done and
get from under her thumb. When I was finished, I knew
I'd be free to do whatever I wanted. Granny would nap
or read her Bible, and I could spend time with my
friends.

I don't have a great many friends. I think it's
best to concentrate on just a few. I have BJ and Kevin.

My friend Kevin is a thin, frail boy who gets sick
often with colds and flu. He had pneumonia once, and
his ma was really worried. Granny sat with her while

Kevin spent two nights in the hospital. His mother won't

81

let him play outside when it's too hot or too cold. He
reads during those times. He doesn't have a television
set either. Kevin's mother makes him wear plaid shirts
in summer, and shorts with a crease ironed in. The
other boys tease him about his shorts. They tease him
too because he plays the clarinet, carrying his thin,
black case to school each Monday, Wednesday and Friday,
and to private lessons on Saturday. Kevin tries to
ignore them. He is very serious about the clarinet.

Kevin lives directly across the street from me, but
I actually met his father first. I found Mr. Evans
wandering, lost just a few blocks from home. Kevin's
daddy, Mr. Evans, was a soldier in the war. He was
shot up bad, and now he has a lot of trouble with his
memory. He has trouble walking and talking sometimes
too. I was playing near the park when I saw Mr. Evans
walking around in small circles mumbling to himself.
They hadn't lived in our neighborhood long, but I
knew it was him because I had seen him on his front
porch rocking, or sometimes listening to the radio.

I went up to him to say hello and he jumped back
like I was about to hit him. I could see he was really
worried. I didn't know what to think at first. I had
wanted to jump back enough times when certain grownups
tried to talk to me, but I had never had that reaction

from an adult before. He seemed harmless enough to me

82

even though his socks were mis-matched, so I just went
right on and introduced myself, told him about Granny,
and asked him how he liked Frederick Street so far.

We were sitting on a bench having a creamsickle
when Kevin found us half-an-hour later. He had been
searching the neighborhood for his daddy who had wan-
dered off and gotten confused. We all walked home to-
gether, each of us holding one of Mr. E's hands. Kevin
and I have been doing things together since then.

When I'm looking for a friend and Kevin's not around,
I spent time with BJ, my next door neighbor. Her real
name is Betty Jean, but nobody calls her that more than
once if they know what's good for them. She is tall,
almost six feet, with wide hips and full thighs, though
she's not fat. Her favorite outfit is a blue jean jacket,
red plaid shirt and shorts rolled just above the knee.
She wears PF flyers and she plays a mean first base.
She taught me how to throw a softball, putting my whole
body into the follow through, and how to face a pitcher
crouched low, stepping out with authority. BJ is the
only girl I know who swears easy as saying how do you
do. She is twenty and I'm ten. She works at the post
office sorting mail. Pays good money, she says, but
it's boring as hell. I want to be just like her.

I can talk about sports, or books, or anything

with BJ. She never says go on away from here with that

83

foolishness the way Granny does when she loses her
patience. I saved up questions for BJ and we would
sit on her back stoop in the evenings while She ex-
plained things to me like why some women had eight
babies, and some women didn't have any. And why Mr.
Rufus got drunk every Saturday night and threw trash
in the courtyard. And what was the clap. And who were
Republicans. I could ask BJ anything and she answered
me straight away. But she wasn't afraid to say, I
don't know, Sarah, I'll see. Then she tried to find
out and tell me.

BJ's softball team, the Ebony Jets, were playing
ball at Perry Park, and Kevin and I planned to watch
the game. Soon as Granny and I finished snapping beans,
I took the pot to the kitchen and was free for the day.

Kevin must have been watching me from his front
window, because he met me on the porch ready to cut
out for the park. In his right hand he carried a
black rectangular case. One corner had been ripped
and carefully taped. His clarinet.

"What have you got that thing for?"

"I have a lesson after the game. I have to go
straight there. I promised ma I wouldn't miss my
lesson."

We had to walk instead of run to the park, so the

case wouldn't knock and bang against Kevin's knobby

84

knees. Good thing we were early. When we got to the
park a few players were already there, a pitcher
warming up, two batters taking turns peppering line
drives, and BJ, the captain, going over the starting
lineup with the manager. When she glanced up and saw
Kevin and me, she waved. I knew she would come over
and speak to us as soon as she got a chance.

The ball field where the Jets played their games
was not much of a field. I didn't know this until BJ
took me to a park across town where they had bleachers
for the fans, and a dugout protected from the sun, and
a batting cage, even, and lights for playing night
games. Perry Park didn't have any of that, but they
had a regulation-sized field, permanent bases and, BJ
says, some of the best softball players in the city.

Kevin and I came early so we could get a good seat
on the grass between third base and home. Later other
people would arrive with blankets and chairs, but we
had already staked out the best spot.

I was looking off into the distance watching the
warmup on the field, when Kevin nudged me and I looked
over to see Tony and his brother Lee headed our way.
Kevin didn't say anything, but he eased his clarinet
closer to his side. These two were mean and stupid.
One of them alone was bad enough, but together they

were often out of control. Once Lee cut off his sister's

85

braids and flushed them down the toilet while Tony
laughed at her tears and called her baldy.

I was glad BJ was close by. She wouldn't let any-
thing happen to us. Those two idiots didn't dare mess
with BJ. Nobody did.

They headed straight for Kevin until they were
standing right over us, blocking our view.

"What's in the box, punk?”

Kevin didn't answer right away.

"I said what's in the box!"

This time Lee kicked the case and Kevin. fell over
backward in the grass, but he held on to his clarinet.

"My instrument, my clarinet is in here."

"Get it, Lee, take it from him."

Lee lunged at Kevin, trying to grab the clarinet.
He lifted Kevin off the ground. With both arms wrapped
tightly around the case, he held on tight.

I jumped up and started waving my arms, calling
BJ to come quick. Tony shoved me down and I hit the
ground and bit my tongue so hard tears shot to my
eyes quicker than I could blink to hold them back.

"Leave him alone," I screamed at Lee. ”Leave him
alone, you shit!”

Tony smacked me across my face and I hit the dirt
again. I looked over to the bench at BJ and she was

standing, watching. Why wasn't she rushing to save us?

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I looked back at Lee. Kevin was still holding on
to his clarinet, but he was on the ground now and Lee
was punching him in the face. I screamed at him again
to leave Kevin alone, and I tried to jump on his back,
but Tony grabbed my arms and pinned them behind me,
laughing all the while.

Suddenly, finally, BJ was there. Tony saw her too.

"Look Lee, it's BJ. What you gon' do? You can't
take us both."

Tony was talking bad, but he wasn't moving in on
BJ.

"Leave them alone." She spoke to Lee in a real low
voice, ignoring Tony.

Lee stood up, but he was still pinning Kevin with
his legs. "Fuck you. Get back, Betty Jack! Jack
Betty!"

BJ walked past Tony, closing in on Lee. She held
a bat loosely in her right hand.

"Go away from here and leave them alone."

"I know your game, Jack Betty. You want 'em for
yourself, 'specially that little sweet meat over there."
Lee was pointing to me and laughing his nasty

laugh, when BJ swung the bat and caught Lee neatly
between his hip and knee. He howled, and fell. Kevin
scrambled away from him, dragging his clarinet case

along the ground.

88

"You hit me!"

"You hit my brother!"

They both yelled at the same time. Simple fools.
Like they weren't asking to be hit.

"Get off the field now," BJ said, raising the bat
again.

They left us, backing up trying to swagger, but
it wasn't working with Lee's limp.

I looked over at BJ, ready to run and hug her, but
she had tears on her face, something I never thought I
would see. She held up a hand to stop me, then turned
and walked back on to the field. I had many new ques-
tions for Betty Jean.

I looked back at Kevin and he was still sitting in
the dust. His shirt was ripped and torn, and his crisp
tan shorts were filthy now. There was blood on his
face and a mouse was growing under his right eye. He
opened the battered old case and slowly, gently as-
sembled the parts of his clarinet. Then he placed the
mouthpiece to his lips and blew. The sound that hung
over the field was a long, low plaintive wail of pain

and pride I would remember forever.

Graduation Day

The small, dim, stuffy auditorium was crammed with
three hundred restless, excited adolescents, impatient
for the graduation ceremony to end so they could return
to their real lives. Many adults were there too, the
harried, hopeful parents of the honored graduates.

"I was pleased when Mr. Jenkins invited me here to
deliver the commencement address to the graduates of
Roosevelt Middle School, 1972. It was not very long

ago that I sat where you are sitting today...“

Before the stiff-shirted blue noses dred-
ging our community for suitable talent
hauled me off to Brookfield to be prep-
ped for Harvard. A bright, black girl

of 14, I saw the possibilities, though,
and took full advantage. I got the

best education in America on a full

ride.

Jenkins stationed himself at the back of the audi-
torium where he could look out over the audience. His

trusted minions were stationed at strategic points

89

90

around the auditorium so he could signal them if he
observed anything untoward among his flock. All was
in order and a contented half-smile softened his stern
features as he listened to his guest.

After a brilliant college career as one of
Morehouse College's shining stars, Jenkins came to
Detroit to teach social studies at Roosevelt. He had
remained for thirty years. Despite his skill as an
educator and administrator, early in his career his
advancement had been limited by his race, an old story.
When the political tides began to turn in the '603 he
had been offered opportunities to ”come inside" and
help run the school district. He had declined all
offers.

One youngster on the front row was actually lis-
tening to the speaker intently, as he absently fingered
a book in his lap, a thin, red, dog-eared volume.

"You are on the threshhold of new promise. This is
the end of one chapter of your lives and the beginning

of new and exciting challenges. High school awaits..."

What could I tell them of experiences a-
waiting them in high school? They, most
of them, were heading for Central High,
one of the toughest in the city, and my

high school experience had been Brookfield

91

Preparatory Academy. A room of my own.
Books, papers, supplies all provided
for me. Enough food, more than enough,

and warm clothes in winter.

I remembered school before Brookfield.
Walking to school in winter without
boots, toes frozen and painful by the
time I reached school. I remembered
scrubbing Sloan's liniment into my
hands, a poor substitute for gloves.
The buttons holding my Goodwill coat

together were a haphazard match.

Spring time was almost as bad, walking
to school in driving rains, watching
for puddles. I never owned rain gear,
not even an umbrella, feet squeaking

wetness from the holes in my shoes.

I remembered sleeping six to a bed.
I remembered mayonnaise sandwiches,

rotten peaches and evaporated milk.

The young people were becoming increasingly restive.
How different they looked from the youngsters of a few
years ago. Back then the common fashion for young men

dressed up for a special occasion had been

92

suits with white shirts and narrow ties. Their hair
would be cropped close and tamed with pomade. The
girls wore fancy dresses, every color of the rainbow,
and carefully sculpted their hair in French rolls and
beehives held in place with a dozen bobby pins.

Today many of the young people in the audience
wore flowing dashikis and kente cloth, trying to re-
capture a lost heritage, flaunting boldly the red,
black and green colors. Their Afro hairdos stood high
and defiant against a New World standard of beauty.

The boy on the front row was dressed plainly in
dark slacks and a clean white shirt, open at the neck.
He leaned forward, listening intently as if recording
the words.

"You have faced many challenges to make it this far,
and you will be tested in high school even more. Not
only will you be tested academically. In many ways
academics is the easiest challenge you face. Attending
faithfully, listening closely, studying regularly, re-
viewing carefully and questioning everything is your
formula for academic success in high school. I am con-

fident that you all can face this challenge with grace...”

In the beginning, I had been afraid to
ask questions in class at Brookfield.

Eyes were always on me, waiting for me

93

to make a mistake and reveal that I
didn't belong. I wanted to quit, to
fail so I could return to Frederick
Street to things I knew and understood.
Collecting bottle caps, knocking on
the house with sticks, chasing spiders
from their webs, playing double—dutch
until dusk. Safe for a time. With

no future.

I made one friend at Brookfield, my
study partner, Brenda Hoffman. She
told me you can't hide by keeping
quiet. I thought about that for a

few days then began asking questions
and volunteering my own ideas, and
school work became easier.

But academics was not the total Brook-
field experience. I lived there with
girls like none I had ever known. Some
of them were mean, their cruelty aimed
as much at my poverty as my black skin.
Susan Anders was the worst. We shared
a room. I wondered more than once
whether this was the headmaster's sick

joke. I knew he didn't want me at Brook-

94

field. I was the board of directors' ex-
periment. I realized after a while that
Susan and I were roommates because no one

else wanted to be with either of us.

Susan played tennis at Brookfield and she
was good. She had a national amateur
ranking. She practiced every day, and one
evening she came into our room dripping
with sweat from her heavy workout. She
pulled her sweater off and tossed the
rank garment in my face, saying, "I've
been meaning to give this to you since I
noticed you didn't have any dress whites."
That was Susan. Childish, petty and mean.
Something I just had to put up with, like

a bad case of chicken pox.

The boy on the front row glanced briefly out the win-

dow to where several boys lolled on the playground, marking

He stared at them for a moment before turning his

attention again to the stage.

”But academic challenges are not the only ones facing

you as you move to high school. The tougher tests will

be those that examine your character and your resolve..."

And here I stood with two college degrees

and no life plan. What I knew was how to

95

go to school. I had been directed by
others for a decade. The next move was
up to me and I was spinning in place. I
had received job offers, and I had oppor-
tunities to continue my education. I
wanted my next move to be solely my own
decision, but I didn't know which way to

turn.

Jenkins wanted me to come back to Roosevelt
and teach. He was animated, enthusiastic
about the opportunity, but I remembered
what it was like. There were never enough
books in the classrooms, never funds for
adequate supplies. Mr. Esselman, my old
science teacher, had purchased many sup-
plies on his own, I knew. And now Jenkins
was inviting me to partake of that oppor-

tunity.

"As difficult as the path has been so far, you'll
continue to be challenged by your peers and forced to
make decisions that will affect the rest of your lives.

I don't need to tell you about the pitfalls that await..."

96

Carruthers, one of the wealthy Brook-
field alums had offered me a position
with his advertising company, along
with a fabulous salary and fringe bene-
fits. When he was vague about what my
duties and responsibilities would be,
the offer became more transparent and

not difficult to turn down.

I thought about going to law school, but
realizing finally that I was only con-
sidering it because of the cachet and
influence of the degree rather than any
burning commitment to jurisprudence, I

cast that option aside as well.

The boy in the front row glanced again out the win-

dow at his friends still gathered around the basketball

court. Their numbers had grown.

"Opportunities exist. They always have and they al-

ways will. Rare perhaps, so don't squander them. Wring

all you can from the smallest chance..."

When I graduated, Mr. Esselman wrote in my
autograph book, "the fields of opportunity

are strewn with the bones of hesitation."

97

That book was a ratty, green spiral note-

book I was ashamed of, but I kept it.

The boy's attention to the speaker was total now,

his surroundings forgotten.

”You will be sorely tested. Prepare. Persevere.

Prevail."

Would I?

The young man on the front row lay his book down

on his lap and led the applause.

"lllllllllllllllllllllf