A Death In The Family (13 page)

“Yes.”

“Now you be very careful that you never say anything about how she smells where Victoria can hear you. Will you? Say yes if you will.”

“Yes.”

“Because even though you like the way she smells, you might hurt her feelings terribly if you said any such thing, and you wouldn’t want to hurt dear old Victoria’s feelings, I know. Would you,
would
you, Rufus?”

“No.”

“Because Victoria is—is colored, Rufus. That’s why her skin is so dark, and colored people are very sensitive about the way they smell. Do you know what sensitive means?”

He nodded cautiously.

“It means there are things that hurt your feelings so badly, things you can’t help, that you feel like crying, and nice colored people feel that way about the way they smell. So you be very careful. Will you? Say yes if you will?”

“Yes.”

“Now tell me what I’ve asked you to be careful about, Rufus.”

“Don’t tell Victoria she smells.”

“Or say anything about it where she can hear.”

“Or say anything about it where she can hear.”

“Why not?”

“Because she might cry.”

“That’s right. And, Rufus, Victoria is very
very clean
. Absolutely spic and span.”

Spic an span.

Victoria would not allow his mother to get dinner and after they had eaten she also took entire charge of packing some of his clothes into a box, asking advice, however, on each thing that she took out of the drawer. Then Victoria bathed him and dressed him in clean clothes from the skin out, much to his mystification, and once he was ready, his mother called him to her and told him that Victoria was going to take him on a little visit to stay a few days with Granpa and Granma and Uncle Andrew and Aunt Amelia, and he must be a very good boy and do his very best not to wet the bed because when he came back, very soon now, in only a few more days, the surprise would be there and he would know what it was. He said that if the surprise was coming so soon he wanted to stay and see it, and she replied that that was just why he was going away to Granma’s, so the surprise could come all by itself. He asked why it couldn’t come if he was there and she said because he might frighten it away because it would still be very tiny and very much afraid, so if he really wanted the surprise to come, he could help more than anything else by being a good boy and going right along to Granma’s. Victoria would come and bring him home again just as soon as the surprise was ready for him; “Won’t you, Victoria?” And Victoria, who throughout this conversation had appeared to be tremendously amused about something, giving tight little cackles of swallowed laughter and murmuring, “Bless his heart,” whenever he spoke, said that indeed she most certainly would.

“And say your prayers,” his mother said, looking at him suddenly with so much love that he was bewildered. “You’re a big boy now, and you can say them by yourself; can’t you?” He nodded. She took him by the shoulders and looked at him almost as if she were threading a needle. As she looked at him, some kind of astonishment and some kind of fear grew in her face. Her face began to shine; she smiled; her mouth twitched and trembled. She took him close to her and her cheek was wet. “God bless my dear little boy,” she whispered, “for ever and ever! Amen,” and again she held him away; her face looked as if she were moving through space at extraordinary speed. “Good-bye, my darling; oh, good-bye!”

“Now you keep aholt a my hand,” Victoria told him, the sun flashing her lenses as she looked both ways from the curb. Arching his neck and his forelegs, a bright brown horse drew a buggy crisply but sedately past; in the washed black spokes, sunlight twittered. Far down the sunlight, like a bumblebee, a yellow streetcar buzzed. The trees moved. They did not wait.

“Victoria,” he said.

“Wait, chile,” said Victoria, breathing hard. “You wait till we’re safe across.”

“Now what is it, honey?” she asked, once they had attained the other curb.

“Why is your skin so dark?”

He saw her bright little eyes thrust into him through the little lenses and he felt a strong current of pain or danger. He knew that something was wrong. She did not answer him immediately but peered down at him sharply. Then the current passed and she looked away from him, readjusting her fingers so that she took his hand. Her face looked very far away, and resolute. “Just because, chile,” she said in a stern and gentle voice. “Just because that was the way God made me.”

“Is that why you’re colored, Victoria?”

He felt a change in her hand when he said the word “colored.” Again she did not answer immediately, nor would she look at him. “Yes,” she said at length, “that’s why I’m colored.”

He felt deeply sad as they walked along, but he did not know why. She seemed to have no more to say, and he had a feeling that it was not proper for him to say anything either. He watched her great, sad face beneath its brilliant cap, but she did not seem to know that he was watching her or even that he was there. But then he felt the pressure of her hand, and squeezed her hand, and he felt that whatever had been wrong was all right again.

After quite a little while Victoria said, “Chile, I want to tell you sumpn.” He waited: they walked. “Victoria don’t pay it no mind, because she knows you. She knows you wouldn’t say a mean thing to nobody, not for this world. But dey is lots of other colored folks dat don’t know you, honey. And if you say that, you know, about their skins, about their coloh, they goan think you’re trying to be mean to em. They goan to feel awful bad and maybe they be mad at you too, when Victoria knows you doan mean nuthin by it, cause they don’t know you like Victoria do. Do you understand me, chile?” He looked earnestly up at her. “Don’t say nuthin bout skins, or coloh, wheah colored people can heah you. Cause they goana think you’re mean to em. So you be careful.” And again she squeezed his hand.

He thought about Victoria while they walked and he wished that she was happy, and he felt that it was because of him that she was not happy. “Victoria,” he said.

“What is it, honey?”

“I didn’t want to be mean to you.”

She stopped abruptly and with creaking and difficulty squatted down in the middle of the sidewalk so that a man who was passing stepped suddenly aside and looked coldly down as he went by. She put both hands on his shoulders and her large, kind face and her kind smell were close to him. “Lord bless you, baby, Victoria knows you didn’t! Victoria knows you is de goodest little boy in all dis world! She just had to tell you, you see. Cause colored folks has a hard time in dis world and she knows you wouldn’t want to make em feel bad, not even if you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“Bless your little heart. I don’t feel bad, not one bit. You make me feel happy, and your mama makes me feel happy, and there’s not one thing in the world I wouldn’t do for de bole of you, honey, and dat you know. Dat you know,” she said again, rocking her head and smiling and patting both his shoulders. “I missed you terrible, honey,” she said, but somehow he felt that she was not talking exactly to him. “I couldn’t hardly love you more if you was my own baby.” A silence opened around them in which he felt at once great space, the space almost of darkness itself, and great peace and comfort; and the whole of this immensity was pervaded by her vague face and by the waving light of leaves. “Now let’s git along,” she said, creaking upright and smoothing her starched garments. “We don’t want to keep your granmaw waitin.”

And there was the dusty ivy on the wall, the small glasshouse in front, and on the porch, Aunt Amelia and his grandma. Even when they were still across the street he saw his Aunt Amelia wave and Victoria waved gaily back, chuckling and croaking, “Hello,” and he waved too; and Amelia leaned towards his grandmother who sought out and tilted her little trumpet and Amelia leaned close to it and then they both turned to look and Grandma got up and he could hear her high, “Hello,” and they were at the front steps, and Grandma came cautiously down the steps from the porch, and they all met on the brick walk in the shade of the magnolia, while Aunt Amelia came up smiling from behind her mother. And soon Victoria left; she disappeared around a corner, a few blocks up the street, handsomely and gradually as a sailboat.

PART II

Chapter 8

A few minutes before ten, the phone rang. Mary hurried to quiet it. “Hello?”

The voice was a man’s, wiry and faint, a country voice. It was asking a question, but she could not hear it clearly.

“Hello?” she asked again. “Will you please talk a little louder? I can’t hear. ... I said I can’t hear you! Will you talk a little louder please? Thank you.”

Now, straining and impatient, she could hear, though the voice seemed still to come from a great distance.

“Is this Miz Jay Follet?”

“Yes; what is it?” (for there was a silence); “yes, this is she.”

After further silence the voice said, “There’s been a slight—your husband has been in a accident.”

His head! she told herself.

“Yes,” she said, in a caved-in voice. At the same moment the voice said, “A serious accident.”

“Yes,” Mary said more clearly.

“What I wanted to ask, is there a man in his family, some kin, could come out? We’d appreciate if you could send a man out here, right away.”

“Yes; yes, there’s my brother. Where should he come to?”

“I’m out at Powell Station, at Brannick’s Blacksmith Shop, bout twelve miles out the Ball Camp Pike.”

“Brannick’s bl—”

“B-r-a-n-n-i-c-k. It’s right on the left of the Pike comin out just a little way this side, Knoxvul side of Bell’s Bridge.” She heard muttering, and another muttering voice. “Tell him he can’t miss it. We’ll keep the light on and a lantern out in front.”

“Do you have a doctor?”

“How’s that again, ma’am?”

“A doctor, do you have one? Should I send a doctor?”

“That’s all right, ma’am. Just some man that’s kin.”

“He’ll come right out just as fast as he can.” Walter’s auto, she thought. “Thank you very much for calling.”

“That’s all right, ma’am. I sure do hate to give you bad news.”

“Good night.”

“Good-bye, ma’am.”

She found she was scarcely standing, she was all but hanging from the telephone. She stiffened her knees, leaned against the wall, and rang.

“Andrew?”

“Mary?”

She drew a deep breath.

“Mary.”

She drew another deep breath; she felt as if her lungs were not large enough.

“Mary?”

Dizzy, seeing gray, trying to control her shaking voice, she said, “Andrew, there’s been an—a man just phoned, from Powell’s Station, about twelve miles out towards LaFollette, and he says—he says Jay—has met with a very serious accident. He wants ...”

“Oh, my God, Mary!”

“He said they want some man of his family to come out just as soon as possible and, help bring him in, I guess.”

“I’ll call Walter, he’ll take me out.”

“Yes do, will you, Andrew?”

“Of course I will. Just a minute.”

“What?”

“Aunt Hannah.”

“May I speak to her when you’re through?”

“Certainly. Where is he hurt, Mary?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Well, didn’t you—no matter.”

“No I didn’t,” she said, now realizing with surprise that she had not, “I guess because I was so sure. Sure it’s his head, that is.”

“Do they—shall I get Dr. Dekalb?”

“He says no; just you.”

“I guess there’s already a doctor there.”

“I guess.”

“I’ll call Wa—wait, here’s Aunt Hannah.”

“Mary.”

"Aunt Hannah, Jay is in a serious accident, Andrew has to go out. Would you come up and wait with me and get things ready just in case? Just in case he’s well enough to be brought home and not the hospital?”

“Certainly, Mary. Of course I will.”

“And will you tell Mama and Papa not to worry, not to come out, give them my love. We might as well just be calm as we can, till we know.”

“Of course we must. I’ll be right up.”

“Thank you, Aunt Hannah.”

She went into the kitchen and built a quick fire and put on a large kettle of water and a small kettle, for tea. The phone rang.

“Mary! Where do I go?”

“Why, Powell’s Station, out the Pike towards ...”

“I know, but exactly where? Didn’t he say?”

“He said Brannick’s blacksmith shop. B-r-a-n-n-i-c-k. Do you hear?”

“Yes. Brannick.”

“He said they’ll keep the lights on and you can’t miss it. It’s just to the left of the Pike just this side of Bell’s Bridge. Just a little way this side.”

“All right, Mary, Walter will come by here and we’ll bring Aunt Hannah on our way.”

“All right. Thank you, Andrew.”

She put on more kindling and hurried into the downstairs bedroom. How do I know, she thought; he didn’t even say; I didn’t even ask. By the way he talks he may be—she whipped off the coverlet, folded it, and smoothed the pad. I’m just simply not going to think about it until I know more, she told herself. She hurried to the linen closet and brought clean sheets and pillowcases. He didn’t say whether there was a doctor there or not. She spread a sheet, folded it under the foot of the mattress, pulled it smooth, and folded it under all around. Then she spread her palms along it; it was cold and smooth beneath her hands and it brought her great hope. Oh God, let him be well enough to come home where I can take care of him, where I can take
good
care of him. How good to rest! That’s all right, ma’am. Just some man that’s kin. She spread the top sheet. That’s all right, ma’am. That can mean anything. It can mean there’s a doctor there and although it’s serious he has it in hand, under control, it isn’t so dreadfully bad, although he did say it’s serious or it can ... A light blanket, this weather. Two, case it turns cool. She hurried and got them, unaware whether she was making such noise as might wake the children and unaware that even in this swiftness she was moving, by force of habit, almost silently. Just some man that’s kin. That means it’s bad, or he’d ask for me. No, I’d have to stay with the children. But
he
doesn’t know there are children. My place’d be home anyhow, getting things ready, he knows that. He didn’t suggest getting anything ready. He knew I’d know. He is a man, wouldn’t occur to him. She took the end of a pillow between her teeth and pulled the slip on and plumped it and put it in place. She took the end of the second pillow between her teeth and bit it so hard the roots of her teeth ached, and pulled the slip on and plumped it. Then she set the first pillow up on edge and set the second pillow on edge against it and plumped them both and smoothed them and stood away and looked at them with her head on one side, and for a moment she saw him sitting up in bed with a tray on his knees as he had sat when he strained his back, and he looked at her, almost but not quite smiling, and she could hear his voice, grouchy, pretending to be for the fun of it. If it’s his head, she remembered, perhaps he’ll have to lie very flat.