Apron Strings (30 page)

Early said he found me up aside the well pump pantin’ like a dog. He got me to my feet and half dragged, half carried me into the bedroom, and then he ran fast to get the doctor. Dr. Green said he had no time and sent Early down to Aunt Annie, the colored midwife. By then whatever chance there was for my baby was long gone. They cleaned up the room pretty good. When the doctor finally come in, he and old Aunt Annie huddled out on the stoop talkin’ ‘bout what had happened. I heard her say, “They was nothing to be done but…”

Dr. Green come into my room. “Miss Ethel,” he began. I remember he said “Miss.” Most white folk ain’t as respectful as Dr. Green was. He was a carin’ man; I ‘spect that’s why he went into doctorin’. “Miss Ethel, you won’t have to go through that ever again. That is the good news. As far as having any babies, you won’t be able to. I’m sorry.” With that he picked up his little black bag, put on his hat, and headed out the door. The screen door slammed after him. Aunt Annie bustled around a bit, straightenin’ up this and that, and then she too let the screen door slam on her way out. The call of a whip-poor-will was all the sound there was. Early and I laid together on the bed—after the sad little funeral we had for our dead baby—like two lost souls, holdin’ each other and takin’ turns cryin’ and comfortin’.

When I was able to get on my feet without the world goin’ swimmy, I went down to the boardin’ house to see Miz Nancy. I was still too weak to be much account at work, but I thought I best put in an appearance. She came out on the porch and just shook her head, lookin’ sorry and sad. She said, “Miz Dupree say they no job here for the likes a you. She say she don’ want no harlot workin’ in her boardinghouse.” I heard Miz Dupree call, “Nancy,” and Miz Nancy had to turn and go without another word.

I dragged myself on home and went back to bed, miserable as could be. Thing is, losin’ that job wasn’t nothin’ compared to the loss I felt over my child. I had never thought about children much, but suddenly they was all I could think about. I’d fall asleep and dream about my little baby who I’d never even known was growin’ inside me. I’d dream he was born
and healthy and smilin’, and then something awful would happen to him. Sometimes I dropped ‘im down the well, hearing his little body go “splash” in the water below. Other times I’d go to pick him up and he’d already be cold as death. Every night that baby would die all over again in my dreams, and I would wake up cryin’ and hurtin’. Early would hold me and he’d cry, too. Some nights I don’t think either of us slept.

A few days after I lost my job, Mama came by to see me with her new baby, Viberta. She was so proud and I couldn’t blame her. Viberta was a sweet looking soul even though she only had three fingers on one hand. “Honey, I’m sorry you feel poorly, an’ I ain’t been much help to ya, I know.” She nodded down to little Viberta. “You wanna hold ‘er?”

I shook my head, tears streamin’ down my face.

“I’m sorry, honey. I truly is so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Mama,” I said. “I ain’t never really want no baby…that is, ‘til I found I was havin’ one, an’ then…” I tried to choke back the tears.

“I know, sugar. I know,” she said, patting my hand while gently rocking Viberta.

“Is Early that do; he half crazy with grief. I’s don’ know what to do. Doctor say I can’t have no mo’. Das whats really got Early riled up. He ain’t stopped drinkin.”

“What’s you need is a job, darlin’. I heard Miz Sinclair lookin’ for a nursemaid for that boy a her’s.”

I winced as I thought ‘bout taking care of someone else’s baby boy.

“It do ya good to spend time wit’ a child. You kin love a child wit’out givin’ birth to it. A child’s love is good for the soul, honey, and you’s got a soul thas a hurtin’ an’ needs that love. Go on down an’ talk wit’ Miz Sinclair—she a good woman. She know you is, too.”

Mama was right. Miz Sinclair hired me the day I went to see her. It took me a week to screw myself up to a place where I wouldn’t cry just to look at the baby. Baby Billy Sinclair was the best thing that had happened to me in a good while. He was a sweet baby. The work was easy. I had a half day off ev’ry Sunday, and a full day off once a month; and the pay was better, too. Miz Sinclair was easy to work for, but then I suspect most people would be compared to old Miz Dupree. Every day, Billy
got a little bigger and my ache got a little smaller. But even as the hurt softened and faded, I kept right on feeling that loss inside me.

Not three weeks after I came to get that job, Early got fired from his for showin’ up drunk. Now with nothin’ but time on his hands, he hit that bottle every day ‘til the money ran out. Drinkin’ like that makes a body hurt, and a man mean. So I stayed ‘way as much as I could. I told Miz Sinclair, “Yes’m, I be happy to spend the night ‘til the baby gits over his colic. No ma’am, it won’ be no problem at all.” Every chance I got to get out of the house I took for a good six months.

Havin’ no job is doubly hard on a man. The more time went by, the nastier Early got. One night I came home and found him blind drunk in the kitchen, ravin’ ‘bout how I was a no good, two timin’ tramp. He beat me bad. So bad I was laid up for a week.

Roberta came over to see me the next day. When nobody answered the do’, she let herself in. “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” she called as she poked her head first into the sittin’ room, and then the room ‘cross the hall.

“Git’er outta here,” Early groaned.

“How I’m suppose ta do that, me layin’ up here in bed beaten bloody?” I hissed. “You the one that got us here; you be the one the git her out.”

Roberta stuck her head in the room. She gasped as she looked ‘round the room at the mess and began sputterin’ “Early Thompson, ya outta be ashamed a yerself! Is true then what people been sayin’ bout you and yo’ first wife. You best be breakin’ that habit, you hear me? Or I got news fo’ you: If’n I ever hear ‘bout you layin’ a hand on my sister again, Imma be comin’ for ya.” She turned on her heels and stomped out. I never felt so loved by my sister before or after.

Early moaned and turned his head ‘way from me to face the wall.

As I lay there in bed achin’ ‘bout everywhere a body could ache, I thought about what people said ‘bout Early when they thought I couldn’t hear ‘em.
He killed his wife
. I knew that wasn’t so.
He beat ‘er and that’s why the baby came early
. That could be the case.
Befo’ his wife died he was a no good drunk. Her dyin’ sobered him up
. Now I had never been one for
confrontation, but I looked over at that man, who I loved with all my heart, and suddenly I wanted to kill him. Never mind that I was hittin’ the bottle pretty hard myself. Suddenly I was mad as hell that he’d let hisself slip with me.

“Look here,” I said, not turnin’ to look at him, just facing the wall; my voice hard as stone. “I know what they says ‘bout you. They says you was a drunk afore. They says you beat yo wife. They says you cleaned up because she died. Well, you listen good. I’s your woman now, and if you can do it for her, you can do it for me, and befo’ it’s too late this time. I ain’t sayin’ you cain’ drink. But if you lay a hand on me again, Lord, I swear I’ll put your sorry self outta yo’ misery.”

Now, Early hadn’t turned around, but I could see his head shakin’ back an’ forth on the pillow, and I could hear his breath comin’ out in sobs as he said, “I cain’ be drinkin’ at all, I know that now. I’m makin’ a solemn promise to you right chere, righ’ now.” He got outta bed and shook worse than a colicky horse, his right hand on his heart and the other in the air jest like he was standin’ befo’ the judge. “I ain’t never takin’ another drop a alcohol. I love ya too much, Ethel. An’ thas a promise,” he added, “that I aims to keep. I ‘spect ya to hol’ me to it, too. I ‘spect ya to leave me high an’ dry if’n I drank another drop.”

“You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that,” I said. He got back in bed. The sheets was rough as sandpaper ‘gainst my sore, bruised skin, and the shifting mattress felt like a fast ride on a bumpy road. “I’ll do more than be leavin’,” I said tryin’ my level best not to move any more than I had to.

I sent word to Miz Sinclair that I had broken my leg and wouldn’t be able to walk for a good while. She sent word back that she was sorry and would be lookin’ forward to my getting back as soon as I was able. After I mended, I helped Early round the farm; did his chores and mine. When Early finally got hisself right, I went back to nursemaidin’ Billy Sinclair.

It turned out that quittin’ drankin’ for Early wasn’t simple. He had to do more than just put up wit’ a powerful hangover for a day or two. That man suffered worse than starving while he was quitting. He was laid up for days with the heebie-jeebies and throwing up. I’d go out in the mornin’ to milk, take care of the stock and vegetable patch. He’d be sleepin’ fitful, sweatin’ like he done run a race; legs and arms goin ev’ry
which way. When I come back ‘round lunch time, he barely be done got outta the bed, an’ the chamber pot be jest fulla puke and pee ‘cause he couldn’ make it to the outhouse.

I took to sleepin’ in the sittin’ room, myself. Between the vomit and sweat, the sour smell coming outta that room made my eyes water—like walkin’ into a wall of stink. I had no interest in spending any mo’ time than I had to in that room. He was even crazy in the head sometimes, mumbling one minute, yellin’ the next. It scared me straight for a good while.

He finally pulled hisself together, and good as his word, he went right out and got that job. He tol’ me he didn’t ask me to quit drinkin’ ‘cause he wouldn’t make a dog go through that hell. He also said it wouldn’t do no good no how because if’n he knew one thang, it was that a body couldn’t quit until they was ready, no matter how much beggin’ and pleadin’ you did.

So I kep’ taking little nips now and again. I didn’t have the heart to ask Early to get me a drink, but I still had a taste for it, so I would get Ham Bone to get me a pint every now an’ again. Early never said nothin’. He knew I was drinkin’, but for the most part it was only now and again and only when things just got too hard for me to handle.

I had a rough spell after Miz Sinclair let me go. She said, “Ethel, you don’t need to come back to work after next week. Billy is in school now and I really don’t have the work for you.” It took me by surprise. On the way home from work that night I asked Early to drop me off at the store while he did some errands. I bought myself my firs’ bottle an’ tucked it into tha groceries so Early wouldn’ know. I got pretty tight and stayed that way for ‘bout a week. Early might have been a little chilly, but he didn’t say a word.

Then one clear April morning Mama came by with news. “Ginny Stuart gettin’ married an’ she be looking for someone to keep house for her. I tol’ her ‘bout you, an’ she say you to go up there an’ talk wit’ ‘er tomorrow. Lord, honey, don’t be going up there like you is. Come on now, less you get cleaned up.

Chapter 17

Sallee

A
ugust rolled around and my ninth birthday came and went without much fanfare. My mother invited the usual neighborhood kids over, but fewer of them showed up than in previous years. Then, in the second week of August, the most exciting thing that had ever happened occurred: my mother said yes when Uncle James and Aunt Lizbeth asked me to the beach. I was going to spend two whole weeks with my older cousin by four months whom I got along with better than practically anybody. No four-month-old baby brother to watch when nobody else had the time, none of Gordy’s pestering or Helen’s—just me and Jilly. Ethel scurried around getting me ready as I got more and more excited. During the two days leading up to my departure, I nearly made myself sick with anticipation—I thought they would never end.

Finally, after what seemed like a whole day of driving, Uncle James’s station wagon pulled to a stop, and Jillian James Stuart jumped out of the car before I could reach for the door handle. “Come on, I’ll race you to the beach,” she shouted behind her. She was already past the cottage. Jilly was dark-haired like her mother with enormous brown eyes. Next to her I looked like a white lab rat.

I struggled with the door. “It’s locked, honey. You have to pull that button up,” Uncle James instructed. Finally free, I took off. I caught up with Jilly only because she waited for me at the dune. “I won,” she declared, laughing.

“No fair. I couldn’t get the door open.” We stood together on the dune surveying the deserted beach and soaking in the salty sea breeze.

“Finally,” she said with a little jump of excitement. “Doesn’t that smell good? I can’t believe how much I miss the ocean when I’m not here. Isn’t it great that Aunt Ginny let you come with us this time by yourself? We are gonna have so much fun.” She took my hand and we ran down to the water’s edge. As we ran in and out of the surf, my mood lightened a bit.

“I’d forgotten how long it takes to get here. I thought we were going to die of old age before that trip was over.” I was only half joking. Aunt Lizbeth, a chronic complainer, found something wrong with every little thing we did or said for the entire trip. She made my mother sound like Mary Poppins—well, maybe not quite like that. I had been spending the night at Jilly’s house for years but had never been subjected to Aunt Lizbeth for that long without interruption. I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to two weeks of it before the rest of my family arrived to join us. As much as I loved Jilly and being at the beach, I was a little apprehensive about being so far away from home for the very first time by myself.