forth from page 42 to page 47, she had showed Miss Sadie her pick. “Green or lavender?” she asked her lifelong friend and sister in Christ.
Miss Sadie didn’t hesitate. “Lavender!” she said. “You always looked good in lavender.”
Miss Sadie was a little bit like a mama, for it was Miss Sadie who knew Louella’s history, who said things like, “When you were a baby, you hated apple butter,” or “I remember the time I pulled you to town in the wagon—you hopped out and chased Perry Mackey down the street for a lick on his peppermint stick. You nearly scared him to death!”
Louella didn’t remember any of the events Miss Sadie liked to recall, but she’d heard them so often, they’d become as good as real memories. She savored the image of chasing a little white boy down the street to lick his candy, and wondered why on earth she loved apple butter now if she hated it then.
“How you know I always look good in this color?”
“When you were about six years old, Mama made you a lavender dress with smocking on the bodice. Don’t you remember it, with little pearl buttons? It was such a pretty dress I was half jealous!”
She was disgusted with herself for not remembering. “Don’ you think this big white collar too fancy for my face?”
“Posh tosh! Your face may be too fancy for that collar!”
They had both laughed and laughed, then they’d zeroed in on the business of Miss Sadie’s final choice. Page 36 was too drab; page 37 was too high in the waist; page 40 was not only shapeless, it had three-quarter-length sleeves, which, as anybody knew, were unflattering all the way back to the pharaohs. Page 41, however, showed promise.
“I like the way it’s cut,” said Miss Sadie, peering at the dress through a magnifying glass, “but I’m too gray-headed for this color.”
“Why, listen at that! Gray-headed is what look good wit’ blue.”
“But it’s a pale blue, and it might wash me out.”
“No, honey, you might wash it out!”
They had laughed again, like children, and decided on the pale blue French crepe with smocked bodice.
Louella held the catalog closer to the window and squinted at the picture.
She wished Moses Marshall could see her all dressed up for the father’s wedding. He would look at her and be so proud. Oh, how she’d loved that man from the day she laid eyes on him!
She closed her eyes to rest them and held the picture against her heart, and saw her husband-to-be walking into the kitchen of the Atlanta boardinghouse.
She was fifteen years old, with her hair in cornrows and the sense that something wonderful was about to happen.
Moses Marshall flashed a smile that nearly knocked her winding. She had never seen anybody who looked like this when she was growing up in Mitford. The only people of color in Mitford were old and stooped over.
“Who’s th’ one baked them good biscuits for supper?” he asked.
She’d been scarcely able to speak. “What you want to know for?”
“ ’Cause th’ one baked them good biscuits, that’s th’ one I’m goin’ to marry.”
She had looked at old Miss Sally Lou, who had to stand on tiptoe to peer into a pot on the stove. She was so little and dried up, some said she was a hundred, but Louella knew she was only eighty-two, and still the boss cook of three meals a day at the boardinghouse.
She had pointed to Miss Sally Lou, afraid to say the plain truth—that she, Louella Baxter, had baked the biscuits herself, three pans full and not one left begging.
Moses Marshall looked his bright, happy look at Miss Sally Lou and walked over and picked her up and swung her around twice before he set her down like a doll. “Fine biscuits, ma’am. Will you jump th’ broom wit’ me?”
“Git out of my way ’fore I knock you in th’ head!” said Miss Sally Lou. “Marry that ’un yonder, she th’ one do biscuits, I does yeast rolls.”
She was sixteen when they were married at her grandmother’s house in Atlanta,
Miss Sadie didn’t hesitate. “Lavender!” she said. “You always looked good in lavender.”
Miss Sadie was a little bit like a mama, for it was Miss Sadie who knew Louella’s history, who said things like, “When you were a baby, you hated apple butter,” or “I remember the time I pulled you to town in the wagon—you hopped out and chased Perry Mackey down the street for a lick on his peppermint stick. You nearly scared him to death!”
Louella didn’t remember any of the events Miss Sadie liked to recall, but she’d heard them so often, they’d become as good as real memories. She savored the image of chasing a little white boy down the street to lick his candy, and wondered why on earth she loved apple butter now if she hated it then.
“How you know I always look good in this color?”
“When you were about six years old, Mama made you a lavender dress with smocking on the bodice. Don’t you remember it, with little pearl buttons? It was such a pretty dress I was half jealous!”
She was disgusted with herself for not remembering. “Don’ you think this big white collar too fancy for my face?”
“Posh tosh! Your face may be too fancy for that collar!”
They had both laughed and laughed, then they’d zeroed in on the business of Miss Sadie’s final choice. Page 36 was too drab; page 37 was too high in the waist; page 40 was not only shapeless, it had three-quarter-length sleeves, which, as anybody knew, were unflattering all the way back to the pharaohs. Page 41, however, showed promise.
“I like the way it’s cut,” said Miss Sadie, peering at the dress through a magnifying glass, “but I’m too gray-headed for this color.”
“Why, listen at that! Gray-headed is what look good wit’ blue.”
“But it’s a pale blue, and it might wash me out.”
“No, honey, you might wash it out!”
They had laughed again, like children, and decided on the pale blue French crepe with smocked bodice.
Louella held the catalog closer to the window and squinted at the picture.
She wished Moses Marshall could see her all dressed up for the father’s wedding. He would look at her and be so proud. Oh, how she’d loved that man from the day she laid eyes on him!
She closed her eyes to rest them and held the picture against her heart, and saw her husband-to-be walking into the kitchen of the Atlanta boardinghouse.
She was fifteen years old, with her hair in cornrows and the sense that something wonderful was about to happen.
Moses Marshall flashed a smile that nearly knocked her winding. She had never seen anybody who looked like this when she was growing up in Mitford. The only people of color in Mitford were old and stooped over.
“Who’s th’ one baked them good biscuits for supper?” he asked.
She’d been scarcely able to speak. “What you want to know for?”
“ ’Cause th’ one baked them good biscuits, that’s th’ one I’m goin’ to marry.”
She had looked at old Miss Sally Lou, who had to stand on tiptoe to peer into a pot on the stove. She was so little and dried up, some said she was a hundred, but Louella knew she was only eighty-two, and still the boss cook of three meals a day at the boardinghouse.
She had pointed to Miss Sally Lou, afraid to say the plain truth—that she, Louella Baxter, had baked the biscuits herself, three pans full and not one left begging.
Moses Marshall looked his bright, happy look at Miss Sally Lou and walked over and picked her up and swung her around twice before he set her down like a doll. “Fine biscuits, ma’am. Will you jump th’ broom wit’ me?”
“Git out of my way ’fore I knock you in th’ head!” said Miss Sally Lou. “Marry that ’un yonder, she th’ one do biscuits, I does yeast rolls.”
She was sixteen when they were married at her grandmother’s house in Atlanta,
Similar Books
