to offset Pop’s generosity. She had become irrevocably sharp in money matters. When she was quoted a price on an object she automatically demanded a lower one, backing the demand with derisive comments on the potential purchase. Salesgirls hid when they saw Mom coming. When a huckster or peddler stopped at our house, he usually left with a bewildered look on his face and bitter curses on his lips.
That was Mom and that couldn’t be Mom where Viola was concerned. Viola was constantly belittling her own efforts. Mom had to scold her to keep her from working herself to death, and force presents and money upon her with naggings.
Mom became terribly upset. After a session with Viola she was apt to be kind to butchers, her pet abomination. One night when she had been skinned into accepting two pounds of bone and gristle masquerading as stew meat, Mom broke down and cried. She told Viola she was driving her crazy, and if Viola didn’t “stop it” she didn’t know what she was going to do.
Viola wept right along with her. She said she knew she hadn’t been earning her keep, but she would do better from now on. Moreover, she had saved most of her wages, and we could have the money back.
We were a northern family by heritage, but we had lived a big part of our lives in the South, and we—we children, at least—thought southern. Hence, the reason for my puzzlement with Viola.
It was obvious even to me that she was a far superior person to Mrs. Cole. She was, in fact, the mental and moral superior of many white people I knew. But she was black, and everyone knew that Negroes were a shiftless, lazy lot who couldn’t be trusted out of sight. Everyone knew that the lowest white was better than the best black.
The only way I could account for Viola’s superiority was on the basis that she was part white, but this she would not admit.
“No, sir, Mister Jimmie,” she laughed, when I plagued her. “I’m black, all right. All black.”
“But how do you know, Viola? You might not be.”
“I just know. I know the same way you know you’re white.”
I could not desist. Once I got some riddle on my mind, preferably one that was foolish or of no possible consequence to me, I could not expel it until it was solved.
So, in the end, I forced Viola to confess her whiteness.
She was peeling potatoes and she had just nicked her thumb with the knife. She held the bleeding digit up for me to see.
“You see there, Mister Jimmie? You don’t see any white blood like that. That’s all-Negro blood.”
“It is not either!” I exclaimed. “That’s white people’s blood! It’s just like mine!”
“You’re joking me, Mister Jimmie.”
“I am not! You’re white, Viola—partly white, anyways. I guess I ought to know what white people’s blood looks like!”
“I guess you should,” Viola admitted in an awed voice. “Well, what do you know!”
“I knew all the time I was right,” I said loftily.
Mom looked upon Viola more as a friend than a servant. But, as she was fond of saying, she didn’t want friends around all the time. Thus, as she recovered her health and the economic situation improved, Viola left us for another job. Once a week, however, she returned to us for a day to give the house a good cleaning.
She did not want to take any pay for this work, but Mom always forced her to take something; if not money, some discarded clothes. As for her new employers, Viola had very little to say about them. About all we could get out of her was that they were mighty nice people, but that she’d rather be with us.
It was Pop who finally let the cat out of the bag. Not, naturally, that he’d been trying to keep the truth from us. He just hadn’t thought it of any particular consequence.
“Why, she’s working for the governor,” he revealed. “He gave her some little job in the mansion on my say-so, but the family liked her so well she’s running the whole thing now. She—”
“The governor,” said Mom,
That was Mom and that couldn’t be Mom where Viola was concerned. Viola was constantly belittling her own efforts. Mom had to scold her to keep her from working herself to death, and force presents and money upon her with naggings.
Mom became terribly upset. After a session with Viola she was apt to be kind to butchers, her pet abomination. One night when she had been skinned into accepting two pounds of bone and gristle masquerading as stew meat, Mom broke down and cried. She told Viola she was driving her crazy, and if Viola didn’t “stop it” she didn’t know what she was going to do.
Viola wept right along with her. She said she knew she hadn’t been earning her keep, but she would do better from now on. Moreover, she had saved most of her wages, and we could have the money back.
We were a northern family by heritage, but we had lived a big part of our lives in the South, and we—we children, at least—thought southern. Hence, the reason for my puzzlement with Viola.
It was obvious even to me that she was a far superior person to Mrs. Cole. She was, in fact, the mental and moral superior of many white people I knew. But she was black, and everyone knew that Negroes were a shiftless, lazy lot who couldn’t be trusted out of sight. Everyone knew that the lowest white was better than the best black.
The only way I could account for Viola’s superiority was on the basis that she was part white, but this she would not admit.
“No, sir, Mister Jimmie,” she laughed, when I plagued her. “I’m black, all right. All black.”
“But how do you know, Viola? You might not be.”
“I just know. I know the same way you know you’re white.”
I could not desist. Once I got some riddle on my mind, preferably one that was foolish or of no possible consequence to me, I could not expel it until it was solved.
So, in the end, I forced Viola to confess her whiteness.
She was peeling potatoes and she had just nicked her thumb with the knife. She held the bleeding digit up for me to see.
“You see there, Mister Jimmie? You don’t see any white blood like that. That’s all-Negro blood.”
“It is not either!” I exclaimed. “That’s white people’s blood! It’s just like mine!”
“You’re joking me, Mister Jimmie.”
“I am not! You’re white, Viola—partly white, anyways. I guess I ought to know what white people’s blood looks like!”
“I guess you should,” Viola admitted in an awed voice. “Well, what do you know!”
“I knew all the time I was right,” I said loftily.
Mom looked upon Viola more as a friend than a servant. But, as she was fond of saying, she didn’t want friends around all the time. Thus, as she recovered her health and the economic situation improved, Viola left us for another job. Once a week, however, she returned to us for a day to give the house a good cleaning.
She did not want to take any pay for this work, but Mom always forced her to take something; if not money, some discarded clothes. As for her new employers, Viola had very little to say about them. About all we could get out of her was that they were mighty nice people, but that she’d rather be with us.
It was Pop who finally let the cat out of the bag. Not, naturally, that he’d been trying to keep the truth from us. He just hadn’t thought it of any particular consequence.
“Why, she’s working for the governor,” he revealed. “He gave her some little job in the mansion on my say-so, but the family liked her so well she’s running the whole thing now. She—”
“The governor,” said Mom,
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