bank holiday still vivid, they put paper money under the rug, while coins were hoarded in all manner of unlikely places. Only for their grandson were these hoards ever broached for anything but necessities. They disciplined the child, but with more gentleness than they themselves had been disciplined by parents of another generation. "Mebbe he's spoilt," said Geneva. "But he ain't spoilt rotten."
When David outgrew the carton beside the bed and the dresser drawer, they moved. The new rooms were only a block away, and no great improvement on their previous cramped quarters, except for an anteroom that might once have been a trunk closet. Into this they managed to squeeze a bed, a dresser and, first, a borrowed crib, then a borrowed cot that they managed to fit at the foot of their bed. On the days when Li'l Joe and Geneva both worked, they took the boy to Ambrose Jefferson's house, next door to Pop Jefferson, his brother, the Abraham Jefferson of Li'l Joe's childhood.
Joseph Champlin could not remember when there had not been a lot of Jeffersons in his life. They were scattered through the French Quarter in an ever-growing and progressively more intricate pattern of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and small sons and daughters. It was the first Abraham Jefferson who had been with Li'l Joe's father, David, when that doomed man had died on a pile of blazing logs in a nearby state. Abraham had managed to escape somehow, and by blind instinct found his way to New Orleans, but had never been coherent enough again to tell all that had happened on that spring afternoon when his friend had died in flames, with the howling laughter of a mob in his ears. "Abr'am just never did come to hisself," said Gran'Cecile.
It was the sight of a white doctor, sent for by Cecile, that had sent the half-crazed Abraham running from the house, a mad, screaming black man no one dared stop, a man who ran like the wind, with bulging eyes and wide-open mouth, ran through the streets of the French Quarter straight and fast as an arrow to the docks, crying "Jesus! I'm coming, Jesus! Take me Jesus!" until the kind waters of the river filled the screaming mouth, closed over the frenzied eyes, and did not give him up for three days. There were old people still alive in the French Quarter who remembered that day.
When Li'l Joe and Geneva were both working and they took David to Ambrose Jefferson's house, Geneva fretted. "They got a lot of white children coming in, playing in that neighborhood," she said one morning.
"You can't help that, Neva. Chile's got to know there's whites, got to learn what they're like. Can't wrap him up in cotton wool all his life."
"Onlies' white he knows now is the Professor. Suits me if he don't ever have to know no more."
"You talking foolishness, Neva. He's going to think all whites is like the Professor, way it is now."
"He ain't going to think it long."
She nagged her husband to keep after Zeke Jones about their grandson's future.
"Gawd sake, Neva, the chile ain't even walking yet, and already you wants him to start laying out co'pses."
The Professor, admittedly hazy about the mental working of the very young, gave them a set of alphabet blocks when the boy was four. To Geneva, whose scant knowledge of reading and writing had come long after she was grown, some of it with the help of her husband, alphabet blocks were not playthings. They were means to an end, and to Li'l Joe they represented the same opportunity—to start his grandson on the right road. He spent hours on the floor with the child whenever he could, making a game of the alphabet, using pictures of dogs and cats and cows and horses until at five David could spell out simple sentences.
It did not bother the child that the only plumbing in their home was a single cold-water faucet, his only playground the cobbled courtyards and banquettes. He was, in the words of his grandfather, "just as happy as if he had good sense." When he was
When David outgrew the carton beside the bed and the dresser drawer, they moved. The new rooms were only a block away, and no great improvement on their previous cramped quarters, except for an anteroom that might once have been a trunk closet. Into this they managed to squeeze a bed, a dresser and, first, a borrowed crib, then a borrowed cot that they managed to fit at the foot of their bed. On the days when Li'l Joe and Geneva both worked, they took the boy to Ambrose Jefferson's house, next door to Pop Jefferson, his brother, the Abraham Jefferson of Li'l Joe's childhood.
Joseph Champlin could not remember when there had not been a lot of Jeffersons in his life. They were scattered through the French Quarter in an ever-growing and progressively more intricate pattern of brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and small sons and daughters. It was the first Abraham Jefferson who had been with Li'l Joe's father, David, when that doomed man had died on a pile of blazing logs in a nearby state. Abraham had managed to escape somehow, and by blind instinct found his way to New Orleans, but had never been coherent enough again to tell all that had happened on that spring afternoon when his friend had died in flames, with the howling laughter of a mob in his ears. "Abr'am just never did come to hisself," said Gran'Cecile.
It was the sight of a white doctor, sent for by Cecile, that had sent the half-crazed Abraham running from the house, a mad, screaming black man no one dared stop, a man who ran like the wind, with bulging eyes and wide-open mouth, ran through the streets of the French Quarter straight and fast as an arrow to the docks, crying "Jesus! I'm coming, Jesus! Take me Jesus!" until the kind waters of the river filled the screaming mouth, closed over the frenzied eyes, and did not give him up for three days. There were old people still alive in the French Quarter who remembered that day.
When Li'l Joe and Geneva were both working and they took David to Ambrose Jefferson's house, Geneva fretted. "They got a lot of white children coming in, playing in that neighborhood," she said one morning.
"You can't help that, Neva. Chile's got to know there's whites, got to learn what they're like. Can't wrap him up in cotton wool all his life."
"Onlies' white he knows now is the Professor. Suits me if he don't ever have to know no more."
"You talking foolishness, Neva. He's going to think all whites is like the Professor, way it is now."
"He ain't going to think it long."
She nagged her husband to keep after Zeke Jones about their grandson's future.
"Gawd sake, Neva, the chile ain't even walking yet, and already you wants him to start laying out co'pses."
The Professor, admittedly hazy about the mental working of the very young, gave them a set of alphabet blocks when the boy was four. To Geneva, whose scant knowledge of reading and writing had come long after she was grown, some of it with the help of her husband, alphabet blocks were not playthings. They were means to an end, and to Li'l Joe they represented the same opportunity—to start his grandson on the right road. He spent hours on the floor with the child whenever he could, making a game of the alphabet, using pictures of dogs and cats and cows and horses until at five David could spell out simple sentences.
It did not bother the child that the only plumbing in their home was a single cold-water faucet, his only playground the cobbled courtyards and banquettes. He was, in the words of his grandfather, "just as happy as if he had good sense." When he was
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