It's All About The Moon When The Sun Ain't Shining by Ernest Hill Page B

dealership. The building was still there—boarded up and abandoned—but the business was not. Like so many others, it had gone under when the plant closed and the locals who had worked there moved away in search of a place that could offer them what Brownsville no longer could: employment. And after they had gone, what was left for a town was mostly a collection of poor and old people, mixed in with a few wealthy white folks like Miss Hattie and Mr. John who had amassed their wealth during more prosperous times. Back then, Mr. John had been a lawyer; he was now a judge. And Miss Hattie, his wife, had simply married well.
    I had rarely ventured into this section of town. Very few blacks had unless like my mother, they did so to cook or clean, or attend to some other folks’ children. For this section was the domain of that elite class of whites who had been born into old money and had come of age wedded to old ways. No, I rarely came unless there was some unusual occasion in which there was a task Mama had to perform that was beyond her—something too heavy for her to lift or too big for her to move. Then and only then, did I come.
    Miss Hattie’s house was located toward the end of the street. It was a large plantation-style house with four impressive pillars and a beautiful second-story balcony. It wasn’t exactly on the street, rather it set well off the street on a moderate side lot and was partially hidden by several large trees. Oak, I believe. And if I wasn’t mistaken, I heard at one time or another while I was still living in Brownsville that those trees were well over one hundred years old and had been planted there by Mr. John’s father, the late Theodore Shaw.
    Just as we approached the house, I could see the long driveway leading up to the carport, but Daddy didn’t turn into the driveway, instead he pulled to the shoulder and stopped. I could tell that Miss Hattie was waiting for us. The porch light was on, and in the house I could see a second light burning in what I knew was the parlor.
    When I opened the door and stepped out, I felt the ice-cold wind engulf me. I pulled my hood over my head, covered my ears, then ran my hands deep into my pockets and when I did I felt myself involuntarily sucking in cold, dry air through numb, chattering teeth. And each time I released the air, I saw my breath flow out, then dissipate into the frigid morning air.
    I heard the springs in the seat creak and I saw Mama climb from the passenger side and ease to the ground. I pulled my hands from my pockets and reached out to assist her. And when she was on the ground, I quickly jammed my hands back into my pockets and followed her up the long sidewalk until we stood boulderlike before the front door. Mama pushed the button. The doorbell rang, then from deep inside the house, I heard quickening footsteps, then I saw the curtain move and I saw Miss Hattie’s shifty gray eyes peering out at us.
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œMiss Hattie,” Mama called back to her, “it’s me. Audrey.”
    The chain rattled and the door swung open.
    â€œLand sakes,” she said. “Y’all come on in out of this weather.”
    Mama stepped into the foyer. I followed her.
    â€œGood morning, Miss Hattie,” I heard Mama say.
    I heard her because I was not looking. My shoulders had been hunched against the cold, but now that we were inside the warm house my shoulders relaxed, and I removed my hands from my pockets and began rubbing them together. I had been rubbing them together when Mama spoke
    â€œMorning, Audrey,” I heard Miss Hattie respond.
    And when she did I looked at her. She was a petite lady whom I guess was only a few years older than my mother. She stood about five foot three or five foot four and weighed somewhere around a hundred pounds. She had dark, straight hair; an oval face; and dark brown eyes. And though it was early, she was already dressed. She wore a beige