“I came to see how Robert and Frank are after their swim yesterday.”
White teeth flash in that dark face. “You the lady that pulled them out?”
Before Sue can answer, the door of the wash house is flung open and a blue-and-white enameled dishpan sails into the yard, where it hits a tree with such force that flakes of enamel shatter to the ground. It’s followed by two boys who flail at each other as they careen through the door. The taller child is Frank. His face is red and distorted with anger and grief as he hurls himself at a slightly smaller one who tries to run.
“Frank! Andrew! You young’uns stop that this minute!” the woman calls, but they pay her no mind.
Sue rushes over and is sent tumbling to the ground herself when she pulls them apart. The younger boy runs for the safety of the house. Frank tries to go after him, but Sue wraps her arms around his furious little body. He struggles for a moment and then collapses in long shuddering sobs against her shoulder.
“He took Mama’s dishpan!” the boy wails.
“Oh Lordy!” says the woman. With the toddler perched on her broad hip, she bends down to comfort him. “Oh, honey baby, Aunt Essie’s so sorry. She forgot all about that.”
The woman looks at Sue in consternation. “I told Andrew to fetch me a pan so I could soak some real sandy collard greens. I meant the one hanging on the wall.” She turns back to the boy whose first wild cries have dwindled into hopeless sobs. “Don’t be blaming Andrew, honey. Blame Aunt Essie.”
A ring of little boys now circles them. They stair-step up to the one she recognizes from the day before. Robert.
Still sitting on the chilled ground, she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes the child’s nose. “What happened, Frank?”
His voice is a misery of hopelessness. “They’re gone. Andrew messed all through them.”
“Messed through what?” Sue asks. “Show me. Maybe we can fix it?”
He shakes his head and fresh tears stream down his cheeks.
“Come on, honey,” the woman coaxes. “We need to get this baby back in the house where it’s warm before these nice ladies freeze to death.” She offers a free hand to help Sue stand up. “I’m Essie. I take care of these young’uns.”
“I’m Sue. Sue Stephenson.” She gestures to Zell, who has gotten out of the car with the bright canister in her hands. “And this is my sister. Zell, why don’t you show these young men what we brought them while Essie and I go see what’s got Frank so upset?”
“No!” says Frank. “I’ll show you by myself.” He glares at his brothers through tear-reddened eyes. “And the rest of y’all better stay away.”
Taking Sue by his cold little hand, he leads her into the wash house. A brick firebox has kindling laid, all ready to build a fire under the deep iron tub set into its surface. Two large zinc tubs stand upside down on a ledge of rough planks that runs the length of the small structure, and a second blue-and-white enameled dishpan hangs from a nail in the wall. The 2x4s that support the countertop stand directly on a dirt floor. A window at the far end lets in light and probably helps keep the place bearable in summer.
“There,” says Frank and his lower lip quivers again as he points to a spot beneath the window, just under the edge of the counter.
Sue can see the outline of where the round pan must have been pressed into the dirt before it was dragged from its resting place. Multiple footprints of all sizes crisscross the dirt floor but that spot under the counter is wiped smooth.
“It was Mama’s footprints,” he says, his voice quavering again. “Last time she did the wash, right ’fore she went to the house to have Jack.” His blue eyes bore into hers, searching for understanding. “I come in here after the burying and there was her footprints and I put the dishpan over them so I’d always have them and then Andrew went and— I hate him! I hate him! And I’ll hate
White teeth flash in that dark face. “You the lady that pulled them out?”
Before Sue can answer, the door of the wash house is flung open and a blue-and-white enameled dishpan sails into the yard, where it hits a tree with such force that flakes of enamel shatter to the ground. It’s followed by two boys who flail at each other as they careen through the door. The taller child is Frank. His face is red and distorted with anger and grief as he hurls himself at a slightly smaller one who tries to run.
“Frank! Andrew! You young’uns stop that this minute!” the woman calls, but they pay her no mind.
Sue rushes over and is sent tumbling to the ground herself when she pulls them apart. The younger boy runs for the safety of the house. Frank tries to go after him, but Sue wraps her arms around his furious little body. He struggles for a moment and then collapses in long shuddering sobs against her shoulder.
“He took Mama’s dishpan!” the boy wails.
“Oh Lordy!” says the woman. With the toddler perched on her broad hip, she bends down to comfort him. “Oh, honey baby, Aunt Essie’s so sorry. She forgot all about that.”
The woman looks at Sue in consternation. “I told Andrew to fetch me a pan so I could soak some real sandy collard greens. I meant the one hanging on the wall.” She turns back to the boy whose first wild cries have dwindled into hopeless sobs. “Don’t be blaming Andrew, honey. Blame Aunt Essie.”
A ring of little boys now circles them. They stair-step up to the one she recognizes from the day before. Robert.
Still sitting on the chilled ground, she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes the child’s nose. “What happened, Frank?”
His voice is a misery of hopelessness. “They’re gone. Andrew messed all through them.”
“Messed through what?” Sue asks. “Show me. Maybe we can fix it?”
He shakes his head and fresh tears stream down his cheeks.
“Come on, honey,” the woman coaxes. “We need to get this baby back in the house where it’s warm before these nice ladies freeze to death.” She offers a free hand to help Sue stand up. “I’m Essie. I take care of these young’uns.”
“I’m Sue. Sue Stephenson.” She gestures to Zell, who has gotten out of the car with the bright canister in her hands. “And this is my sister. Zell, why don’t you show these young men what we brought them while Essie and I go see what’s got Frank so upset?”
“No!” says Frank. “I’ll show you by myself.” He glares at his brothers through tear-reddened eyes. “And the rest of y’all better stay away.”
Taking Sue by his cold little hand, he leads her into the wash house. A brick firebox has kindling laid, all ready to build a fire under the deep iron tub set into its surface. Two large zinc tubs stand upside down on a ledge of rough planks that runs the length of the small structure, and a second blue-and-white enameled dishpan hangs from a nail in the wall. The 2x4s that support the countertop stand directly on a dirt floor. A window at the far end lets in light and probably helps keep the place bearable in summer.
“There,” says Frank and his lower lip quivers again as he points to a spot beneath the window, just under the edge of the counter.
Sue can see the outline of where the round pan must have been pressed into the dirt before it was dragged from its resting place. Multiple footprints of all sizes crisscross the dirt floor but that spot under the counter is wiped smooth.
“It was Mama’s footprints,” he says, his voice quavering again. “Last time she did the wash, right ’fore she went to the house to have Jack.” His blue eyes bore into hers, searching for understanding. “I come in here after the burying and there was her footprints and I put the dishpan over them so I’d always have them and then Andrew went and— I hate him! I hate him! And I’ll hate
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