despise her.
On an October morning, the morning of the stove-lid triumph, Pecola climbed the stairs to their apartment.
Even before the door was opened to her tapping, she could hear Poland singing—her voice sweet and hard, like new strawberries:
I got blues in my mealbarrel
Blues up on the shelf
I got blues in my mealbarrel
Blues up on the shelf
Blues in my bedroom
’Cause I’m sleepin’ by myself
“Hi, dumplin’. Where your socks?” Marie seldom called Pecola the same thing twice, but invariably her epithets were fond ones chosen from menus and dishes that were forever uppermost in her mind.
“Hello, Miss Marie. Hello, Miss China. Hello, Miss Poland.”
“You heard me. Where your socks? You as barelegged as a yard dog.”
“I couldn’t find any.”
“Couldn’t find any? Must be somethin’ in your house that loves socks.”
China chuckled. Whenever something was missing, Marie attributed its disappearance to “something in the house that loved it.” “There is somethin’ in this house that loves brassieres,” she would say with alarm.
Poland and China were getting ready for the evening. Poland, forever ironing, forever singing. China, sitting on a pale-green kitchen chair, forever and forever curling her hair. Marie never got ready.
The women were friendly, but slow to begin talk. Pecola always took the initiative with Marie, who, once inspired, was difficult to stop.
“How come you got so many boyfriends, Miss Marie?”
“
Boy
friends?
Boy
friends? Chittlin’, I ain’t seen a
boy
since nineteen and twenty-seven.”
“You didn’t see none then.” China stuck the hot curlers into a tin of Nu Nile hair dressing. The oil hissed at the touch of the hot metal.
“How come, Miss Marie?” Pecola insisted.
“How come what? How come I ain’t seen a boy since nineteen and twenty-seven? Because they ain’t
been
no boys since then. That’s when they stopped. Folks started gettin’ born old.”
“You mean that’s when
you
got old,” China said.
“I ain’t never got old. Just fat.”
“Same thing.”
“You think ’cause you skinny, folks think you young? You’d make a haint buy a girdle.”
“And you look like the north side of a southbound mule.”
“All I know is, them bandy little legs of yours is every bit as old as mine.”
“Don’t worry ’bout my bandy legs. That’s the first thing they push aside.”
All three of the women laughed. Marie threw back her head. From deep inside, her laughter came like the sound of many rivers, freely, deeply, muddily, heading for the room of an open sea. China giggled spastically. Each gasp seemed to be yanked out of her by an unseen hand jerking an unseen string. Poland, who seldom spoke unless she was drunk, laughed without sound. When she was sober she hummed mostly or chanted blues songs, of which she knew many.
Pecola fingered the fringe of a scarf that lay on the back of a sofa. “I never seen nobody with as many boyfriends as you got, Miss Marie. How come they all love you?”
Marie opened a bottle of root beer. “What else they gone do? They know I’m rich and good-lookin’. They wants to put their toes in my curly hair, and get at my money.”
“You rich, Miss Marie?”
“Puddin’, I got money’s mammy.”
“Where you get it from? You don’t do no work.”
“Yeah,” said China, “where you get it from?”
“Hoover give it me. I did him a favor once, for the F. B. and I.”
“What’d you do?”
“I did him a favor. They wanted to catch this crook, you see. Name of Johnny. He was as low-down as they come….”
“We
know
that.” China arranged a curl.
“…the F. B. and I. wanted him bad. He killed more people than TB. And if you
crossed
him? Whoa, Jesus! He’d run you as long as there was ground. Well, I was little and cute then. No more than ninety pounds, soaking wet.”
“You ain’t never been soaking wet,” China said.
“Well, you ain’t never been dry. Shut up. Let me tell
On an October morning, the morning of the stove-lid triumph, Pecola climbed the stairs to their apartment.
Even before the door was opened to her tapping, she could hear Poland singing—her voice sweet and hard, like new strawberries:
I got blues in my mealbarrel
Blues up on the shelf
I got blues in my mealbarrel
Blues up on the shelf
Blues in my bedroom
’Cause I’m sleepin’ by myself
“Hi, dumplin’. Where your socks?” Marie seldom called Pecola the same thing twice, but invariably her epithets were fond ones chosen from menus and dishes that were forever uppermost in her mind.
“Hello, Miss Marie. Hello, Miss China. Hello, Miss Poland.”
“You heard me. Where your socks? You as barelegged as a yard dog.”
“I couldn’t find any.”
“Couldn’t find any? Must be somethin’ in your house that loves socks.”
China chuckled. Whenever something was missing, Marie attributed its disappearance to “something in the house that loved it.” “There is somethin’ in this house that loves brassieres,” she would say with alarm.
Poland and China were getting ready for the evening. Poland, forever ironing, forever singing. China, sitting on a pale-green kitchen chair, forever and forever curling her hair. Marie never got ready.
The women were friendly, but slow to begin talk. Pecola always took the initiative with Marie, who, once inspired, was difficult to stop.
“How come you got so many boyfriends, Miss Marie?”
“
Boy
friends?
Boy
friends? Chittlin’, I ain’t seen a
boy
since nineteen and twenty-seven.”
“You didn’t see none then.” China stuck the hot curlers into a tin of Nu Nile hair dressing. The oil hissed at the touch of the hot metal.
“How come, Miss Marie?” Pecola insisted.
“How come what? How come I ain’t seen a boy since nineteen and twenty-seven? Because they ain’t
been
no boys since then. That’s when they stopped. Folks started gettin’ born old.”
“You mean that’s when
you
got old,” China said.
“I ain’t never got old. Just fat.”
“Same thing.”
“You think ’cause you skinny, folks think you young? You’d make a haint buy a girdle.”
“And you look like the north side of a southbound mule.”
“All I know is, them bandy little legs of yours is every bit as old as mine.”
“Don’t worry ’bout my bandy legs. That’s the first thing they push aside.”
All three of the women laughed. Marie threw back her head. From deep inside, her laughter came like the sound of many rivers, freely, deeply, muddily, heading for the room of an open sea. China giggled spastically. Each gasp seemed to be yanked out of her by an unseen hand jerking an unseen string. Poland, who seldom spoke unless she was drunk, laughed without sound. When she was sober she hummed mostly or chanted blues songs, of which she knew many.
Pecola fingered the fringe of a scarf that lay on the back of a sofa. “I never seen nobody with as many boyfriends as you got, Miss Marie. How come they all love you?”
Marie opened a bottle of root beer. “What else they gone do? They know I’m rich and good-lookin’. They wants to put their toes in my curly hair, and get at my money.”
“You rich, Miss Marie?”
“Puddin’, I got money’s mammy.”
“Where you get it from? You don’t do no work.”
“Yeah,” said China, “where you get it from?”
“Hoover give it me. I did him a favor once, for the F. B. and I.”
“What’d you do?”
“I did him a favor. They wanted to catch this crook, you see. Name of Johnny. He was as low-down as they come….”
“We
know
that.” China arranged a curl.
“…the F. B. and I. wanted him bad. He killed more people than TB. And if you
crossed
him? Whoa, Jesus! He’d run you as long as there was ground. Well, I was little and cute then. No more than ninety pounds, soaking wet.”
“You ain’t never been soaking wet,” China said.
“Well, you ain’t never been dry. Shut up. Let me tell
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