onto the belly of the stove. “Yo’ mama can’t be helped,” she said. “Ain’t nobody in the world can help yo’mama.”
With that, she turned her back to us and left our house. The gob of snuff sizzled in her wake and became a permanent stain on the stove. For some reason, I felt it was a stain on me as well.
That stain, scorching into the iron, held me captivated as Harvey and Sam carried our mother, moaning weakly, out to Mr. Frank’s car, which had finally arrived. And for the first time, I wondered if my mother could be helped, or if she were truly going to die.
“One or the other, Lord,” I prayed aloud. “Help her or take her.”
seven
I n the absence of our mother, gluttony threatened to be our downfall. Martha Jean, encouraged by Sam, cooked a huge pot of grits and fried over a dozen thick slices of bologna. We gathered in the kitchen and ate until every grain and morsel was devoured. We were undaunted by the prospect of repercussions, even as we consumed the last of a loaf of bread. We sampled, savored, and digested the sweets of freedom.
We were quiet—too busy eating to worry about talking— which is probably why I did not miss Wallace until Tarabelle asked where he was.
“Gone,” Edna answered, pointing toward the back door.
“Probably went up to Mr. Frank’s,” Harvey said. “When did he leave?”
Nobody answered; no one seemed to care. We had not dressed, washed our faces, brushed our teeth, or done any of the other things our mother required of us in the morning. I wasn’t sure Wallace had even dumped the night bucket.
It was Sunday and we should have been in church, but we had gone to bed late and awakened late, and I guess that was our excuse.
I went into the front room, draped my coat over my damp nightgown, stepped into a pair of shoes, and went out into the backyard. I followed the foot-worn trail past the outhouse and deep into the naked woods. Frosted brown leaves and twigs crunched beneath my feet as I walked. Above me, through the bare branches of birch trees, a gray sky mirrored my mood.
The woods stretched southward for about a quarter mile and ended at a barbed-wire fence that protected Mr. Nathan Barnwell’s property from niggers. There was a sign to that effect nailed to a fence pole. Over the years we had used the sign for target practice, had thrown rocks at it, but we had never considered removing it. Harvey and Sam had ignored the sign several times, breaking through the bottom wires and coming home with their arms loaded with corn, beans, or tomatoes, and once with two chickens. Mama had said it was all right since they weren’t niggers anyway.
As I returned to the house, I saw Wallace pass the washtub and dart beneath the clothesline. We reached the back steps at about the same time, and entered the house together.
“Miss Pearl say Mama had a girl, ”Wallace announced excitedly, and if he had expected a celebration, he was sorely disappointed. Not even Laura or Edna, who were sprawled on the kitchen floor coloring the printed pages of a newspaper, responded to the news.
“You think you grown, boy?” Harvey asked. “You just gon’ leave outta here and don’t say nothing to nobody?”
“I wanted to see how Mama was doing, ”Wallace said.
“How is she doing?” I asked, before Harvey could lash out again.
“Miss Pearl say she had a hard time of it, and she’ll probably be in the hospital for a while.”
“What’s a while?” Sam wanted to know.
Wallace shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know—just a while. That’s all Miss Pearl said. Ain’t y’all glad about the baby?”
“Yeah, Wallace, we’re glad,” I answered.
“Speak for yo’self, ”Tarabelle snapped. “Tangy, you always glad about something.Where we gon’ sleep a baby? What we gon’ feed it? Martha Jean gon’ spend her whole life looking after Mama’s babies. Shit! I ain’t glad.”
“Me neither,” Sam said. “It ain’t that I got nothing against no baby,
With that, she turned her back to us and left our house. The gob of snuff sizzled in her wake and became a permanent stain on the stove. For some reason, I felt it was a stain on me as well.
That stain, scorching into the iron, held me captivated as Harvey and Sam carried our mother, moaning weakly, out to Mr. Frank’s car, which had finally arrived. And for the first time, I wondered if my mother could be helped, or if she were truly going to die.
“One or the other, Lord,” I prayed aloud. “Help her or take her.”
seven
I n the absence of our mother, gluttony threatened to be our downfall. Martha Jean, encouraged by Sam, cooked a huge pot of grits and fried over a dozen thick slices of bologna. We gathered in the kitchen and ate until every grain and morsel was devoured. We were undaunted by the prospect of repercussions, even as we consumed the last of a loaf of bread. We sampled, savored, and digested the sweets of freedom.
We were quiet—too busy eating to worry about talking— which is probably why I did not miss Wallace until Tarabelle asked where he was.
“Gone,” Edna answered, pointing toward the back door.
“Probably went up to Mr. Frank’s,” Harvey said. “When did he leave?”
Nobody answered; no one seemed to care. We had not dressed, washed our faces, brushed our teeth, or done any of the other things our mother required of us in the morning. I wasn’t sure Wallace had even dumped the night bucket.
It was Sunday and we should have been in church, but we had gone to bed late and awakened late, and I guess that was our excuse.
I went into the front room, draped my coat over my damp nightgown, stepped into a pair of shoes, and went out into the backyard. I followed the foot-worn trail past the outhouse and deep into the naked woods. Frosted brown leaves and twigs crunched beneath my feet as I walked. Above me, through the bare branches of birch trees, a gray sky mirrored my mood.
The woods stretched southward for about a quarter mile and ended at a barbed-wire fence that protected Mr. Nathan Barnwell’s property from niggers. There was a sign to that effect nailed to a fence pole. Over the years we had used the sign for target practice, had thrown rocks at it, but we had never considered removing it. Harvey and Sam had ignored the sign several times, breaking through the bottom wires and coming home with their arms loaded with corn, beans, or tomatoes, and once with two chickens. Mama had said it was all right since they weren’t niggers anyway.
As I returned to the house, I saw Wallace pass the washtub and dart beneath the clothesline. We reached the back steps at about the same time, and entered the house together.
“Miss Pearl say Mama had a girl, ”Wallace announced excitedly, and if he had expected a celebration, he was sorely disappointed. Not even Laura or Edna, who were sprawled on the kitchen floor coloring the printed pages of a newspaper, responded to the news.
“You think you grown, boy?” Harvey asked. “You just gon’ leave outta here and don’t say nothing to nobody?”
“I wanted to see how Mama was doing, ”Wallace said.
“How is she doing?” I asked, before Harvey could lash out again.
“Miss Pearl say she had a hard time of it, and she’ll probably be in the hospital for a while.”
“What’s a while?” Sam wanted to know.
Wallace shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know—just a while. That’s all Miss Pearl said. Ain’t y’all glad about the baby?”
“Yeah, Wallace, we’re glad,” I answered.
“Speak for yo’self, ”Tarabelle snapped. “Tangy, you always glad about something.Where we gon’ sleep a baby? What we gon’ feed it? Martha Jean gon’ spend her whole life looking after Mama’s babies. Shit! I ain’t glad.”
“Me neither,” Sam said. “It ain’t that I got nothing against no baby,
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