Unto These Hills by Emily Sue Harvey Page B

well, it’s our turn to pay.”
    “I’ll pay yours,” Daniel offered as he always did.
    “No, thank you.” I refused as I always did, eaten alive with proving I didn’t take handouts like Francine.
    Daniel sat with me in the darkened theater, whose enchanted screen-images painted us like moonlight. We held hands in those innocent days, an occasional innocuous kiss being our limit. Maybe because we were rarely alone or that we found endless fascination with life’s everyday little things to share, we didn’t wade into sexual temptation.
    That was mere months away.
    Tom Stone, despite his meanness, had begun paying Daniel a fair wage for his work. Maybe it was his warped view of trade-out. Or perhaps it was Daniel’s emancipation that drew an ounce of respect . Whatever, it spared Daniel the indignity of destitution.
    And so Daniel always bought a large popcorn to share with me. When Sheila and Timmy, settled into folding seats behind us, hooked their chins over his shoulder and whined for some, Daniel magnanimously passed the bag to them.
    And when, within minutes, the bag returned empty, Daniel merely threw back his head, laughed, and went to buy more. I’d learned long ago that Daniel enjoyed sharing his meager resources, a fact that made something inside me soar like a sun-washed butterfly.
    Forevermore, the smell and flavor of buttery popcorn would remind me of Daniel’s generous sweetness.
    ~~~~~
    Another year passed. Daddy’s letters waned to perhaps one every other month., sometimes less. He took odd jobs until he could land a pipe-fitters position. The money eventually stopped.
    Food grew scarce. One good thing did evolve during that difficult period: I began to relax, hoping that I wouldn’t be forced to move away from the mill hill after all.
    Another thing I noticed: since I’d put thoughts of Mama aside, I’d begun to feel tiny bursts of joy again. Not as acutely as I once had, but they did, to some degree, return.
    ~~~~~
    In those twilight years of village life, poverty was not a word clearly defined. It was only when our food supply ran short, after our parents left, that it began to emerge at all. The mill hill was, in material senses, an equalizer.
    Nana’s monthly welfare check amounted to forty-five dollars and didn’t go far with four extra mouths to feed.
    So, to help feed and clothe the family, I began to take in sewing. Nana had an old peddle-type machine in the back bedroom and, in my high school home ec classes, I quickly learned to convert cloth and thread into fashionable outfits. Most of my clients bought extra cloth for me to make outfits for the girls in the family.
    “I’m gonna take the maid’s job at the hotel,” Francine announced one day as we sat at the kitchen table eating navy beans and cornbread. “I’m tired of not havin’ decent food. Too, Aunt Tina might have to move in with us to qualify us for this housing. The grace period’s about over. And I know neither of us wants that.”
    I saw Nana’s shoulders droop as she stood at the stove, back to us. I knew our complaining about a sparse diet hurt her. She was doing the best she could.
    “Francine,” I pleaded with my headstrong sister, “please don’t drop out of school. After this year, you only have one more year and you’ll be done. You need your education.”
    “For what?” drawled Francine, who, I realized, had already made up her mind. Her idea of planning for the future consisted of deciding what to wear to the Cotton Club dance that night. She refused Tack’s constant marriage proposals.
    So she took the hotel maid position.
    Seeing her in a uniform like Mama’s was like a sad déjà vu. The job fit my sister as snugly as the outfit. So many circling male admirers exhilarated Francine. Tack Turner sulked and pouted. Francine ignored him.
    Francine and I joined forces to raise up our little family a notch above destitution. Now, she and I independently clad ourselves. And while I salvaged