The Darkest Child Read online

  “I guess,” I answered, “but you’re talking in riddles. Tell me what you mean.”

  “Some other time,” he said. “Right now I think I’ll go home and find something to do to make the hours pass. Tomorrow I’ll come back to the train depot with a renewed determination to find work.”

  “You can make time pass by walking to the post office with me and Martha Jean,” I suggested.

  “That’s one way to do it,” he said lightly, “but I’m not up for battling with Mr. Nesbitt today. I’ll walk with you as far as Pately’s, then I’m going home.”

  As we walked, I kept glancing over at Junior. There was an oily substance smeared around the edges of his neatly trimmed hair. It was always there, giving a sheen to his hair and a glow to his forehead. Had he been one of my brothers, I would have reached up and rubbed the shine away with my thumb. Since he was my brothers’ friend and sometimes my teacher, I did not.

  Martha Jean let go of my hand, stepped in front of me, and touched Junior’s bag. It seemed for a moment that she was going to snatch it from him. I pulled her back, shook a warning finger at her, then apologized to Junior.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “She’s probably curious. Most people are.”

  He stopped and leaned against the wall where Peggy Ann’s dress shop connected with Billy’s shoeshine parlor. He unbuckled the straps on the satchel, then held it open so that Martha Jean and I could look inside. We saw a newspaper, magazines, loose-leaf papers, and two first-grade reading books. Everybody knew that Junior traveled the rural areas teaching people to read and write, so I wasn’t surprised by the books, and nothing else in the bag intrigued me. Martha Jean, however, reached into a side compartment and brought out a pencil. I took it from her and returned it to Junior.

  “It’s all right. Let her have it,” he said, passing the pencil back to my sister. “And you take one of these magazines. Read it, and explain it to her. There’s a lot of information here.”

  I took the first magazine my hand touched. It was old—a March, 1954 Jet. I glanced at the cover, then tucked it away inside the pocket of my coat. I was more interested in listening to Junior talk than I was in reading a magazine.

  “Tell me about the lumpy oatmeal,” I said.

  He fastened his satchel and glanced back toward the depot. “No. I think not,” he said. I’m pretty much worn out from talking all day to your brother and Max. Sam could be a leader, a good one, if he wasn’t afraid.”

  “Sam’s not afraid of anything,” I said.

  “He’s afraid of a lot of things, responsibility and commitment being two of them. Max could have worked today, but he wouldn’t go out because no one hired Sam. Max will do anything your brother tells him to do, or die trying. Most of the young men in this town will. I thought I had Sam on my side, thought I had him seeing things my way, but then Hambone came back. Hambone is bitter, full of hatred. The way things are going now, I don’t know if we’ll ever get anything done.”

  “You don’t consider yourself a leader?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve never been. I’m older and wiser than Sam, and yet I lack his magnetism. I’m a talker, but that doesn’t necessarily make a leader. And I’m a gentle man, like my daddy.”

  We were nearing the Pately shoe store, and I was getting nothing from Junior that made any sense. As we reached the front of the store, I tried one last time to get him to explain what he was talking about.

  “What is it you want Sam to lead?” I asked.

  “The Movement,” he answered. “You must know about the Movement, Tangy. We’re going to change some things in this town. We’re going to change some things in this country. You’ll see.”

  I stood there perplexed, staring at his back as he crossed Market Street and made his way toward the flats. What a ridiculous statement, I thought. They can’t change anything. My entire life had been spent in Pakersfield, and I knew. I didn’t know about the rest of the country, but I knew that nothing was going to change in Triacy County.

  four

  “You people always wait to the last minute,” Charlie Nesbitt drawled irritably as he glared across the counter at me. “What you want, gal?”

  I placed my envelope on the counter. “I’d like to mail this letter to Cleveland, Ohio, and can you see if there’s any mail for the Quinns on Penyon Road?”

  He regarded the envelope as though it was a dead mouse in a trap, unable to decide which end to touch, or whether to touch it at all. Finally he turned from the letter and began a half-hearted search through the mail slots behind him.

  “Nothing here,” he informed me, returning to the counter, “and I hope you know you have to pay to mail that letter.”

  I was already holding the pennies in my hand, having been to the post office a hundred times and knowing full well that I could not send a letter for free. He had waited on me the same hundred times and was well aware that I knew the price of a stamp. I offered the coins, but he refused to take them from my hand, playing the game he so often played with Negro customers, letting us know that he’d rather we did not enter the United States Government’s post office.

  “Drop ’em on the counter,” he said roughly, rapping the countertop with his knuckles.

  For a second or two, I stood there staring down, knowing it would be considered impertinent of me to make eye contact.

  “Niggers,” he mumbled, slowly shaking his bald, melon-shaped head in a gesture of disgust.

  As I clenched my fist, then opened it to surrender the coins, I found that I no longer commanded Mr. Nesbitt’s attention. He was busy waiting on a plump, white woman in a blue, wool coat.

  “Charlie, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said in a rush. “I simply must get these invitations out today. You know how it is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, Mrs. Simmons,” Charlie answered. “How’s Mr.

  Simmons? I haven’t seen him around in a month of Sundays.”

  “Oh, Gus is about the same,” she said, placing a bundle of envelopes on the counter and peeling white gloves from her hands. “Amelia is the one you ought to be asking about. She insisted on having a February wedding, and we can’t seem to talk her out of it. I’ve pleaded with her to wait until June. There’s nothing like a June bride, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charlie agreed.

  I groaned inwardly and turned from the counter to check on Martha Jean. The lobby was no larger than our kitchen at home, and I had left Martha Jean standing beside the entrance, but she was no longer there. I glanced toward each corner of the small space and did not see her. Finally I caught a glimpse of her sweater through the window in the top of the door. She was standing out on the walkway, and some man was wasting his time talking to her.

  I had started for the door when it occurred to me that Charlie Nesbitt might close the post office before I mailed my mother’s letter. Returning to the counter, I kept my gaze on Martha Jean’s back, silently willing her to stay put.

  Charlie was in a better mood after his chat with the woman in the blue coat. He waved to her as she left, then turned back to me. It took all of thirty seconds for him to produce a stamp, and for me to place it on the envelope.

  Outside, the sky had grown darker and the temperature colder. I buttoned my corduroy coat up to my neck, then stepped up beside Martha Jean. The man who stood facing her glanced over at me as I approached, and I glared at him. He was a dark, wiry-looking young man with processed waves in his hair. I had apparently caught him by surprise, in the middle of speaking. He was missing a tooth at the top, on the right side. His nose was short and wide above a thin mustache, and he barely had eyes to mention, just narrow little slits below angular eyebrows. He stood about five-ten, give or take, tall enough to look down on me and Martha Jean.

  “Mister, why are you bothering my sister?” I asked.

  “Your sister?” he questioned, glancing back at Martha Jean.

  “My sister,” I repeated defiantly.

  He flashed a
lopsided smile. “What makes you think I’m bothering her? She don’t look bothered to me.”

  It was a statement of fact. Martha Jean was studying him the way she studied the images on Miss Pearl’s television screen, with interest and something akin to appreciation. She did not seem bothered; in fact, she seemed unaware that the temperature had dropped, although I could plainly see she was shivering.

  “She can’t hear a word you say, so you’re just wasting your time,” I said.

  “It’s my time,” he countered.

  Anger rippled through me. My armpits itched and burned the way they do when I’m nervous or ashamed. “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Who you think?” he asked. “I’m Velman Cooper. I work here at the post office, and I’ll be getting off in a bit. Y’all wait for me! I’ll be right back.”

  “You must be crazy!” I said, astounded by his arrogance. “We are not about to stand out here in the cold waiting for you. We don’t know you, and don’t want to, and anyway, we’ve got to get on home.”

  “Where’s home?” he asked, stepping between me and Martha Jean, and reaching for the door.

  “None of your business.”

  Much to my surprise and dismay, he stopped, turned, and once again faced Martha Jean. He pointed to his watch, then put both hands up. “Wait!” he said, and entered the post office.

  I stared after him, then grabbed my sister’s hand and started for the street. Martha Jean freed herself from my grip. Her gaze was glued to the post office door. I blocked her view with my body. I raised my right hand with the palm turned down. I leaned forward, crossed my chest with both arms, and twisted my face into a frown. I made walking and running gestures. I mimicked the worst beating imaginable, but none of that swayed my sister.

  Suddenly, I was afraid. There was always talk in Pakersfield about voodoo, and I wondered if the stranger had worked some kind of spell on Martha Jean while I had been inside the post office. I knew nothing of spells, but it would have to be a strong one to make Martha Jean risk the wrath of our mother.

  Finally, in desperation, I shoved Martha Jean as hard as I could. Her shoulders rocked back, but her feet remained firmly planted. “Let’s go!” I yelled, my arms flailing in the air, trying to make her understand that I was not going to take a beating for her or anyone else.

  Martha Jean’s fingers snipped and circled the same air as she waved a number-two pencil in my face, too close to my eyes for comfort. We were like two stubborn, competitive conductors presiding over invisible orchestras.

  “Hey, what is all this?” The voodoo man came strolling back, shoving his arms into the sleeves of a black jacket, pulling a chain of keys from his pants’ pocket, and making it all look graceful. “It’s all your fault,” I blurted out. “What did you do to my sister?”

  “Nothing. I just asked y’all to wait, and I’m glad to see you did.”

  “Well, we’re certainly not waiting for you,” I said, trying to sound mature and in control, but even I could hear the whine in my voice.

  “Just thought you might want a ride,” he said. “It’s getting kinda cold out here, and I noticed your sister there ain’t got on no coat.”

  “What’s that to you?” I challenged.

  “What’s that to me?” the man asked. “Ain’t nothing much. And I can see it ain’t nothing to you. You got on that nice warm coat, but your sister there, she chilling and shaking like a leaf on a tree. Don’t guess you mind she be cold long as you nice and warm, huh?”

  I was silent for a moment, thinking how it had not bothered him that Martha Jean might be cold while she was standing out here waiting for him. I started to say as much, but changed my mind. “Where are you from, mister?” I asked.

  “Dalton.”

  “Georgia?”

  He nodded, swinging his keys around on one finger and watching me with a look of triumph on his face.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “You sho’ ask a lot of questions for somebody don’t wanna know me,” he said. “I’m twenty-two. How old are you? And is there anything else you need to know before your sister freezes to death?”

  “I’m thirteen, and it’s not cold enough to freeze,” I retorted, although it was.

  “Not for you. You got on a warm coat.” He took Martha Jean by her hand and led her toward an old, green Buick that was parked just a little way from the building.

  I followed, wondering how I had allowed him to make me feel guilty for something that was not my fault. He was right, though. Martha Jean had to be freezing, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

  “Hey, you ever heard of the Quinns?” I asked. “Everybody around here knows the Quinns.”

  Maybe I imagined it, but it seemed to me that he loosened his grip on Martha Jean’s hand and slowed his pace just a bit.

  “I ain’t from around here,” was all he said.

  “Martha Jean is only fourteen. She can’t court you if that’s what you think,” I continued.

  “Martha Jean,” he echoed. “So that’s her name?”

  “Yeah, that’s her name,” I answered, and quickly stepped forward to block his path. “And my name is Tangy. We’re Rozelle Quinn’s children, so you’d better leave us alone.”

  “Martha Jean sho’ is a pretty one,” he said admiringly.

  “And I guess I’m the ugly one!” I snapped.

  “Oh, no, little sister,” he answered. “There ain’t nothing ugly ’bout you, not that I can see anyway. You ’bout the prettiest little dark-skin girl I ever seen. Now, I got a problem with that mouth of yours, but other than that, I don’t reckon there’s an ugly spot on you.” He stepped around me and opened the door of the Buick.

  Martha Jean made a move toward him, but I stopped her by throwing an arm up in front of her. The man slid onto the front seat of the car, shook his head slowly, then closed the door. I breathed a sigh of relief that was barely out when he rolled the window down and stared at me.

  “Little sister,” he said. “I didn’t mean y’all no harm. I just thought Martha Jean might be cold, that’s all.”

  I nodded, wanting to believe him.

  “I’m Skeeter Richards’ nephew,” he said. “You know Skeeter?”

  “Everybody knows Skeeter,” I answered. Skeeter ran the concession stand in the colored section of the picture show.

  Martha Jean shivered again, rubbed her hands together, then pointed to Velman Cooper and ran a finger across her chest.

  “What’s that she’s doing?” he asked.

  “She wants to know your name,” I said, spreading my middle and index fingers apart to form a V, and pointing the V toward the ground, then bringing it up to my head like horns on a devil.

  Velman seemed puzzled, but Martha Jean smiled and mimicked the sign I had made.

  “What is that? ”Velman asked.

  “A V straight up from Hell,” I answered.

  He laughed, stepped out of the car, and made the sign himself. “A V straight up from Hell,” he said. “I like that. Come on. How about I give y’all a ride home?”

  “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, admitting to myself that Martha Jean should not have been out without a coat, “but you can’t take us all the way.” I knew Mama would skin us alive if she knew we had taken a ride from a stranger.

  “All right. Halfway,” he said.

  Martha Jean scooted across the seat and sat next to him. I crawled in next to her and shut the door. I told Velman how to get to Penyon Road and where to let us out, and for the rest of the ride I stared at my sister’s head, trying to find a way inside. I wanted to know why she had been willing to trust this stranger, why she had not waited for me inside the warm post office, but had waited for him out in the cold. I needed to know what went on in her silence.

  five

  Saturday morning dawned bleak and dreary. I longed to pull the blanket over my head and curl back into a cozy ball of sleep, but I could not. There were so many things to do. The co
al stove stood as a gloomy reminder of the chores that lay ahead. I rolled over on my pallet and touched the bottom of the stove, feeling only a hint of last night’s warmth. My right side, from the waist down, was soaked with urine, and my gown clung to my legs as I crawled up from the floor. My teeth chattered in the morning chill, and I cursed Laura for her weak bladder, or kidney, or whatever caused her to routinely ammoniate my body.

  As my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, I could make out the two brown armchairs guarding the small, round table where the kerosene lamp stood. They were the only pieces of furniture in the room, except for the cedar chest that stood beneath the front window and the wooden crates where we stored our clothes. The table and chairs displayed a pleasing silhouette in moonlight, but in the light of day they were hideous monstrosities—gutted and stripped—with coiled springs sprouting from the backs and seats. The makeshift chair covers were useless in disguising the hateful springs that ripped our clothes and tore at our skin.

  The dress I had worn the day before was draped over one of the chairs. I moved cautiously across the room, avoiding the curled forms of my sisters, and retrieved my dress. I held my breath and quickly pulled the wet gown off over my head.

  When I was dressed, I tipped out to the kitchen where my brothers slept. Harvey and Sam were gone. Their blankets had been rolled into neat bundles and were stored in a far corner of the kitchen. Wallace was sitting up, his back against the wall, a blanket pulled up to his chin.

  “Wallace,” I said, surprised at finding him awake and idle.

  “Morning,” he said in a voice hours removed from sleep.

  It was not so chilly in the kitchen. The coal stove, which was identical to the one in the front room, had been lit and was making a feeble attempt at warming the room. The pipes of both stoves elbowed at about the same angle and met at a junction between the walls. Smoke from the stoves came out on the gully side of the house. The entire house should have been warm with the two stoves back to back, and the fireplace in Mama’s room, but somehow a draft of cold air always found its way inside.