Sivut kuvina
PDF
ePub

seek wealth, so death, back home, brought others to seek peace; but Mammy had been beckoned toward neither goal, had simply been left quite alone. And rather because there was nothing else to do than because they wanted or needed her, the cousins, Wesley and Sam, had offered to let her housekeep for them in a small flat in the great city.

Scarcely had she got over the shock of underground railroads, of trains overhead, of mountainous buildings where people lived like chickens, before she perceived that the city had done something to Wesley and Sam. They had lost their comradeship, they just managed to tolerate each other, and they compensated for this mere toleration by goading each other persistently with strange, new, malicious jibes:

'Down-home boy lak you ain' got no business in no city nohow.'

'Don' ketch me th'owin' my money 'way on no numbers, though, uh no baseball pool.'

'Co'se not. You don' make no money. How you go'n' th'ow any 'way?'

Mammy soon saw what new feature of their life lay at the bottom of this. To Sam, whose hands learned quickly, the city had been kind. Starting as handy man in a garage, he had soon become a mechanic's helper, and now at last was a mechanic with wages of sixty dollars a week. Wesley, always more awkward, had found the city indifferent, and so perforce had become his own boss, washing windows at fifteen cents each. So Harlem, where there was insistent competition to test and reward special skill, and where there was so much more for men to quarrel about and resent, had quickly estranged these two unguarded lads simply by paying the one twice as much as the other; had furnished them thus with taunts that had not been

possible back home, and now kept them constantly wounding each other with the heedless cruelty of children wounds that would one day translate themselves from the spirit into the flesh.

'Ellie? Ellie yo' gal? Whut business you got wid a gal? You could n' buy a gal coffee 'n' a san'wich.'

'Reckon you could buy huh champagne an' lobster.'

'An' I don' mean maybe.' 'Better put some dat money in accident 'nsurance den.'

'What you talkin' 'bout?'

"Cause 'f I ketch you messin' roun' Ellie I'm sho' go'n' turn yo' damper down. An' I don' mean maybe.'

'Shuh! Listen t' dis boogy. Man, my slowes' move's too fas' f' you.' 'Not yo' slowes' move roun' Ellie ain't.'

'One my thoughts 'd bust yo' haid wide open.'

'Yeah? Well it don' do nuthin' to yo' haid but swell it.'

Suddenly these remembered mockings leaped out of past into present. As one rudely waked starts up, so Mammy's fear now started out of the stupor of memory. In the room across the airshaft Sam and Wesley were facing each other, the fire of their hostility having driven the onlookers back into an expectant surrounding circle. Mammy saw the boys' lips move, and from their malignant countenances and the dismay on the faces about them she knew that again bitter taunts were being exchanged, this time in company where words quickly kindled action. Hitherto her own presence had always restrained them. · Now the only spectators were hoodlums off the street, before whom the boys might well wish to show off, at the same time squaring the urgent account of a hundred bygone insults. The antagonists stood toe to toe,

Sam the more lithe, slightly taller, Wesley broader and heavier. Their lips no longer moved, and Mammy recognized that silent, critical moment in an encounter when the mere forward swaying of a body is enough to free madness.

She jumped up, tried to cry out a warning, achieved but a groan: 'Good Lawd!' Her impotence became frenzy; she cast about wildly for some means of diverting the inevitable. A soft golden glint caught and held her eyes -the gilt edge of the Bible still in her hand, touched to a glow by light from across the way.

The Bible was suddenly divine revelation, an answer. She hesitated only long enough to note Sam's hand creeping toward his coat pocket. 'God fo'give me,' she breathed; then drew back an arm grown opportunely strong, and hurled the Word with all her might through the pane of the opposite window.

At the crash and jingle of glass she shrank back into the shadow of her own room; yet not so far back as to obscure the picture of her two grandsons, staring limply agape, now at each other, now at the Book at their feet.

II

Mammy asked Ellie point-blank:'Which a one my boys you lak sho' nuff?'

And Ellie, a girl of the city, replied with a laugh and a toss of her bob:'Both of 'em. Why not?'

They sat in the kitchen of Mammy's three-room flat, of which the parlor served as the boys' bedroom and the third room on the airshaft as Mammy's own. Ellie and a chum occupied a similar apartment, the adjacent one, where the rent party had been given; and Ellie occasionally 'ran in,' ostensibly anxious to inquire after Mammy,

actually hoping to see one of the boys and possibly make a date.

Mammy saw through these visits, of course, and had thought that Ellie's interest was in Wesley. But Ellie's behavior with Sam at the party tinctured this conclusion with doubt. No girl, thought Mammy, who liked one man would behave like that with another-not with both present.

Hence, with characteristic directness, Mammy instituted investigation; and Ellie's side-stepping answer but whetted a suspicion already keen. "You lak bofe of 'm d' same?' 'I'll say I do.'

'Jes' d' same?'

'Nothin' different.'

'Hmph. Dat mean you don' really lak neither one of 'm, den.'

'Oh, yes, I do. Pretty skee sheiks for country jakes.'

'Whut you lak 'bout 'm?'

'Well, different things. Sam's crazy and knows how to show a girl a good time, see? Wesley ain't so crazy, but he tries hard and you can depend on him. You wonder about Sam, you know about Wesley. Wesley's betterlookin', too.'

'S'posin' you had to choose between 'm. Which a one you take?'

'Oh, Sam. Sam makes twice as much as Wesley.'

[blocks in formation]

Ellie. 'Wha' d' y' mean, take? I ain't grabbin' after neither one of 'em, y' know.'

'I mean ef dey bofe ast you to marry 'm.'

'Oh, to marry 'em? And both drawin' the same pay? Why, Wesley, by all—' Ellie bit her lip, and withdrew into the cautious neutrality out of which the unexpected contemplation of matrimony had surprised her. 'Or - well — either one I don't know.' This old woman was nearer to either boy than was she herself, she remembered. Both the bumpkins spent on her. Why reduce her chances for a good time by making a betraying choice? Play the boobs off against each other, let them both strut their stuff. Maybe a better catch then either would meanwhile gulp your bait. Then you could discard both these poor fish with a laugh. 'You know what the song says, Mammy: "Don't let no one man worry your mind."

Mammy looked at Ellie as she might have looked at the armadillo in the zoo - this strange, unbelievable creature who in the spring of her life subjected romance to utility. For Mammy saw that the girl really preferred Wesley to Sam, yet had no apology of word or manner in prospectively renouncing Wesley's character for Sam's superior pay. Young, pretty, live girls like Ellie should have to be told to consider their suitors' pay. With them it ought to be secondary to youth's more compelling absurdities. But here was a slip of a girl who spoke like a thricemarried widow of fifty.

Mammy accepted this as one of the mysteries of city breeding. Having done so, it was easy to prophesy. Ellie's willingness to take equally what Sam and Wesley had to give would be the crux of the boys' antagonism. Wesley claimed right of priority. Neither Ellie nor Sam cared a sneeze

for such right. Ellie, city-wise, 'liked them both.' Into the mould of this situation all of the vague potent bitterness of the boys' recent hatred would be poured, to take definite form. The city had broken the bond between them. The city now fashioned them a bludgeon with which to shatter their common life.

'Listen, daughter. How come you carry on wid Sam lak dat las' night? Did n' you know 't would start trouble?'

'Carry on? Wha' d' y' mean, carry on? I only danced with 'im.'

'Dat all? Den whut start d' trouble?' 'Wesley buttin' in, the dumbbell. Why don't somebody tell him something? He ain't down home now. This is New York.'

'Uh-huh. Dis is New York. Dis is New York. An' ain't New York in God's worl'? Don' New York come under His eyes a-tall?'

This was quite out of Ellie's line. She shrugged and kept still. Mammy's voice, however, grew stronger with her pain.

'New York. Harlem. Thought all along 't was d' las' stop 'fo' Heaven. Canaan hitself. Reg'lar promis' lan'. Well, dat's jes' whut 't is a promis' lan'. All hit do is promise. Promise money lak growin' on trees — ain' even got d' trees. Promise wuk fo' dem whut want wuk - look at my boy, Wesley. Promise freedom fum d' whi' folks white man be hyeh to-day, take d' las' penny fo' rent. You know why 't is? You know how come?'

Ellie stared. Mammy got up, stood erect with almost majestic dignity. 'Hit's sin. Dat's whut 'tis - sin. My people done fo'got dey God, grabbin' after money. I warn 'm 'fo' dey all lef'. Longin' fo' d' things o' dis worl' an' a-fo'gittin' d' Lawd Jesus. Broke up dey homes in d' countrylef' folks behind sick an' dyin'. So

anxious. So scairt all d' money be gone 'fo' dey git hyeh. I tole 'm. Fust seek d' kingdom of God an' His righteousness. But no. Everybody done gone crazy over gittin'. An' hit don' bring nothin' but misery in dis worl' an' hellfire in eternity. Hit's sin!'

What are you trying to call me, anyhow? Do you think I'd chase any bozo on earth?'

Mammy did not dream what vile accusation lay in the provincialism 'chase.' Unaware of what the word meant to Ellie, she commented

'Soft pedal, Mammy. And hold the promptly and bluntly:sermon, will you?'

'An' dat's another thing.' The diminished tone only bared Mammy's intensity. 'You-all so scairt o' d' Word o' God. Sam and Wesley done got d' same way sence dey been up hyeh. Seem lak hit make you oncomf'table. Make you squirm. Make you squirm wuss 'n 'at low-down dancin' you do. Well, hit oughter. Garment o' righteousness don' b'long on no body o' sin.'

Ellie did n't quite get this, but she did n't like the way Mammy was looking at her. 'Say, what's the idea?' she inquired.

'Idea?' Mammy grew calm, almost cold; focused her distraction on one problem: 'Idea is, you either let one my boys alone or let 'em bofe alone. You heah? You cain't run wid d' hare an' hunt wid d' hounds. Dis hyeh 'either one" business 'll have 'm both at each other's th'oats 'fo' another day. Lawd knows dey'd be better off ef you stayed 'way fum 'm bofe.'

[ocr errors]

At this Ellie flared. 'Well, of all the cockeyed nerve! Say, where do you think you get off? D' you s'pose I'm chasin' after your farmer boys?'

Mammy said nothing. It was Ellie's turn to wax loud.

'Pity you old handkerchief-heads would n' stay down South where you belong. First you ask me to state my intentions. Then you tell me I started the argument at the party. Then you preach me a sermon on sin or clothes or somethin'. Then you tell me to let them alone as if they did n't pester me dizzy. As if I was chasin' them.

'You sho' ain' chasin' me.'

Ellie sprang up, furious, inflamed less by the implication than by Mammy's intuitively shrewd analysis. 'Why, you dirty old devil - I ought to paste you one! If that's what you think you can all go to hell.' She turned and strode hotly away, flinging back a smouldering 'Damn you!' The hall door slammed behind her with a bang that jarred the floor.

[ocr errors]

Mammy stood bewildered a while; presently murmured, 'She cuss' meSlowly she sank into her chair and looked around at the close kitchen walls; kept repeating, as if to convince herself, 'Dat li'l chile—she cuss' me.'

III

The three-room apartment boasted four windows, and on them, following Mammy's request, Wesley agreed to finish his fruitless day.

'I done done d' inside all right,' she explained, 'but I cain't make d'outside. I scairt to stick my haid out one o' dese winders. No sense in folks livin' in d' side of a cliff dis-a-way-'cep'n' hit's as near to d' heaven as dey'll ever git again.'

Wesley, polishing glass, endeavored to stay the passing light of day with song, but even his song grew dark as the mood of blues settled gradually over it:

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

'Ellie - wha's a matter?' Only a diminuendo of angry clicks, receding down her hallway.

Well, it had served him right. He'd been warned about these uppity Northern gals, these 'gimme' gals. Always had their hands out, expecting something. Something for nothing. Taxis. Eats. Liquor. Big times. Back home a girl could n't want so much because there was n't so much to want. But here no effort on his part in spending three days' earnings on Ellie in a single night. No effort on her part to save it, either. And in return a kiss and a promise — a promise to go out again with him some night. Gimme.

Probably sore because he'd started a row at her party last night. Well, was she his gal or was n't she? A kiss. In the city a kiss has many meanings. Maybe she kissed Sam also. Maybe her kisses were a commodity.

He stopped polishing to look down on the street five stories below. Folks look funny at that distance and angle. All look alike. None human. Long thin feet alternately passing each other, arms circling awkwardly outside the feet, heads gliding squatly forward in the midst of arms and legs. People seen on end resemble spiders.

Ellie, maybe, was a spider, and he had been her fly. Having withdrawn his little substance, she now discarded his shell. Sam's turn now. Fly guy, Sam. Ought to swat him. Leave it to Ellie - she'll swat him for sixty bucks a week. Gimme.

'Don' set dey idle, son. Fust thing you know you'll lose yo' holt an' fall.'

'Make no diff'unce ef I land on my haid.'

'Git though in d' kitchen nex'. Got to git supper. Sam be home tireckly.' 'M-hm.'

Wesley did the kitchen window and proceeded to Mammy's room. The airshaft was quite dark, so that he had to light the gas jet. He soaped his wet rag and clambered half through, turned, and clamped his heels as usual against the wall beneath the sill, thus leaving both hands free for work. He soaped the outside surface of the pane and, while waiting for it to dry, twisted about to look behind him at Ellie's window. It was still unrepaired; a newspaper covered the jagged opening in the pane. His enlarged shadow fell misshapen on the wall about the window and the jagged opening looked like a wound in his side.

Somewhere beyond the broken window a door banged loudly shut. Soon another, closer door did likewise.

Sam shuffled angrily into the kitchen and tossed something black on to the table, where it landed with a thump. Peering over her 'specks,' Mammy recognized her Bible. She reproved:

'Don't you know no better 'n to th'ow d' Word of d' Lawd aroun' lak dat? Better learn to keep it near yuh.' 'Did n' th'ow it half as fur as you did.'

'I th'owed it to keep you young fools fum doin' harm. You jes' th'owed it to be th'owin'.'

'Da's aw right 'bout doin' harm. Ef I had busted Wesley, he could 'a' gone to d' free hospital. But you busted d' winder. Who go'n' pay fo' dat?'

'Lan'lawd oughter pay fo' it. He charge enough rent.'

'Maybe he would, but sump'n done got into Ellie-she raisin' d' devil. 'Clare out she go'n' tell d' lan'lawd

« EdellinenJatka »