Midnight Without a Moon(4)
Chapter Two
SATURDAY, JULY 23
THE CHATTERING STOPPED. AND EVERYONE—?Mr. Pete, Sugar, Li’ Man, Fred Lee, Papa, and Mama—?all stared at me. They knew Ma Pearl wasn’t one to reckon with. She’d as soon give any one of her fourteen grandchildren a taste of the backside of her hand if we just smiled too long.
“Why is you so dirty?” she demanded.
When my eyes shifted to my stained beige dress, handcrafted by Ma Pearl herself from old croker sacks that had once held flour, my mouth fell into an O. The tobacco splashes on my legs were the ones I felt when Ricky spat at me. The splotches on my dress—?from the bottle hitting the tree—?were the ones that caught me by surprise.
I reshaped my mouth to explain, but the look on Ma Pearl’s fleshy face made the incident with Ricky feel about as scary as a church picnic. If she was that upset about my dress, I knew she wouldn’t take lightly to those cracked eggs frying on the side of the road.
With no other options, I smoothed down my soiled dress and muttered, “I accidentally fell when Sugar and Li’ Man ran out to meet me.”
When Ma Pearl’s nostrils flared, I braced myself for a scolding.
Luckily, Sugar pointed at Li’ Man and said, “He did it.”
Not so lucky for Li’ Man.
Mr. Pete squinted at him.
Li’ Man fidgeted.
Sugar smiled.
Mr. Pete, a huge man with heavy hands and an even heavier voice, creased his forehead and said, “Christopher Joe, apologize to your Aunt Rose. You got her dress all dirty.”
Li’ Man dropped his head to his chest and muttered, “Sorry.”
Before I could defend him, Ma Pearl cut me off. “Go take off that nasty dress.” She pointed toward the porch. “Don’t come in here. Go through the front room.”
Humiliated, I backed out of the parlor doorway, took three steps across the porch, and entered the house through the front room as I had been commanded. I hurried to the back of the house, to the bedroom I shared with my fifteen-year-old cousin Queen, to change into clothing more suitable for entrance into Ma Pearl’s parlor.
The parlor was a space she reserved for special people, like Mr. Pete—?or for herself and Queen, her favorite grandchild, when they wanted to sit and listen to their daily radio programs. The parlor also held Ma Pearl’s good furniture: the worn powder blue sofa, settee, and chairs that were no longer welcome in Mrs. Robinson’s parlor. As a matter of fact, everything in Ma Pearl’s parlor, from the sofa to a pair of melted-down white candles, all came from the Robinsons’ grand white house up the road.
Papa always said, “Don’t never turn down nothing the white folks gives you. And make sure they sees you using it.”
Ma Pearl should have turned down those outdated Sears and Roebuck catalogs she kept stacked in the corner, collecting dust. The only use we got from them was flipping through the pages, dreaming of things we’d never own.
By the time I found another homemade dress to slip over my head and returned to the parlor, the chatter had returned as well. Like a bird in the early morning darkness, Ma Pearl twittered incessantly about the dangers of living in the city. She had been listening to radio programs about crime in big cities like Chicago and Saint Louis, and she wanted to impress Mr. Pete with what she thought she knew about living up north.
Papa, his expression serious as always, sat in one of the powder blue chairs next to the window. He wore his Saturday-going-to-town clothes—?creased khakis and a starched white shirt—?for the occasion. His black pipe, filled with Prince Albert tobacco, but never lit, rested between his lips.
Though tall, Papa was not a hulk of a man the way Ma Pearl was an amazon of a woman. Farm work kept him slim. Also, unlike Ma Pearl, he was not impressed with Mr. Pete. As “ruint” as Mama was, he was not fond of her being married to a man who, at forty-nine, was closer to Papa’s fifty-nine years than Mama’s twenty-eight, regardless of how much land he farmed.
Even though I had changed into a clean dress, I hesitated to enter the parlor. With Ma Pearl and Papa being the only two privy to Mama’s visit—?and obviously to her northern migration—?their appearance almost matched the crispness of the Chicago-bound family. Plus, I hadn’t thought to wet a rag and wipe the dust from my ankles and feet. I was about to turn around and head back to my room before Ma Pearl noticed and gave me another scolding, but when Mama saw me lingering in the doorway between the parlor and the front room, she invited me to join her. She patted the spot next to her on the settee and said, “Come set beside me, Sister.”
As soon as I sat next to Mama (and scooted my feet as far under the settee as possible), Sugar left her spot next to Mr. Pete on the sofa and wedged herself between us. “I wanna set beside you too,” she said, glancing up, grinning at Mama. When Mama smiled her consent, I scooted over and made room for Sugar. If Mama had waited a bit to nickname her the way she did me and Fred Lee, perhaps she could have named her Salt instead, seeing that sometimes she could be just as salty as she was sweet.
Mr. Pete smiled at Fred Lee, who stood rather than sat. “Me and Christopher Joe don’t bite,” he said.
Fred Lee, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes cast to the floor, ignored Mr. Pete. I could tell he was as angry as I was that Mama was leaving for Chicago.