Calling Me Home (8 page)

“You were me, you wouldn’t be laughing,” Robert said quietly, his back to me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but my giggles turned into uncontrolled laughter. “I hope you don’t have to wear that shirt anywhere else today.”

Robert glanced at the house, then before I knew it, he dipped the sponge in the bucket and flung a stream of water my way. I gasped as it made perfect landfall, drenching my book and skirt, and my laughter increased to a shriek.

“Oh, pardon me, Miss Isabelle. I didn’t realize you were so close behind me. Get you wet?” He made full eye contact with me. A grin split his face like a sunrise, and for a moment, we were simply young people enjoying a mutual prank, neither well-off nor poor, white nor Negro.

Until the screen door slapped closed. I turned. My mother stood on the back stoop. She frowned and squinted, her hand shading her eyes from the sharp afternoon sun. “Isabelle? Is that you out there? I thought I heard a commotion. You’ve been in the sun too long, dear. Your skin has become unattractively dark. Come inside, now.”

“Coming, Mother,” I called dutifully, but my singsong voice betrayed my impertinence.

She waited while I shook out my skirt and scooped my book from the chair. I wiped at the cover, hoping she wouldn’t notice the dark spots on it or smell the telltale scent of soapsuds mixed with road dust on my clothing. When she was satisfied I was doing as she asked, she turned to go inside. I glanced at Robert, and then, though I knew it was childish, I stuck out my tongue at my mother’s receding backside, jammed my thumbs into my ears, and wagged my fingers. Now it was his turn to cover his mouth. He was more successful than I’d been in covering the chuckle that tried to escape. He shook a finger at me, then returned to his task.

I took my time entering the house, but Mother was right inside the door, a look on her face I could have sworn was sheer terror. But then she pursed her lips like she used to purse them at Aunt Bertie. “Isabelle, you’re too friendly with the Prewitts,” she said. “You must remember your place. And they must remember theirs.”

“Mother—” I protested, but she’d already turned away.

*   *   *

S
CHOOL LET OUT
for the summer, and my days alternated between lethargy and tasks Mother assigned to keep me busy—learning to arrange peonies or daylilies from the garden, selecting ripe cucumbers or prickly okra for Cora to pickle, and any number of things that seemed pointless to me, as though we still lived in the nineteenth century. I’d much rather have read or wandered, but I was no longer allowed the freedom I’d had when I was younger. On rare occasions, though, Mother’s watchful eye relaxed.

On an early afternoon in July, when the heat had given its most impressive performance of the season so far, bearing down on us like a steaming iron, she complained of a headache and retired early for her afternoon rest. She asked Cora to send Nell to my father for a powder to relieve her pain, but Nell was in the middle of laundering linens. Though I suspected Nell would have favored a break from her task, doubly oppressive in the heat and humidity, I jumped at the chance.

“Oh, no, Miss Isabelle,” Cora said. “Nell can finish it up later. That laundry’s not going anywhere.”

“I don’t mind. I’d like to say hello to Daddy, and besides, I can’t bear this stifling house a minute longer.” I clutched my hands over my heart. “Pretty please?”

Cora laughed. “You win.” But then she shook her finger at me. “You hurry back with that powder, now, or your momma will be all over us.”

I promised I’d rush both directions. I called the office first, and Daddy’s nurse assured me they’d have the medicine waiting even if Daddy was called away.

My father sat at his desk, eating a cold lunch. He waved me into his consulting room. “Sit, honey. Visit for a minute; then you can take my lunch box back with you.” When I was younger, I’d often kept him company over his lunch in the summer. I think we both missed our chats. I suspected my mother’s plan to turn me into a ready-made bride wasn’t any easier on my father than it was on me.

“I better hurry, sir. Mother will be upset if she doesn’t have her medicine right away—especially since she’s expecting Nell.”

“Oh, well, go on, then. We don’t want Nell or Cora in trouble with the boss.”

“No, sir. We don’t.” I tucked the medicine in my pocket. “Daddy?”

He grinned. “Thought you were in a hurry.”

“I am. But I was wondering…” I ran my fingers across the thin fabric of my dress, around the outline of the envelope, and swiveled my sandaled toe against a dark fleck in the linoleum. I shook my head. “Never mind.”

“What is it, honey?” My father’s hand was halfway to his mouth, but he put down his sandwich and leaned back in his chair, his fingers clasped over his vest.

I didn’t answer immediately. I’d suddenly been swept from the present to the past, in a memory I’d never revisited until this moment, probably six years gone. Robert and I sat in two straight chairs, which flanked my father’s desk, one on either side, instead of facing it as they did for patient consultations. My math book was in the middle of Daddy’s desk, where we could all view it, and Daddy was helping me with my assigned work—the first year I’d struggled with it—while Robert copied the same problems onto sheets of paper. It wasn’t our first session of this kind, and I hadn’t understood at first why Robert was doing the same work I’d been assigned—he was a year older than I was, after all. I was also puzzled because Robert hadn’t brought his own book. Why did he need to use mine? Daddy explained on our walk home that Robert’s school received cast-off textbooks from the white schools in the area, and those were so battered, they rarely left the classroom—they were too precious and few for the teachers to chance damage or loss. The school never had enough teachers, and so it was easy for even the smartest students to fall behind. Robert’s classmates were often doing work my class had mastered several years before, and Daddy helped him work ahead to ensure he’d be ready for college. I was ashamed to recall how I sometimes flung my schoolbooks across my bedroom in frustration, sick to death of all the busywork that rarely challenged my mind. I pictured the student who might use it next, cracked spine and all, and began handling my books with care, understanding it was a privilege to carry them back and forth from home to school each day. I fussed at the boys in my classes who carelessly dropped their books in the dirt after school when they formed spontaneous ball games, and they rolled their eyes and ignored me.

That day, I fidgeted while Daddy dissected a problem with Robert. Robert generally caught on faster than I did, which annoyed me. But I noticed he was fidgety, too. Daddy was always patient with both of us, and he simply plodded through the work until Robert looked up at him with nervous eyes. “Sir?” he said.

“Yes, Robert? What is it? Don’t you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand fine. It’s just…” Robert glanced at the window. “It’s almost dark, sir.”

My father’s head swung toward the window, and he seemed startled, as though he hadn’t noticed how quickly sunset arrived after school was dismissed now that it was late fall. Rare impatience flashed across his face—no, something stronger than impatience; it was anger—but he composed himself and gathered Robert’s papers together, quickly pointing out what he should complete before we met again. “You better run along now, Robert; we don’t want you in trouble with the boss.”

I wasn’t sure whom he meant. It seemed he should be referring to Cora, as he often referred to my mother as “the boss” in our household, but I’d never heard him label Cora that way. Robert stuffed the papers into his worn knapsack, a hand-me-down from Patrick, and rushed from Daddy’s office. My father returned his attention to me, though he never appeared fully invested in the remainder of our lesson that day.

“What is it?” Daddy’s voice echoed my memory now. “Honey?”

I said, “Those signs…”

“Signs?”

“The ones when you go in and out of town—not the ones that say Shalerville and the population … but the other ones.”

Daddy frowned. “What about them?”

“Have they always been there?”

“Always?” He lifted his fingers now, studying one nail, scratching as though something was caught at the crescent. “No, I don’t suppose they have.” He straightened. “You’d better get going now, Isabelle. Cora will wonder what kept you.”

“Yes, sir.” I turned to leave, but his voice, unnaturally bright, stopped me again.

“Why don’t you run that medicine home, then give yourself an afternoon off? Your mother has set you many tasks this summer, sweetheart, but if she’s not feeling well, having you underfoot will only make things worse, don’t you think?” He winked, and my spirits lifted. He hadn’t exactly answered my other question, and I still wanted to know—but a whole afternoon where I could do anything I desired? With my father’s blessing? It was an excellent distraction.

“If your mother complains later, I’ll assure her it was my idea, but run along while you can. That powder might work faster if she knows you have permission to flee.”

“Oh, yes, sir!” I almost slammed the door behind me, then reminded myself to slow down as long as it took to pass by Daddy’s nurse, who was busy straightening the supply cabinet in the examining room. She always smelled painfully sterile, as though she’d never actually touched one of Daddy’s patients. She and Mother collaborated regarding his tendency to give away medical care for less compensation than was strictly good business, even though times were especially hard for others compared to us, but Daddy tolerated her complicity because she was an excellent nurse. She’d report any of my infractions directly to Mother, as well.

“Afternoon, Isabelle,” she called. I thanked her, but as soon as I was through the entry and beyond her window view, I broke into a half jog, slowing only when I was going uphill or when I passed folks on Shalerville’s short Main Street—not many that day; the heat had made everyone lazy and inclined to stay anywhere they could catch a cool breeze.

Back home, I found Nell pegging the last cumbersome tablecloth to the line. I held the corner tight while she slid a wooden pin over it. She dragged her fingers across her glistening forehead. “Would you ask your mother to give this to mine?” I said, withdrawing the medicine envelope from my pocket.

She wiped her hand down her apron and took it. “What you up to now?” she asked. I struggled to keep a blank face. Though a fissure had remained between us since the night I’d hurt her feelings, she knew me. I knew we both regretted being too old now to escape into the hiding places of the garden and backyard as we had when we were younger. We’d hardly noticed the heat then, playing with my jacks or jump rope, dolls or tea set, giggling and whispering about important things, such as what we’d name our firstborn children. Occasionally, we’d allowed Robert into our exclusive club when we needed a heavy lifter or someone to play the male roles in imaginary scenarios we’d concocted.

Mother hadn’t cared so much about my interaction with Cora’s family then. Jack was a year older than Patrick, and both were several years older than I. They kept each other busy or in trouble, and I’m sure she was simply relieved I had a convenient playmate, too—though in my case, Nell served to keep me occupied and deterred me from running all over town, whereas my brothers were given free rein as boys. Mother was always excessively concerned I might mingle with the wrong people, but at that time, Nell was exempt. Mother probably already considered her an employee of sorts at age six or eight. And at the right price—free.

“Daddy’s given me permission to roam,” I said to Nell. “I believe I’ll take my book down to the creek.” A gentle stream ran near our property, half a mile or so from the house if you left through the back gate. Close enough to be considered a safe spot, but sufficiently distant to deliver a temporary sense of freedom. As children, we’d played there, too.

Her eyes flashed with uncertainty, but she carried the packet to the house. I wondered if she’d notice I wasn’t carrying a book—and didn’t follow her inside to fetch one.

*   *   *

I
WASN’T ALLOWED
to wear trousers. Most times now, when I visited friends’ homes during the day, they lounged in fashionable slim pants that hit right at the ankle, which didn’t look mannish to me at all, or divided skirts, as feminine as any dress I’d seen. But Mother’s campaign to wind back the decades was comprehensive. For once, I was thankful I was wearing a loose cotton dress I could tie shorter at the sides. Perfect for wading.

The creek bed was studded with limestone, molded and smoothed by the flow, and I loved to step from stone to stone in the cool, rushing water, seeing how far I could travel the creek before I reached a spot too deep to negotiate without full-on swimming. My bathing suit, alas, saw daylight only when my family picnicked at the lake or took a driving trip to North Carolina to swim in the ocean. I’d never have been permitted to wear it for playing in the creek. I’d grown a few inches since the last time I’d worn it anyway, though I suspected it would still fit my skinny hips and flat chest well enough. I figured I was stuck with my boyish figure until I married and bore children.

Near the creek, I slipped the ribbon from my hair and sawed it in two against a broken tree limb. I’d hardly miss it—I was never short of ribbon to keep my frizzy waves in line. I gathered my skirt into bunches at the sides and secured them. I surely looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. I wouldn’t sacrifice a free afternoon to vanity.

I dropped my sandals at the edge of the creek and leaped onto the first stone, pausing there for a moment to glory in my liberty, gulping the air fanned and cooled by the rushing water, so alive compared to the stagnant stuff I’d breathed all morning.

Soon, though, I hopped from one visible stone to the next, stretching my arms like a soaring osprey to keep my balance. I stopped, finally, when I reached the last one I could without crossing back to the bank. The stone’s surface was large and flat, and I squatted close to the water, resting against my heels with my skirt pulled over my knees.