Four Spirits (45 page)

WHILE AGNES DROVE HOME, SHE FEARED A CARLOAD OF
white men might be following her. At one corner, she took an unexpected turn. When they went straight, she was relieved, but a few blocks later, they were behind her again. She tried not to think about it.
Just don't go down any dark alleys,
she told herself.
You be all right.
She knew sometimes a Negro was followed and nothing happened. It was their way of keeping people off balance.

It wasn't usual to see a car full of white men in the Miles neighborhood. Surely they didn't object to a harmless middle-aged woman trying to get a GED. Maybe they didn't see it that way. Maybe they were part of the bullhorn gang.

Well, her car was cooled off enough, she could roll up the window.

Wrong about that! Within two blocks, the car was an oven without any fresh air. At the next stop sign, she reached her hand down in her shopping bag to pull out a Jesus fan. It was the Good Shepherd, her favorite. She drove with one hand and fanned with the other. Occasionally she glanced in the rearview mirror.

Still there, but farther back. Or maybe that was a different car. It was dropping on back,
thank the Lord
.

She wished she could have books to take home to study on. She missed the science class, and she hoped Miss Cat was all right. Those words for the bones were hard to remember, except the upper arm bone, the humerus. The funny
bone, Miss Cat had said. She was a good teacher. But it was Miss Stella who was the fanatic. She just went over and over the lesson.
Not, he “don't.” Instead, he “doesn't.”
Miss Stella said, “I know it doesn't sound right to you. But if we say it over and over, it will start to sound right. You've just got to memorize it for now, and trust me.”

Just young girls but they were trying to help out. Agnes decided to step on the gas a little more.
I'll just widen the gap.
But she couldn't restrain her toe, how it wanted to press down, press down. The tree trunks on the sides of the street were zipping by in a blur.

Suddenly their brights were bouncing into the mirror and into her eyes. She heard them gun the engine, gather speed. They might try to make her run into a tree.

“Lord Jesus,” she said aloud. “Into thy hands.” And she gripped the steering wheel. She put on the brake, as though it could stop this from happening.

Noise big as a freight train, horn blaring they bore down on her.

And swerved safely around.

Her car shuddered to a dead halt. Their red taillights were disappearing down the dark street. They were putting on the gas. Speeding away. She hadn't been shot. No eggs or nothing thrown on the car. They were just gone.

“Thank you, Jesus.”

But she was shaking. Both feet were on the brake pedal. She'd killed the motor. As fast as she could, she pressed in the clutch, turned the key, gave a little gas. Not to flood, Lord, not to flood. And she was slowly letting out the clutch, and she was moving forward. As she drove, she cautiously swept her head from side to side.
Sweep clean, sweep clean. They done gone. Swing low, sweet chariot.

In ten minutes, she would be home. TJ would be at work, but she'd call her neighbor to come over and sit with her till her nerves quieted. Maggie would read the Bible and pray with her. Then they'd get to talking about church or sewing circle. They'd drink ice tea and stir it round with the long-handled teaspoons. Her hands were sweating so bad, the steering wheel was slippery. Maggie and she would have a nice evening till bedtime. She'd go right to sleep; she always did, and she'd wake up to TJ making a pot of coffee.

Honestly, she didn't care if the world changed or not. The white people she had always known were good enough. They spoke softly, cherished politeness. But now these strange, mean ones coming out of the woodwork. She just wanted to get her education and then a new job. She rolled her window down to get a breath of night air. God would make society change in his own good time. In the meantime, it was getting a good job that mattered. She would better herself. Let other folks better themselves, if they had the gumption. She rolled the window down six inches. Some kind of job for her to add to TJ's and they'd work and save maybe twenty more years, retire, and then they'd be done. She didn't want to cause trouble.

“You-all barking up the wrong tree,” she said out loud to the empty street before her.

 

WHEN SHE GOT HOME,
TJ opened the door before she could get out her key.

His face was troubled. Sad.

She put her arms around him.
But what was wrong?
Then he took her hand and led her to the sofa.

“Are you all right, darling?” he asked her.

“Just fine.”

“Two things happened this afternoon,” he said. He held up two fingers in a
V
, as though she couldn't count. She reached out and caught his hand in hers. She brought his two knuckles to her lips and kissed them.

“One was that I tried to register to vote this afternoon. I went down with the redheaded white man who spoke at church. Mr. Green.”

“Did you make it?” She felt a rush of pride and hope.

“No. I failed to put a comma between the day and the year. I can try again in a month.”

“That's not so bad,” she said. And then it just blurted out of her, “Did you get to the part to put down our address?”

“Yes,” he said. His voice was solid and polished. It reminded her of hickory wood—strong and smooth. Just what it was, nothing fancy. She loved him almost to idolatry.

“Let's go on to bed, then,” she said. “I got mixed up and thought you'd be at
work tonight. I'm tired out.” She glanced at him to see if she might tell now. “I had a little scare,” she added.

“Wait,” he said. “There was two things I gots to tell you. Number two is this evening I lost my job.”

“TJ!”

He didn't speak. While he just looked into her eyes, she found an answering awareness rising in her. He was the steadiest man in the world. It had never crossed her mind to worry that he might lose his job. And then the two pieces of news ticked like a clock in her brain: vote, job. Tried to vote; lost his job.

“ 'Cause you tried to register?” she said.

“I believe so.”

“That fast?”

“Let's sit on the sofa,” he said. Still holding her hand, he took her to the couch. “They all connected, these white people. I put down where I worked. I had to.”

“Bankhead Hotel—why'd they
say
you let go?” She was relieved to be off her feet.

“They say…” He paused to gather the story in his mind. He always took his time, Agnes thought. Got things straight, told it true. He licked his lips and spoke quietly, staring at the floor. “First, Mr. Armstrong say, ‘We want a younger man.' And I say, ‘I'm a veteran. I done fought two wars.' And then Mr. Armstrong say, ‘That's what I told Mr. McCormick.' And I say, ‘You question him?' ‘Yes, I did,' he says. I just look at him and he look at me, and the whole thing start to dawn on me. Then I say, ‘I'd like to speak to Mr. McCormick. He in?' And Mr. Armstrong say, ‘I phone upstairs and tell him. I don't know, but I'll tell him.' Meanwhile I straighten my tie, shine my shoes just like I'm going on the job. Then Mr. McCormick himself come busting through the door, talking 'fore I can say anything. He say, ‘I know you fought, TJ, and got honorable discharge, but I can't have any nigras what want to stir up trouble. Now if you want to take a week off to think, and then come back, you might get your job back.' ”

Agnes squeezed his arm, “Well, it'll be all right then.”

“What I said to him: ‘Well, reckon this is good-bye then. After ten years and never a minute late and never a day sick.' And I walked out.”

Agnes uncoiled like a jack-in-the-box. She threw herself on her husband and covered his face with kisses. “Oh, honey, oh, honey,” she said over and over. “I just so proud of you.” She commenced to sob. She put her head down on her knees and sobbed like the dam had broken. He rubbed her back, gently pressed into her muscles with his fingertips. Finally she looked up, her face running with tears, and said, “I married me a man. I didn't marry no nigger.”

WHEN GLORIA FINALLY DESCENDED THE FEW STEPS INTO
Christine's dim apartment, Gloria saw a woman sitting at the wooden kitchen table, with four cans of beer in front of her. Her hair was combed up straight and held erect by a tortoiseshell barrette. A little girl was perched on a stool at the table, reading in the subdued golden light.

Christine said, “Dee, I want you to meet my friend Gloria.”

“Howdy do,” Gloria said quickly.

But Dee did not acknowledge her. “Think I'll just take me a little nap,” Dee said. She put an arm down on the table and plopped her head on her arm.

“And this is my daughter, Diane,” Christine said to Gloria. Christine's voice hurried from embarrassment for her sister's rudeness into pride in her daughter. “Diane's smart as a whip.”

Diane turned her book facedown on the table and left her perch to approach them. She led with her forehead, wide and clear of hair. The light caught the curve of her forehead oddly and made it look like a single car light. Unconscious of her shining forehead, Diane held out her hand. “Howdy do, Miss Gloria,” she said, and smiled brightly.

“I'll just check on the boys,” Christine said.

Little Diane's lovely face made Gloria breathe carefully. Diane appeared as Christine might have been as a child. Here was intelligence unsullied by bitterness; goodwill undistorted by hardship.

“What are you reading?” Gloria asked quietly, not to disturb Dee.

“About a horse.”

Suddenly Gloria knelt, as though her knees had given way, and held out her arms to Christine's daughter. Diane walked straight into Gloria's embrace.

“Well, I see y'all done made friends,” Christine said as she walked back into the kitchen.

Pressing Diane to her bosom, Gloria felt as though she'd entered the stable, as though she was beholding a sacred child, the future incarnate that must not be sullied. That must not suffer the degradation of segregation. She held Diane back at arm's length to look again at her face.

Diane accepted her gaze with perfect equanimity.

Gloria had never seen such beautiful skin, such glowing eyes. Diane's lips parted a little, as though she might speak, but she did not. The slightly scalloped tips of her new big-girl teeth showed.

“I used to read dog and horse stories,” Gloria said. She got her feet under her and stood up. She spoke to Christine. “I learned more lessons from them than from the Bible.”

“Girl!” Christine said and frowned slightly.

“I did,” Gloria affirmed. “I learned to be loyal and brave. To suffer and endure. To have a steel will.”

“Didn't know you had a steel will,” Christine teased.

“But I do.”

Gloria wondered if Christine had forgotten her own meltdown when the church was bombed, how it was Gloria who stood strong. But it was fine with Gloria if Christine had forgotten. As though standing between the pews again, Gloria felt herself a witness to fact: the face of Christ had disappeared, had been blasted out of the window. His glass-thick body was veiled in dust; his radiance muted.

Diane returned to the table, picked up her book again, and instantly lost herself in her story. Her eyes moved hungrily across the sentences on the page; Diane had absented herself from the conversation of the women. The ceiling light off, only a small lamp on the kitchen cook table illumined the pages of the open book.

“If I could paint,” Gloria said quietly, indicating Diane, “I'd paint her picture.
Negro Girl with Her Book.
Or maybe,
Reading at the Kitchen Table
.”

“Dee,” Christine said softly. “You asleep or playin' possum?”

Dee's face was turned from them, and Gloria couldn't tell.

“It's all right if she needs to sleep,” Gloria said. She looked at the four cans
of beer and wondered if
Passed Out
ought also to be included in the picture.
Passed Out Cold, with Niece Reading
. Social realism, a bit of squalor. Probably it was Dee who wanted soft lamplight to assist her slide into oblivion.

“I don't ever drink at home,” Christine explained. “It's not good for kids to see.”

Gloria marveled that Christine would reveal the idea while her daughter was in the room, even if she did seem absorbed in reading.

“Not what you say to kids,” Christine went on. “It's what they see you doing.”

For a moment, Gloria had no reply. She felt again that she was visiting a stable. There ought to be straw on the table or in a chair.

“I feel like Christmas,” Gloria said. What should she call this place where she was? Apartment? Sounded belittling. House? It wasn't the whole house. She found the word and tipped it into the waiting sentence, without emphasis: “Your home makes me marvel.”

“Christmas in this hot weather?”

Gloria smiled. “Now don't be a doubter.”

“You like a sandwich, or a cookie? Glass of lemonade?”

“Lemonade, please. It's lots cooler in here than outside.”

Christine took a package of lemonade-flavor Kool-Aid from a drawer. She got down a pudgy glass pitcher, tore back the top of the envelope, and dumped in the powder. While she ran tap water into the pitcher, Christine asked, “What you think of Mr. Parrish?”

It was on Gloria's lips to say
Oh, he's fine,
but she realized the question wasn't entirely casual. “Well,” Gloria answered, “he said he wanted to talk, but then he didn't have much to say.”

“I think he trusts us.” Christine looked pleased and happy.

“Does Diane like school?” It was strange to speak of someone present as though she were absent, but the lamplight enfolded Gloria in its own kingdom. In the basement, space seemed partitioned by an invisible curtain; within each fold might reside a world with its story.

“She reads Dick and Jane at school. At home, she reads
Black Beauty
and
Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch
.”

Diane looked up. “They both have horses in them,” she said.

I could take her to visit the country,
Gloria thought, but did she want Diane to see a bull dominate the bars of a stock rack? In her reading, Diane was
claiming a world where animals were more honorable than people. “I used to want a horse so bad,” Gloria said.

“Did you get one?” Diane asked. Her bright, calm face tilted up toward Gloria. Diane waited serenely to hear either yes or no, ready to build a world on either answer.

“Eventually, I did,” Gloria said. “But it stays out in the country.”

“How did you get it?” Diane asked. She closed her book.

Christine cracked an ice tray into the pitcher and stirred the lemonade with a wooden spoon.

“Aunt Dee,” Diane asked softly, “would you like some lemonade?”

“I think she's resting,” Gloria answered. “I got a horse by learning to play the cello.”

“What is a cello?” Diane asked.

“It's like a big violin, but you hold it between your knees to play. My mother said it would be just like riding a horse to play a cello. Then she said if I learned to play the cello, they'd talk about getting me a horse.”

“How old were you?”

“I was nine or ten.”

“Am I six or seven?” Diane asked her mother.

“No, you're just one or the other,” Christine answered. She smiled at her daughter, as though they were playing a game of secret logic.

“I mean,” Gloria said, “I can't remember if I was nine or if I was ten.”

“I was telling Diane about Schrödinger's cat,” Christine said.

Gloria felt the room tilt strangely. “What do you mean?”

“You know. In physics.”

“I know about angular momentum,” Diane said proudly.
Angular momentum,
perfectly pronounced. Diane explained, “If your arms are stuck out, and the fire hose hits one shoulder, and you start to spin, you can spin faster if you bring your arms in. And then you can use your arms, too, to protect your breasts. Or chest.”

Gloria sipped her lemonade. “Maybe you ought to teach science instead of English,” she said to Christine.
Breasts?
Gloria had never heard a child of six or seven freely use the word
breasts
.

“I teach Diane everything I know,” Christine said.

Dee snorted from the table and then began to snore.

“I'd like to learn how to ride a horse,” Diane said.

“Who rode horseback across Europe during the Crusades?” Christine asked the child.

“Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“Maybe animals are disguises for angels,” Gloria said. The room righted itself, and they stared silently at her.

Diane suddenly went to open a freestanding metal cabinet, a dish cupboard, but the bottom three shelves were messy with toys. The highest of the three shelves was Diane's, and she took out a white doll. “Her name is Eleanor,” Diane said. Then she got out a small horse from one of her brother's shelves. Although the doll, dressed in a short, fur-trimmed ice-skating outfit and wearing boots with skates attached, was twelve inches high, and the horse no more than three, Diane placed the horse between the doll's feet to make Eleanor ride the horse. “She's riding across France,” Diane said.

“Where is France?” Gloria asked skeptically.

“In Europe. Between Spain and Germany.”

Propelled by Diane's hand, the big ice-skating doll rode the little horse across the kitchen table. Diane made clicking noises with her tongue and teeth to sound like hoofbeats. The horse trotted to the proximity of Dee's sleeping head, then whinnied and drew to a halt.

“Go on and lemme be,” Dee muttered in her sleep.

“If something happened to me,” Christine said, “I don't know what would become of my kids.”

“Maybe—” Gloria said.

“No. You got your own growing and learning to do.”

Suddenly Dee sat straight up. Her eyes were half closed and she only half opened her mouth when she spoke, but she was looking at and speaking to Christine. “You don't never teach me nothing, Queen o' Sheba.”