Little Sacrifices (16 page)

Unfortunately a lot of the adults didn’t have the same malleable psyches with which their children embraced Duncan’s ideas. He didn’t help his cause by delivering some of his most contentious lectures just before sending the kids home for the summer. Their parents fumed, wrote letters and phoned the poor worn–out dean. They forbade their offspring any extracurricular discourse with the nutty professor. So every year at least one kid confessed to hoodwinking his folks about where he was eating his turkey.

We filled our bellies over some awfully good verbal fisticuffs during the war. The same boys who sat with their mouths full of our mashed potatoes, shaking their heads over the conflict, joined up after Pearl Harbor, as fast as the recruiters could sign them in. As far as I was concerned, they had Duncan coming to them. He was not a spectator sport. Around him everyone had a voice and was expected to use it, even though he fully intended to reason their ideas into submission.

‘Answer me this young man,’ Duncan would stab his fork at the would–be recruit. ‘
Why
do you want to join up?’ The boy would answer as best he could. Mainly duty he told him. ‘Who says? Who’s duty?’

‘Well ... everyone’s.’

‘Duty isn’t a reason. What do you
think
about why we’re fighting? The reasons. Are we doing more harm than good? Is the war right?’

‘Right, sir?’

‘Yes, right! Is it right, can you answer that?’ They never could.

‘Come on, son, surely I’ve taught you
something
! You didn’t come to college just to learn, you came to think! If you can’t manage that, then for Pete’s sake stop wasting your parents’ money on an education!’ Duncan took their nationalism personally, but really he blamed Uncle Sam’s slick marketing for their errors in judgment. The government, he liked to point out, had a long history of shining up unpalatable ideas for the American people. Uncle Sam with his star spangled hat, surly gaze and stabbing finger was just another pawn in the government’s war against reason.

Ma let Duncan worry about our guests’ reason and concerned herself with their stomachs. Rationing put a dent in our Thanksgiving festivities. The clerks at the A&P had their hands full, trying to work loaves–and–fishes miracles with empty shelves. Things like sugar, meat and canned food were especially hard to come by. It didn’t help matters that we Powells were hopeless at fending for ourselves. We could no more coax food to sprout from our land than we could churn milk into butter. All such alchemistic hocus pocus was well beyond my parents’ city sensibilities. So during those years, Ma found herself on the horns of a dilemma. The government insisted that we cut back, but it was unthinkable for guests to leave our table without swollen bellies and bags full of leftovers. Ma saw no reason they should start just because our leaders got us into a war that she didn’t agree with. She didn’t tell me until many years later that she used counterfeit ration stamps to finagle the sugar and butter for our pies. My mother was a black market racketeer. We never said a word about it to Duncan.

Missus Welles’ house would have been tolerable had Jim been able to go. But his Nan politely refused the invitation on the grounds of tradition. She’d never relied on the kindness of strangers and didn’t see any reason to start with the holiday. Ma thought she was rude to decline Missus Welles’ offer but I wasn’t surprised. In the months we’d been friends, Jim never once invited me to his house. When I asked him why, he said his Nan just didn’t much like the company of other people.

‘Except for yours, right?’

‘Except for my what?’

‘Company. She likes your company, doesn’t she?’

‘I’m her grandson,’ he said, as if that answered the question.

‘I mean, what do you do all evening when you’re at home together? Do you talk?’

‘I do my homework. We eat dinner. We read. Same thing that everyone else does.’

‘But do you talk? Because in my house we talk. Boy do we talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Anything. Everything. What we did all day, things we read about, whatever.’

‘Of course we talk. Geez, May, my Nan’s a normal person you know. Quit making her out to be some kind of recluse just because she doesn’t want to eat turkey and gravy with you. It’s normal to like to be by yourself sometimes you know.’

‘I know. And she’s not by herself, is she? She’s with you. Do you ever talk about your mother?’

‘No.’

‘How come?’

‘Because I never ask and Nan never brings her up.’ He’d stopped looking me in the eye.

‘Jim, why won’t you tell me about her?’

‘I don’t know all that much. Really. A long time ago she and Nan had an argument. Mom left. That’s all there is to tell.’

‘But why didn’t she take you with her?’

‘Because. I don’t know. Just because.’

‘Do you hear from her?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘A lot?’

‘I said sometimes.’

‘And she’s going to come back to Savannah some day?’

‘Yep.’

‘And you’re going to live in your old family house right?’

‘I told you.’

‘Is she married?’

‘No.’

‘Was she? Ever?’

‘No, May. She wasn’t. I’m a bastard. Is that what you want me to tell you? Fine. There. I’m a bastard. My mother got knocked up. I’m the result.’

‘Jim! Don’t be upset. Please. I’m in the same boat you know. Ma was pregnant with me back in Boston when she married Duncan. So I’m not judging you.’

‘At least you know who your father is.’

‘You really have no idea?’

He said he didn’t.

‘Have you ever asked your Nan?’

‘Once.’

‘And?’

‘And she told me it didn’t matter who.’

‘Right. There must be some way we can find out. What about your birth certificate?’

‘I’ve never seen it.’

‘It could be someone we see every day.’

‘Uh hmm.’

‘Is there anyone you look like?’

‘Just my grandfather.’

‘That’s no help. I think we should try to find out who it was. What do you think?’

‘I think you should leave it alone. It’s none of your business.’

I hid my hurt feelings. I deserved them. It wasn’t any of my business. Which naturally made me more determined than ever to solve the mystery of his parentage.

Chapter 24

On Thursday morning I came downstairs to a lot of noise in the kitchen. ‘What are you doing?’ Ma was pounding the life out of a big pile of bread dough. Thwack! Both hands slapped the unsuspecting loaf. ‘What’s that for?’

Thwack! ‘I thought I’d make some nice bread for Dora Lee and Eliza. For Thanksgiving.’

‘But she’s not coming back till tomorrow. You gave her the day off.’

She stopped her assault, blew a strand of hair from her face and looked at me. A great streak of flour ran along her forehead. ‘I know. We’ll drive it over before we go across the street.’

I sat down. ‘Are you sure that’s okay?’

‘Am I sure what’s okay?’

‘Going over to Dora Lee’s?’

‘Well why wouldn’t it be?’

‘I don’t know. How do you know she wants you there? She didn’t invite you, did she?’

‘Honey, you don’t have to wait for an invitation to do something nice for someone.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well stop being silly.’

‘I don’t have to go do I?’

‘No. But I thought you’d like to go. It’d be nice if you did.’

I hated it when decisions were left up to me about whether to do something I didn’t want to do. I invariably felt guilty and did it. The loaves were still warm on my lap as we drove toward the squares. How did Ma know where she lived since, I reminded her, she hadn’t been invited? She knew the street. We’d drive over there and then ask someone. What she meant was, I’d have to ask someone.

In nineteen forty–seven white people still generally scared the hell out of black people, especially when we arrived as strangers on their doorstep. They had good reason to be wary. We didn’t usually bring good news, or bread, with us. And though Jim boasted that there’d never been a lynching in Savannah, everyone knew they happened with alarming regularity in other parts of the state. After the Civil Rights movement scholars had occasion to study just what went on in the decades after Reconstruction. Their discoveries were heart–stopping. In the fifty years leading up to nineteen thirty, more than four hundred black men and women in Georgia alone were lynched by mobs for offenses as varied and innocuous as indolence, voodooism, conjuring, being obnoxious, throwing stones, demanding respect, unpopularity, unruly remarks, voting for the wrong party, and frightening a white woman.

I tried to look as unthreatening as possible as I knocked on doors, and was relieved when one of the first houses yielded Dora Lee’s address without too much fuss.

Dora Lee and Eliza lived behind Taylor Street in a cottage on Jones Lane. Savannah’s lanes, like her streets and squares, were planned out in exacting detail by General Oglethorpe. When he designed the city, he started with leafy public squares and put building lots on each side so that everyone’s windows faced the green spaces. Lanes ran behind the imposing houses, and their lucky owners had the choice of keeping their big gardens intact, or dividing them in half at the lane and putting a cottage in the back. Many built cottages, so whole neighborhoods lurked behind the houses on the main streets. No one was under any illusions about those cottages. They were for the black folks.

Ma strode to Dora Lee’s door as I hurried to catch up without dropping our excuse for being there. Little black kids eyed us from the road with suspicion. Eliza answered Ma’s knock. ‘Mama, Missus Powell’s here.’ She made no move to let us in. Dora Lee popped into the doorway, wiping wet hands on her apron. She, at least, smiled at us. ‘Why, hello ma’am, miss. What brings you here on the holiday?’ My question exactly.

‘We just wanted to wish you and Eliza a very happy Thanksgiving, didn’t we, May?’

‘Well thank you, ma’am. You didn’t have to come all the way out here just to give us your good wishes, though it was awfully nice.’

‘We came to drop off a little something I baked as well. For your dinner.’

Dora Lee took the bread from me, thanked us again and invited us inside to sit for a spell. Ma protested our imposition. Dora Lee gave their assurances. The two women volleyed their good manners back and forth as we made our way to sit down.

Our maid’s house was tidy, tiny and poor. The dining room, living room and kitchen stood together in a communal embrace. The wavy floorboards were bare of carpets, and the windows of curtains. Through an open doorway I could see the double bed that mother and daughter must have shared. Dora Lee asked if we wanted a glass of something. I followed Ma’s lead and thanked her for some water. As Eliza busied herself getting our drinks, Dora Lee moved a couple of spindly wooden chairs next to the threadbare sofa. The house smelled of boiled greens and something sweet.

Ma was the first to find her voice after their dance with protocol. ‘Eliza, it sure is nice that you have the day off too.’

‘Yes, ma’am, the Milligans are over to Atlanta with family this week.’

‘Well, that’s nice.’

‘Sure is.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Ma’s sense of virtue had propelled her to Dora Lee’s doorstep, but left her stranded there without words. We were all in the same bind. Indulgent smiles reflected back from the women’s faces as everyone searched for common ground. I heard a clock ticking, very slowly. Eliza, like me, was in a dress and I found myself fascinated by her knees. They were grayish purple, not even close to the color of the rest of her. Every time I glanced at her, she caught my eye and held it until I looked away. It was infuriating.

‘You know, Dora Lee, I’ve never asked you. Do you have family in Savannah?’

‘Oh yes, lots of family. I’ve got two sisters and a brother, aunties, and Eliza’s got a heap of cousins.’

‘Well, isn’t that nice. You’re very lucky, Eliza. Mister Powell and I don’t have siblings so May doesn’t have any cousins at all. Are yours coming for dinner?’ I could plainly see the table set for two.

Eliza roused herself. ‘No, everyone’s working, serving their families today.’

She held Ma’s gaze as she’d done mine. I gave Ma credit. She replied to her words, ignoring their sentiment. ‘That’s a shame! Surely they should have today off.’

‘Yes ma’am, we sure have a lot to be thankful for round here. But then how would all those families get their dinners without us? Who’d clear the tables and wash all those dishes?’ As she stood up Dora Lee grabbed her hard. Her face registered some very strong emotions.

‘Later, young lady.’ She warned her daughter quietly before letting her go and apologizing to us. If I knew Dora Lee, and by that time I did, Eliza was going to get more than a sore ear after we left. I was positively merry about the prospect.

Some disastrous compulsion to struggle pulled Ma deeper into the conversational tar pit. ‘Well, we should leave you to finish your cooking, I’m sure you have a lot to do. I know I always do, no matter how many times Duncan tells me that I’m cooking too much I just can’t stop myself, just when I think I have everything, I need a little bit more. There’s nothing worse than people going hungry! You can never really have too much after all, better too much than too little even if you can’t possibly eat it all. And boy do we try!’ I willed Ma to be quiet but she blundered on, unable to reverse her thoughtlessness. ‘Of course Thanksgiving is the time to remember those less fortunate than yourself.’

‘Yes, ma’am, that’s sure true.’

‘I mean–’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

I swallowed my glass of water as quickly as politeness allowed. Everyone was grateful when we left. I didn’t think Ma would be baking any pies to bring them for Christmas.

The streets were holiday–quiet as we drove back to our neighborhood. ‘Ma, is Eliza nice to you when she’s at our house?’

‘What do you mean
nice
’?

‘Nice. You know what nice means. Don’t avoid the question. Is she pleasant? Does she talk to you?’

‘What a question. Of course she talks to me.’