Third Girl from the Left (17 page)

“Well, you know how she is. Just got to do what she want to do. She been like that ever since she was born,” said Johnny Lee.

“I know. I just hate to see her come into church all dusty.”

“Well, the Lord won't mind. Maybe you could let it go too.” He looked at her, steadylike. Mildred didn't know what to say and they were just about at the church anyway. So she didn't say anything.

Pastor Tyson was in fine form that day. Mildred let his voice roll over her like a river. What she liked best about church was the chance to sing. She poured everything in her into each hymn, letting the words buoy her up. She didn't have a particularly good voice. But she loved to sing. Just like her mother had.

After church, folks stood in little knots talking, heads inclining toward one another and then away. The children pelted around, happy to be free in the warm spring air. The women's voices were like music.

“Pastor Tyson surely preached the word today, didn't he?”

“He sure did. Lifted me right up”

“Well, it's some folks around here could use some lifting. You hear about that old Della down off of Archer?”

“What about her?”

“She ain't fed them kids in more than a week. City come in and took 'em away. They puttin' 'em all with different families.”

“Mm-mm-mm. Some folks just don't know how to do.”

Mildred cut in. “Well, you know she ain't got no man to help her and what's she got . . . six kids?” She ventured a little laugh. “Seem like you might just forget to feed 'em sometime.” Shocked looks. “Oh, not really, I know you got to feed your children, but you know them kids must have just run her 'bout out her mind. Kids can be more than a notion. Y'all know that.”

The sisters looked at her, no rueful smiles of acknowledgment on their faces. Then Constance, the most upright of them, spoke. “Children are the Lord's blessings.”

Mildred felt chastised. “I know . . . but sometimes I just get so tired. You know. Don't you? I ain't saying Della was right but—”

“Well, Millie, you got to just take it to the Lord, then. Lean on His arm. Just like Della should have done. He don't never give us more than we can bear. And folks around here would have helped out.”

Mildred sighed. “I know that's right, sister.” Johnny Lee came up to her, nodded to the ladies, and said, “Millie, I'ma run over to A.J.'s and take a look at this old heap of his. He need some help getting it running. You be all right, huh?” He kissed her on the cheek and walked off. She took her leave of the ladies, wishing for the thousandth time that she had one true friend among them. She took Angela's hand, called to Otis and Jolene, and headed home. Angela was fretful on the walk home. She was angry at having had to leave off playing with her friends and she cried, her voice piercing and sullen, for the whole long walk. Her feet scuffed up little clouds of dust. Otis followed a few feet behind, talking quietly to himself, and Jolene walked along, for all the world looking like a smaller version of the righteous Sister Constance. Mildred didn't speak to any of them. She didn't let go of Angie's hand but nearly dragged her along. Her own eyes stung, but her pace didn't slacken. There was still Sunday supper to get, some mending to do, quiet Sunday chores. Her head was pounding. Once inside, she helped the children change out of their meeting clothes and told all three of them to get on outside. Once they were gone, she sat stiffly on the edge of the bed she shared with Johnny Lee, her legs pressed tightly together. Then, suddenly, as though slapped by a giant hand, she was howling, crying, hysterical. A wind tore through her heart. The only words in her head were
I can't bear it, I can't bear it, I never should have had these children. Never should have married this man. I can't be nobody's mama
. She sobbed and moaned and gasped like that for a long time, the happy shouts of her son and daughters floating in through the window. But outside, no one heard her cries. When she was done sobbing, there was still Sunday supper to get. And she was still alone.

 

She noticed him first the following Saturday under the triangular awning of the Dreamland. She'd heard that there was a new projectionist down there. Eddie Jones, who had been the one to shut off the film the night of the burning and tell folks they better head on out, had died after many long years in that small room in the dark. Especially after the riot, he kept to himself. No one ever hardly saw him in the daylight. But this new man stood outside, leaning against the front of the theater, long legs braced to prop him up, his face turned up to the sun as folks filed into the theater. He held a cigarette in one slim hand. He happened to lower his head and open his eyes just as Mildred, Otis, Jolene, and Angie walked up to the theater.

The old Dreamland had not survived the burning, but the new one was built in 1929. People still came, as regular as rain, but just walking across the threshold was no longer a magnificent experience. In the old Dreamland lobby, the carpet hushed beneath your feet, the chandelier sparkled overhead, there was never a crumb on the floor or the smell of oil anywhere. Now there were fluorescent lights and a glass candy case that marred the open, generous space, and the replacement carpet wasn't replaced often enough. Though it was vacuumed regularly, it held onto just the least little bit of the grit from people's shoes and the kernels of dropped popcorn. Just enough to make it begin to feel run-down. But they still had the pictures. There were different stars now, different stories, but they were still such a joy to Mildred, her salvation. She went every weekend with the children—Johnny Lee had little interest, though he went once in a very great while. Paid their money and sat in the warmly gathered dark, looking at Bette Davis and Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant and Marlon Brando and John Wayne and Judy Garland. Always white people. Sometimes there was Lena Horne, smoothed against a pole, her face bearing no traces of pain. And there was Dandridge. But mostly these beautiful others. The children knew to be quiet during the pictures. They grew to like these times. Their mother seemed content at last.

It was right that she met William at the Dreamland. It was there that good things in her life happened. He tipped his hat ever so slightly as she guided the children in. His skin was a warm, dark brown. His cheekbones so smooth and angled that it looked as though he spent time in the morning polishing them. His eyes were like no man's she'd ever seen; they were true, true black and so kind. In that minute between them, she had the oddest feeling that he was seeing something about her that no one else had ever seen. He looked at her face for a long moment and then smiled. He did not look at the children, the way most people did. Nor did he say anything about their goodness or beauty. He just looked at her. Mildred swore she heard her heart beat, just once, in her chest. She nodded and led her children into the picture show. Katharine Hepburn today. Her favorite.

 

Not long after this, she was out hanging wash on a Monday. The children were at school. The sun was out and the air was quiet. Something calm had been in her since early that morning. Her hair had been braided up under a scarf, but it had gotten so hot that she took it off and now her hair slowly came unraveled. She shoved rumply wisps out of her eyes as she hung the heavy, damp sheets and overalls. She was singing quietly to herself—“His eye is on the sparrow”—and not thinking anything in particular. All of a sudden, a man's voice, a sweet tenor, joined hers, causing her to start and drop the sheet she'd been trying to hang. A short shriek escaped her: “Who is that?” She bent to pick up the sheet and found herself looking up into the black eyes that had studied her so just the other day. He was smiling, looking right at her.

“Sorry, Miz Edwards, it's only me, William. William Henderson from down to the Dreamland. You sounded so lovely I just had to join in.”

“Well, you scared me 'bout half to death.” He looked at her so intently that she suddenly felt very aware of her hair all awry, the wet sheet heavy in her hands where she'd gathered it up. “What you doing out here anyway?”

“On my way to work. Here, let me help you with that.” He hopped the fence in one nimble movement and took one end of the sheet from her. She'd never seen a man touch a piece of laundry in her entire life. He took some clothespins from her and said, “Well, go on. You do your end.” She did, then picked up her scarf, lying forgotten on the ground, and tied it back over her hair as quick as she could. “Thank you. I . . . thanks.”

“Happy to do it, ma'am.” He stood, looking at her, until she felt she had to speak.

“Can I offer you some lemonade or something, Mr. Henderson?”

“I'd greatly admire that. You know what else?”

“What?” she said.

“I think we're gonna be friends. So I think it might be all right if we were on a first-name basis. That is, if it's all right with you . . . , Mildred.” His eyes never left her while he said this last. Mildred's face grew hot as she said, “I think that would be all right . . . , William.” This man hadn't even lived in town a month, come from somewhere back east. New York City, folks said. And here he was talking to her like this. How'd he even know her name? Must have been asking folks. So fresh. Anybody would have said he was being fresh. Why didn't she mind?

“Good. Then where's that lemonade?” He followed her up to the house as she went and got it but waited outside politely as she brought him a glass, then went back in to get one for herself. He was already drinking by the time she came out, one foot resting on the front step. She stood behind the screen door, watching the muscles in his throat. When he finished, he looked straight at her and said, “Whyn't I help you finish up all this wash and you come on down to the Dreamland with me? I gotta open up.” His voice as soft as baby's hair after a bath. What could she say? The kids were all gone to school, the house straight, Johnny Lee down to the drugstore on the other side of town. She opened the door. “You really want to help me finish up?” she said.

“If you'll accompany me down to the theater, I will. I expect you'd like to see the projection room.”

How did he know that? She had never been in a projection room, but she'd always wondered what made the films glow in front of her. Sometimes, if it wasn't such a good movie, she'd turn her head a couple of times to look at the square of light that the image emanated from and try to figure out what was up there. What made everything happen? When she was little, before her mama died, she was always trying to take stuff apart to figure out how it worked. Her mama told her it wasn't ladylike. And then her mama was gone and there wasn't anyone to stop her. But by that time she couldn't get herself to care. What was the point of trying to understand? None of this went through her head at his words. She just knew a wild willingness was on her. “Well, let's finish up, then. I believe I will join you,” she said, sliding a hank of hair back into place under the scarf. There were no questions in her mind. Every proper thing she'd ever been told, every proper thing she'd ever done, seemed to have utterly left her.

They finished the laundry together, William keeping up a steady stream of chatter, asking her what her favorite pictures were and who were her favorite actors and actresses. He had opinions about just about every movie actor there was. His favorite was Errol Flynn—though he confessed to great affection for Harry Belafonte too, which made Mildred squeal a little and confess her
Carmen Jones
-going, something she'd never told anyone else. He smiled at her gently. He worked with a cheerful will Mildred had never seen in a man, asking her for clothespins and moving swiftly around the clothesline just the way a girlfriend might have if she'd had a girlfriend to speak of. When they were finished, he said, “Let's go,” and they went out the gate—he let her go first—and walked down the dusty road to town. Mildred found herself questioning nothing, just going along to see what would happen. “So, Mildred,” he said, “I've been talking a lot and you've barely said a word. What are you thinking, Miz Edwards?”

“I'm thinking I've never met anyone from New York before. What's it like there?”

William's eyes clouded over. “Tall. The tallest place you ever did see. With people rushing all around wherever you go. Did you ever see
His Girl Friday
?” Mildred nodded. “People talk like that. Just that fast. Even the colored folks.”

Mildred was shocked. As much as she liked Cary Grant, she'd had trouble following that movie, the language spilled by at such a speed. “Really?” she said. “I didn't think folks could talk that fast. Not real folks. Ain't that something.” She paused. “We must seem kinda country to you then, huh?”

William laughed. “Country? Hell, yeah.”

Mildred blushed. She'd never been walking alone with a man who swore before. She kind of liked the way he dragged out the ll's.

“Oh, pardon my language, Mildred. But, yeah, it seems country to me here. But my mama and daddy left me a little bit of a place. They come here in 1930, didn't socialize too much with other folks. They liked to stay off by themselves. Anyway . . . it was time I left New York.”

“Why?”

He looked up at the sky briefly. “Did you ever see a blue like that before? Like being under a teacup. Couldn't never see a sky like that back east. I come to miss that after a while.”

Mildred looked up at the cobalt bowl over their heads, then back at William. “Yeah,” she said, her feet slowing into an easy lope. “I could see how you would miss that. But is that the only reason?”

“Well, that and a broken heart,” he said.

Mildred drew in her breath.

“Oh, don't look like that, Mildred. It's a few broken hearts in Tulsa, I bet. Gotta go a long way to get away from that. One way or the other. I need to see what I need to see every day. A sky like this. Don't nobody understand that here. But that's OK. I'm paying my bills. The rest will take care of itself in time.” He drew a deep breath. “Hard to find that kind of time back in Harlem. That's the one thing it's very hard to find enough of.” He leaned to the side of the road and pulled up a long blade of grass. Stuck it between his teeth. “I like to see a sky like this. A pretty ol' gal walking with me.”