Not Without Laughter Read online

  “Put me down, ’cause I’m awake,” said Sandy.

  The old house looked queer without a porch. In the moonlight he could see the long nails that had held the porch roof to the weather-boarding. His grandmother climbed slowly over the door-sill, and his mother lifted him to the floor level as Aunt Hager lit the large oil-lamp on the parlor table. Then they went back to the bedroom, where the youngster took off his clothes, said his prayers, and climbed into the high feather bed where he slept with Annjee. Aunt Hager went to the next room, but for a long time she talked back and forth through the doorway to her daughter about the storm.

  “We was just startin’ out fo’ Mis’ Carter’s cellar, me an’ Sandy,” she said several times. “But de Lawd was with us! He held us back! Praise His name! We ain’t harmed, none of us—’ceptin’ I don’t know ’bout ma Harriett at de club. But you’s all right. An’ you say Tempy’s all right, too. An’ I prays that Harriett ain’t been touched out there in de country where she’s workin’. Maybe de storm ain’t passed that way.”

  Then they spoke about the white people where Annjee worked . . . and about the elder sister Tempy’s prosperity. Then Sandy heard his grandmother climb into bed, and a few minutes after the springs screaked under her, she had begun to snore. Annjee closed the door between their rooms and slowly began to unlace her wet shoes.

  “Sandy,” she whispered, “we ain’t had no word yet from your father since he left. I know he goes away and stays away like this and don’t write, but I’m sure worried. Hope the cyclone ain’t passed nowhere near wherever he is, and I hope ain’t nothin’ hurt him. . . . I’m gonna pray for him, Sandy. I’m gonna ask God right now to take care o’ Jimboy. . . . The Lawd knows, I wants him to come back! . . . I loves him. . . . We both loves him, don’t we, child? And we want him to come on back!”

  She knelt down beside the bed in her night-dress and kept her head bowed for a long time. Before she got up, Sandy had gone to sleep

  TWO

  Conversation

  * * *

  IT WAS broad daylight in the town of Stanton and had been for a long time.

  “Get out o’ that bed, boy!” Aunt Hager yelled. “Here’s Buster waitin’ out in de yard to play with you, an’ you still sleepin’!”

  “Aw, tell him to cut off his curls,” retorted Sandy, but his grandmother was in no mood for fooling.

  “Stop talkin’ ’bout that chile’s haid and put yo’ clothes on. Nine o’clock an’ you ain’t up yet! Shame on you!” She shouted from the kitchen, where Sandy could hear the fire crackling and smell coffee boiling.

  He kicked the sheet off with his bare feet and rolled over and over on the soft feather tick. There was plenty of room to roll now, because his mother had long since got up and gone to Mrs. J. J. Rice’s to work.

  “Tell Bus I’m coming,” Sandy yelled, jumping into his trousers and running with bare feet towards the door. “Is he got his marbles?”

  “Come back here, sir, an’ put them shoes on,” cried Hager, stopping him on his way out. “Yo’ feet’ll get long as yard-sticks and flat as pancakes runnin’ round barefooted all de time. An’ wash yo’ face, sir. Buster ain’t got a thing to do but wait. An’ eat yo’ breakfast.”

  The air was warm with sunlight, and hundreds of purple and white morning-glories laughed on the back fence. Earth and sky were fresh and clean after the heavy night-rain, and the young corn-shoots stood straight in the garden, and green pea-vines wound themselves around their crooked sticks. There was the mingled scent of wet soil and golden pollen on the breeze that blew carelessly through the clear air.

  Buster sat under the green apple-tree with a pile of black mud from the alley in front of him.

  “Hey, Sandy, gonna make marbles and put ’em in the sun to dry,” he said.

  “All right,” agreed Sandy, and they began to roll mud balls in the palms of their hands. But instead of putting them in the sun to dry they threw them against the back of the house, where they flattened and stuck beautifully. Then they began to throw them at each other.

  Sandy’s playmate was a small ivory-white Negro child with straight golden hair, which his mother made him wear in curls. His eyes were blue and doll-like and he in no way resembled a colored youngster; but he was colored. Sandy himself was the shade of a nicely browned piece of toast, with dark, brown-black eyes and a head of rather kinky, sandy hair that would lie smooth only after a rigorous application of vaseline and water. That was why folks called him Annjee’s sandy-headed child, and then just—Sandy.

  “He takes after his father,” Sister Lowry said, “’cept he’s not so light. But he’s gonna be a mighty good-lookin’ boy when he grows up, that’s sho!”

  “Well, I hopes he does,” Aunt Hager said. “But I’d rather he’d be ugly ’fore he turns out anything like that good-for-nothing Jimboy what comes here an’ stays a month, goes away an’ stays six, an’ don’t hit a tap o’ work ’cept when he feels like it. If it wasn’t for Annjee, don’t know how we’d eat, ’cause Sandy’s father sho don’t do nothin’ to support him.”

  All the colored people in Stanton knew that Hager bore no love for Jimboy Rodgers, the tall good-looking yellow fellow whom her second daughter had married.

  “First place, I don’t like his name,” she would say in private. “Who ever heard of a nigger named Jimboy, anyhow? Next place, I ain’t never seen a yaller dude yet that meant a dark woman no good—an’ Annjee is dark!” Aunt Hager had other objections, too, although she didn’t like to talk evil about folks. But what she probably referred to in her mind was the question of his ancestry, for nobody knew who Jimboy’s parents were.

  “Sandy, look out for the house while I run down an’ see how is Mis’ Gavitt’s niece. An’ you-all play outdoors. Don’t bring no chillen in, litterin’ up de place.” About eleven o’clock Aunt Hager pulled a dustcap over her head and put on a clean white apron. “Here, tie it for me, chile,” she said, turning her broad back. “An’ mind you don’t hurt yo’self on no rusty nails and rotten boards left from de storm. I’ll be back atter while.” And she disappeared around the house, walking proudly, her black face shining in the sunlight.

  Presently the two boys under the apple-tree were joined by a coal-colored little girl who lived next door, one Willie-Mae Johnson, and the mud balls under her hands became mud pies carefully rounded and patted and placed in the sun on the small box where the little chickens lived. Willie-Mae was the mama, Sandy the papa, and Buster the baby as the old game of “playing house” began anew.

  By and by the mail-man’s whistle blew and the three children scampered towards the sidewalk to meet him. The carrier handed Sandy a letter. “Take it in the house,” he said. But instead the youngsters sat on the front-door-sill, their feet dangling where the porch had been, and began to examine the envelope.

  “I bet that’s Lincoln’s picture,” said Buster.

  “No, ’taint,” declared Willie-Mae. “It’s Rossiefelt!”

  “Aw, it’s Washington,” said Sandy. “And don’t you-all touch my mama’s letter with your hands all muddy. It might be from my papa, you can’t tell, and she wants it kept clean.”

  “ ’Tis from Jimboy,” Aunt Hager declared when she returned, accompanied by her old friend, Sister Whiteside, who peddled on foot fresh garden-truck she raised herself. Aunt Hager had met her at the corner.

  “I knows his writin’,” went on Hager. “An’ it’s got a postmark, K-A-N-, Kansas City! That’s what ’tis! Niggers sho do love Kansas City! . . . Huh! . . . So that’s where he’s at. Well, yo’ mama’ll be glad to get it. If she knowed it was here, she’d quit work an’ come home now. . . . Sit down, Whiteside. We gwine eat in a few minutes. You better have a bite with us an’ stay an’ rest yo’self awhile, ’cause I knows you been walkin’ this mawnin’!”

  “ ’Deed I is,” the old sister declared, dropping her basket of lettuce and peas on the floor and taking a chair next to the table in the kitchen. “An’ I ain’t sold much neither. Seem
s like folks ain’t got no buyin’ appetite after all that storm an’ wind last night—but de Lawd will provide! I ain’t worried.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Hager. “Might o’ been me blowed away maself, ’stead o’ just ma porch, if Jesus hadn’t been with us. . . . You Sandy! Make haste and wash yo’ hands, sir. Rest o’ you chillens go on home, ’cause I know yo’ ma’s lookin’ for you. . . . Huh! This wood fire’s mighty low!”

  Hager uncovered a pot that had been simmering on the stove all morning and dished up a great bowlful of black-eyed peas and salt pork. There was biscuit bread left from breakfast. A plate of young onions and a pitcher of lemonade stood on the white oilcloth-covered table. Heads were automatically bowed.

  “Lawd, make us thankful for this food. For Christ’s sake, amen,” said Hager; then the two old women and the child began to eat.

  “That’s Elvira’s boy, ain’t it—that yaller-headed young-one was here playin’ with Sandy?” Sister Whiteside had her mouth full of onions and beans as she asked the question.

  “Shsss! . . . That’s her child!” said Hager. “But it ain’t Ed­die’s!” She gave her guest a meaning glance across the table, then lowered her voice, pretending all the while that Sandy’s ears were too young to hear. “They say she had that chile ’fore she married Eddie. An’ black as Eddie is, you knows an’ I knows ain’t due to be no golden hair in de family!”

  “I knowed there must be something funny,” whispered the old sister, screwing up her face. “That’s some white man’s chile!”

  “Sho it is!” agreed Hager. . . . “I knowed it all de time. . . . Have some mo’ meat, Whiteside. Help yo’self! We ain’t got much, but such as ’tis, you’re welcome. . . . Yes, sir, Buster’s some white man’s chile. . . . Stop reachin’ cross de table for bread, Sandy. Where’s yo’ manners, sir? I declare, chillens do try you sometimes. . . . Pass me de onions.”

  “Truth, they tries you, yit I gits right lonesome since all ma young-ones is gone.” Sister Whiteside worked her few good teeth vigorously, took a long swallow of lemonade, and smacked her lips. “Chillen an’ grandchillen all in Chicago an’ St. Louis an’ Wichita, an’ nary chick nor child left with me in de house. . . . Pass me de bread, thank yuh. . . . I feels kinder sad an’ sorry at times, po’ widder-woman that I is. I has ma garden an’ ma hens, but all ma chillens done grown and married. . . . Where’s yo’ daughter Harriett at now, Hager? Is she married, too? I ain’t seen her lately.”

  Hager pulled a meat skin through her teeth; then she answered: “No, chile, she too young to marry yet! Ain’t but sixteen, but she’s been workin out this summer, waitin’ table at de Stanton County Country Club. Been in de country three weeks now, since school closed, but she comes in town on Thursdays, though. It’s nigh six miles from here, so de women-help sleeps there at night. I’s glad she’s out there, Sister. Course Harriett’s a good girl, but she likes to be frisky—wants to run de streets ’tendin’ parties an’ dances, an’ I can’t do much with her no mo’, though I hates to say it.”

  “But she’s a songster, Hager! An’ I hears she’s sho one smart chile, besides. They say she’s up with them white folks when it comes to books. An’ de high school where she’s goin’ ain’t easy. . . . All ma young ones quit ’fore they got through with it—wouldn’t go—ruther have a good time runnin’ to Kansas City an’ galavantin’ round.”

  “De Lawd knows it’s a hard job, keepin’ colored chillens in school, Sister Whiteside, a mighty hard job. De niggers don’t help ’em, an’ de white folks don’t care if they stay or not. An’ when they gets along sixteen an’ seventeen, they wants this, an’ they wants that, an’ t’other—an’ when you ain’t got it to give to ’em, they quits school an’ goes to work. . . . Harriett say she ain’t goin’ back next fall. I feels right hurt over it, but she ’clares she ain’t goin’ back to school. Says there ain’t no use in learnin’ books fo’ nothin’ but to work in white folks’ kitchens when she’s graduated.”

  “Do she, Hager? I’s sho sorry! I’s gwine to talk to that gal. Get Reverend Berry to talk to her, too. . . . You’s struggled to bring up yo’ chillens, an’ all we Christians in de church ought to help you! I gwine see Reverend Berry, see can’t he ’suade her to stay in school.” The old woman reached for the onions. “But you ain’t never raised no boys, though, has you, Hagar?”

  “No, I ain’t. My two boy-chillens both died ’fore they was ten. Just these three girls—Tempy, an’ Annjee, an’ Harriett—that’s all I got. An’ this here grandchile, Sandy. . . . Take yo’ hands off that meat, sir! You had ’nough!”

  “Lawd, you’s been lucky! I done raised seven grandchillen ’sides eight o’ ma own. An’ they don’t thank me. No, sir! Go off and kick up they heels an’ git married an’ don’t thank me a bit! Don’t even write, some of ’em. . . . Waitin’ fo’ me to die, I reckon, so’s they can squabble over de little house I owns an’ ma garden.” The old visitor pushed back her chair. “Huh! Yo’ dinner was sho good! . . . Waitin’ fo’ me to die.”

  “Unhuh! . . . That’s de way with ’em, Sister Whiteside. Chillens don’t care—but I reckon we old ones can’t kick much. They’s got to get off fo’ themselves. It’s natural, that’s what ’tis. Now, my Tempy, she’s married and doin’ well. Got a fine house, an’ her husband’s a mail-clerk in de civil service makin’ good money. They don’t ’sociate no mo’ with none but de high-toned colored folks, like Dr. Mitchell, an’ Mis’ Ada Walls, an’ Madam C. Frances Smith. Course Tempy don’t come to see me much ’cause I still earns ma livin’ with ma arms in de tub. But Annjee run in their house out o’ the storm last night an’ she say Tempy’s just bought a new pianer, an’ de house looks fine. . . . I’s glad fo’ de chile.”

  “Sho, sho you is, Sister Williams, you’s a good mother an’ I knows you’s glad. But I hears from Reverend Berry that Tempy’s done withdrawed from our church an’ joined de Episcopals!”

  “That’s right! She is. Last time I seed Tempy, she told me she couldn’t stand de Baptist no mo’—too many low niggers belonging, she say, so she’s gonna join Father Hill’s church, where de best people go. . . . I told her I didn’t think much o’ joinin’ a church so far away from God that they didn’t want nothin’ but yaller niggers for members, an’ so full o’ forms an’ fashions that a good Christian couldn’t shout—but she went on an’ joined. It’s de stylish temple, that’s why, so I ain’t said no mo’. Tempy’s goin’ on thirty-five now, she’s ma oldest chile, an’ I reckon she knows how she wants to act.”

  “Yes, I reckon she do. . . . But there ain’t no church like de Baptist, praise God! Is there, Sister? If you ain’t been dipped in that water an’ half drowned, you ain’t saved. Tempy don’t know like we do. No, sir, she don’t know!”

  There was no fruit or dessert, and the soiled plates were not removed from the table for a long time, for the two old women, talking about their children, had forgotten the dishes. Young flies crawled over the biscuit bread and hummed above the bowl of peas, while the wood fire died in the stove, and Sandy went out into the sunshine to play.

  “Now, ma girl, Maggie,” said Sister Whiteside; “de man she married done got to be a big lawyer in St. Louis. He’s in de politics there, an’ Maggie’s got a fine job herself—social servin’, they calls it. But I don’t hear from her once a year. An’ she don’t send me a dime. Ma boys looks out for me, though, sometimes, round Christmas. There’s Lucius, what runs on de railroad, an’ then Andrew, what rides de horses, an’ John, in Omaha, sends me a little change now an’ then—all but Charlie, an’ he never was thoughtful ’bout his mother. He ain’t never sent me nothin’.”

  “Well, you sho is lucky,” said Hager; “’cause they ain’t no money comes in this house, Christmas nor no other time, less’n me an’ Annjee brings it here. Jimboy ain’t no good, an’ what Harriett makes goes for clothes and parties an’ powderin’-rags. Course, I takes some from her every week, but I gives it right back for her school things. An’ I ain’t take
n nothin’ from her these three weeks she’s been workin’ at de club. She say she’s savin’ her money herself. She’s past sixteen now, so I lets her have it. . . . Po’ little thing! . . . She does need to look purty.” Hager’s voice softened and her dark old face was half abashed, kind and smiling. “You know, last month I bought her a gold watch—surprise fo’ her birthday, de kind you hangs on a little pin on yo’ waist. Lawd knows, I couldn’t ’ford it—took all de money from three week’s o’ washin’, but I knowed she’d been wantin’ a watch. An’ this front room—I moved ma bed out last year an’ bought that new rug at de second-hand store an’ them lace curtains so’s she could have a nice place to entertain her comp’ny. . . . But de chile goes with such a kinder wild crowd o’ young folks, Sister Whiteside! It worries me! The boys, they cusses, an’ the girls, they paints, an’ some of ’em live in de Bottoms. I been tried to get her out of it right along, but seems like I can’t. That’s why I’s glad she’s in de country fo’ de summer an’ comes in but only once a week, an’ then she’s home with me. It’s too far to come in town at night, she say, so she gets her rest now, goin’ to bed early an’ all, with de country air round her. I hopes she calms down from runnin’ round when she comes back here to stay in de fall. . . . She’s a good chile. She don’t lie to me ’bout where she goes, nor nothin’ like that, but she’s just wild, that’s all, just wild.”

  “Is she a Christian, Sister Williams?”

  “No, she ain’t. I’s sorry to say it of a chile o’ mine, but she ain’t. She’s been on de moaner’s bench time after time, Sunday mawnins’ an’ prayer-meetin’ evenin’s, but she never would rise. I prays for her.”

  “Well, when she takes Jesus, she’ll see de light! That’s what de matter with her, Sister Williams, she ain’t felt Him yit. Make her go to church when she comes back here. . . . I reckon you heard ’bout when de big revival’s due to come off this year, ain’t you?”