The Red Rose Box Read online

  Something told me that we were going to go anyway, no matter what Daddy had to say.

  Mama’s name was Marguerita Ann Hopper but everyone called her Rita. Today Rita Hopper looked happy. She smiled and her dark brown eyes danced around the room.

  Three

  Mama waved a horsefly away from her face and got up to finish my birthday supper. Ruth and I went outside and sat on the porch swing. We pushed it back and forth, back and forth, the rusty gears keeping time like a choir of crickets.

  I told Ruth, “Los Angeles is the most prettiest place on earth and I don’t think Mama’s gonna take my box from me.”

  “She might take away the lipstick and the nail paint,” Ruth replied.

  We were still talking and swinging, swinging and talking when Elijah drove up again. This time he parked his truck in the dirt, got out, took his dusty derby off, and acted like he was going to stay awhile.

  He sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you ...”

  Gramma came out on the porch and Elijah stopped singing. He was ashamed because he couldn’t sing a lick. He went over to Gramma, kissed her on the mouth once, twice, and then Ruth and I were ashamed. Elijah was the only man she’d let come around since her husband, our grandaddy, died, curled up next to her, one Sunday morning just before I was born. She always said that I’d come to take his place, another kind, tender soul.

  Elijah and Gramma went inside and I knew that he was in Mama’s pots because she ran him out of the kitchen. He came back outside and sat down on the porch step.

  That’s when I told him, “We’s goin to Los Angeles and you gonna have to carry us to New Orleans in your truck.”

  He paused, the way folks do before they ask a question they’re not sure they should be asking, and said, “What was in the box?”

  We were just about to tell him when we saw Miss Lutherine and Sister Goodnight walking up the dusty path to our front door, arm in arm.

  Sister Goodnight was yellow, plump, pretty. The postman said her real name was Roberta but everyone called her Sister. She wore store-bought clothes, leather shoes, silk stockings with seams, gloves most days, a straw hat in the summertime. She was from New Orleans, where she used to work with some of the other high tones, Creoles, and pretty brown girls, spending time with sailors who had money to spend. Gramma said that was how Sister Goodnight came to have the finest colored house in Sulphur, Louisiana. Gramma called Sister Goodnight a harlot.

  I didn’t know what a harlot was but one day after school when no one was around, I had asked my teacher, Mrs. Redcotton. She had looked at me in a funny way and replied, “It’s not a nice thing to say about a lady.”

  Elijah always said that Sister Goodnight was still a pretty woman whether it was true or not.

  Miss Lutherine was blue black with a wide behind. She was too tall with bowed legs that made her look like she rode horses. Her nose was wide, her eyes big, her fingers too long. Elijah said God must have been on his day off the day Miss Lutherine came to be.

  Miss Lutherine smiled. The sun found her and her gold tooth gleamed. She said, “Happy birthday, Leah Jean Hopper,” and she and Sister Goodnight kissed me on the cheek. Feather kisses.

  Elijah went into the house to get a chair for Sister Goodnight and I heard Gramma ask, “Why you always dotin on that ole dried-up harlot?”

  Ruth must have heard too because she asked Miss Lutherine, “Whatsa harlot?”

  Miss Lutherine sneezed and the porch shook.

  Sister Goodnight wasn’t ashamed. She sat down when Elijah brought her the chair and she asked him for a shot of gin. Sister Goodnight knew that Mama didn’t keep the devil’s brew in her cupboards but she smiled at Elijah and sucked her teeth. Elijah smiled back and went to fetch her a glass of lemonade.

  Ruth left the swing and told Sister Goodnight, “You gonna havta let us use your travlin bags cuz we bout to go to Los Angeles, near Hollywood, for the Fourth of July.”

  Sister Goodnight replied, “You little lyin skunk.”

  I spoke up. “Ruth ain’t no lyin skunk. I am proud to say that we’s goin to Los Angeles to see our aunt Olivia.”

  Sister Goodnight took a sip of lemonade, looked into the setting sun, and said, “Olivia used to dance half naked at the Cotton Club.”

  Miss Lutherine sneezed again.

  I looked straight into Sister Goodnight’s hazel eyes and said, “Least she wasn’t no harlot.”

  Silence came over us like the smell of chitlins cooking.

  Ruth waited for about ten minutes and quietly asked her if we could still use her traveling bags and Sister Goodnight, after letting my words roll off her back, said yes.

  We ate supper quietly, the way hungry people do.

  “You sure know how to clean a chicken bone, Leah Jean,” Miss Lutherine said.

  I whispered, “I was hungry cuz I didn’t have no lunch,” and excused myself from the table. Ruth excused herself and we waited near the open kitchen window while they talked. The hot, heavy, humid air covered us.

  “I wish Daddy was here,” I whispered to Ruth.

  “Me too,” Ruth replied.

  I knew that if Daddy were here, everyone around that table would be laughing and smiling while he told his tall tales. Daddy would have on a wide grin and talk about how one day he was going to have a big house and a fine car. Mama would shake her head and call him a dreamer. Gramma would tell her to let a man have his dreams because sometimes that was all a colored man had that he could call his own. Daddy’s eyes would start to water and Elijah would ask him to tell another tall tale. Daddy would pick up his pipe, light it, and take a few puffs. Then he would tell us about the time he caught a rattlesnake and had it for his supper. I missed my daddy, tall and brown.

  The table was cleared and Mama put my cake on the table. Ten candles lit the darkened room. Before I blew them out, I made a wish. I wished that I wouldn’t spend all of my life in Sulphur. Then I thought and made the same wish for Ruth. I wanted to send Mama a postcard from Paris once, maybe twice. I suppose I was like Daddy, a dreamer. My breath caught all ten candles and they lost their little flames.

  Mama cut the cake and I ate two pieces. Ruth ate three because she had a sweet tooth. Miss Lutherine and Sister Goodnight found their way home and we were sent to bed. We kissed Elijah and Gramma, hugged Mama, went into our room, and closed the door.

  While we were getting undressed, I told Ruth, “I’m gonna be a teacher, like Mrs. Redcotton.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes and replied, “You’s just like Daddy, Leah ... silly. Get the key to the red rose box and put on the hundred percent silk bed jacket.”

  “No,” I told her. “I’m savin it for Hollywood.” I kept talking. “One day I’m gonna send you a postcard from Paris, France.”

  Ruth said, “I’m gonna be in Paris, France, with you,” and we laughed until our sounds made their way under the door and Mama told us to stop all that noise and turn off the light. I checked under the birthday card to make sure the key was still there, turned off the light, and climbed into the top of the bed. Ruth slept at the bottom and she started wiggling as usual, kicking me with her feet.

  I told her, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna throw you off the train and you ain’t never gonna see Los Angeles.” Then she stopped or fell asleep. I can’t be sure which.

  Four

  Early the next morning, Elijah drove Mama to Lake Charles to buy a few things for the trip and Gramma sat down in our kitchen. She sipped ice water and the sun lit half her face.

  I was braiding Ruth’s hair into seven braids instead of two.

  Gramma told me, “Take all them braids out. Y’all ain’t no pickaninnies.”

  “Mrs. Redcotton says that ain’t is not a real word,” I said.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Redcotton knows what she’s talkin bout,” she replied.

  Ruth asked her, “What’s a pickaninny?”

  “Gals with more than three nappy braids on their head. More than three nappy braids, th
at’s a pickaninny.”

  I told her, “Emma Snow got good hair. Her hair don’t even need no pressin comb. She still got five or six braids, sometimes seven or eight.”

  Gramma crossed her legs, took another sip of water, and said, “Still a pickaninny.”

  “Oh,” I replied.

  Ruth turned and the comb fell from my hand. She looked into Gramma’s eyes and asked, “Why Mama been so mad at her?”

  Gramma put down her glass. “Mad at who?”

  “Olivia. Mama been so mad and the letter didn’t say nuthin but ‘I am very sorry.’ ”

  Gramma stirred the water with her finger. Pieces of ice bumped one another, small icebergs in a small ocean. “What y’all doin readin your mama’s mail?”

  “We was curious,” I replied.

  Ruth added, “And nosy, too nosy not to. It was peekin outta her apron pocket.”

  Gramma stood, walked over to the window, pulled the curtains closed like she was trying to keep her words inside, and said, “Bout a man, a winkin man, a smooth man with a smooth voice and a smooth walk like a snake. Rita was lookin after his half-blind mama and I suppose she started longin for him, but when he met Olivia ... one look was all they needed. Him and Olivia went north on the train, never looked back. Two sisters in love with the same smooth man. Not a bad man, just a ladies’ man. Kinda man don’t b‘long to no one for too long. Got Olivia to New York, took her to Paris, where he left her. Olivia and Rita ain’t spoke since. Rita been bitter. Spose she never forgot the smooth man. Boon was his name, part Creole, part not. Some men make a life outta stealin hearts.... Olivia said she dun her a favor. Said she wasn’t gonna say she was sorry for doin someone a favor. Spose I could understand that. Twelve years ... took Olivia twelve years to say those words Rita been waitin on. ‘I’m sorry.’ Twelve years is a long time.” She pulled back the curtains and the room filled with light.

  Ruth and I didn’t say anything.

  We went outside and got the washtub and washboard, filled the tub with water and borax, and washed Miss Lilly’s clothes like we always did on Saturdays. We rinsed the clothes, hung them to dry, and smiled at each other.

  We knew that no man like Boon would ever come between us.

  Time blew by and dried the clothes. The day was lazy, hot, sticky summertime and the willows moved with the wind.

  “Why cain’t Miss Lilly do her own work?” Ruth asked as she walked through the maze of hanging clothes.

  “Cuz she got enuf money to pay someone else to do it,” I replied.

  “I thought it was cuz she’s afraid the white might wash off,” Ruth said with the devil’s grin.

  I said, “White don’t wash off, black neither.”

  Ruth laughed.

  We had just finished folding the clothes that had been warmed by the sun when Mama and Elijah returned, their arms full. We followed them inside. Mama had bought more dress-making material than I had ever seen in our house and ten new pair of underpants, five for Ruth, five for me.

  Mama said, “Throw away all them raggity drawers.” She told us we would have to wash our underpants every evening and gave us each a bar of Ivory soap.

  Then she gave us each a pair of brand-new black patent leather shoes. She said she bought them big so our feet would have room to grow and stuffed cotton in the toes so they wouldn’t slip off our feet. We put them under our bed so we could look at them morning and evening, just to make certain we weren’t dreaming.

  Then Mama reminded us, “Miss Lilly gonna be spectin her clothes b‘fore sundown. Y’all run along.”

  We replied, one after the other, like two talking birds, “Yes ma‘am ... Yes ma’am,” and made our way barefoot over the dirt path that always helped us find Miss Lilly’s back door.

  Every morning, from Monday to Friday, Mama worked for Miss Lilly. She ironed her clothes, waxed her furniture, shined her silver, and made her supper.

  “How old Miss Lilly is?” Ruth asked, letting her side of the clothes basket nearly touch the ground.

  “Old as dirt, Gramma says.”

  “Why she gotta big house and no childrens?”

  “I dunno,” I told her. “God gives childrens to some, not to others. God knows why, we don’t.”

  I looked up at the darkening sky. A star fell into the dusky blue and staked its claim.

  We walked up Miss Lilly’s seven steps quietly, like ghosts, and put the clothes basket down. I knocked three times and waited. Miss Lilly opened the door. Her thin gray hair was held in place by a black hair net. She was wearing a blue-and-white checked dress, gold earrings, pink lipstick, and all of her real teeth. She counted the sheets and pillowcases and said, “Now, let me see where I put my change purse.” She left the door wide open and we peered into her kitchen. It was as clean as Miss Lutherine’s chitlins and I looked at the cookie jar, wondering what was in it. Miss Lilly limped toward us with her butter-colored change purse in hand. She picked up one dime with her wrinkled white hand, then another, and placed them in the palms of our waiting hands.

  We said, “Thank you, Miss Lilly,” being careful to look at her feet and not her face, and made our way down the same seven steps.

  We walked down the gritty path and came to Miss Lilly’s peach tree. The peaches were ripe, ready to be eaten, some ready to fall to the ground, and so Ruth relieved the tree of a little of its burden by picking the largest, juiciest one she could find.

  I said, “It ain’t right, takin without askin.”

  “Nuthin but a peach, Leah. She ain’t likely to miss one peach. Not like she gonna come outside and count em every evenin b’fore she goes to sleep. For all she knows a fox coulda got it, carried it off after it fell to the ground.” She bit into the peach and it spilled its juices everywhere.

  The full moon glowed above and we saw Nathan and Micah Shine walking ahead of us. They went to school with us and lived down the road from Miss Lilly in a house that looked like it was going to fall down whenever a strong wind blew.

  I called, “Nathan! ... Micah!”

  They turned and stopped walking. We ran to where they stood, the dimes making sweat in the palms of our hands.

  “Wolf gonna get you both, chew you up and spit you out,” Micah Shine teased us. He was twelve, and the half Indian from his mama had crawled into him. Daddy swore Indians had eyes everywhere and I thought Micah Shine was handsome as he looked through me. Nathan tugged on Ruth’s braids and we walked with them.

  We saw a truck coming and got off the path to let it pass. It got close, closer, two headlights blinding us. Then the headlights went off. The truck slowed. I thought it was Elijah until I saw the two white faces.

  The man behind the wheel stopped the truck and said, “Four little barefoot country niggers.”

  Nathan and Micah cowered, hunching their shoulders, the way colored boys had to when this kind of danger came around. Ruth and I looked straight down into the dust and we all kept walking. Fear walked with us. The man behind the wheel spat on the ground, laughed, and drove on. We turned and watched as the red taillights disappeared like red stars into the darkness.

  Micah stood up straight and whispered, “I woulda said somethin.... I woulda but I don’t wanna wind up hangin from no tree, burned to a crisp.”

  I looked up, and a gray owl flew in front of the moon.

  Nathan and Micah took the path to their house without saying another word and Ruth and I ran home. Afraid.

  We planted the peach pit, hoping this one would grow and bear fruit. We were rich until tomorrow, Sunday, when we would drop our shiny dimes into the offering basket along with the other pennies, nickels, quarters, and a few fifty-cent pieces. Sometimes I looked at that money thinking we needed it more than God, but I never told anyone my thoughts. I was certain that kind of thinking would land me in hell or somewhere close.

  So that night, I got out my rosary and put it around my neck before I went to bed.

  Of course Ruth said, “Don’t no rosary b’long round your neck.” />
  I kicked her hard under the covers.

  The sun knew when to rise, the moon when to glow, lightning where to strike once, maybe twice.

  It was Tuesday and Ruth and I sat in the back of Elijah’s truck, scarves tied around our hair. The sun had just come up and as he drove we felt every bump in the dirt road. Elijah stopped his truck. We had come to the cotton fields, ready to work for two dimes, maybe two quarters. At least twice a week during the summer, Ruth and I found ourselves here. I looked at the tips of my fingers, knowing a little blood was about to flow. It was like touching the tiny thorns of a new rosebush, except the cotton plant wasn’t pretty to look at. We took our burlap sacks and Ruth, Elijah, and I found a row. Elijah started picking and singing, picking and singing, Ruth and I behind him, picking, just picking. I tried to be careful not to stick my fingers but I always did and it always hurt.

  “Ouch,” I said, rubbing the tip of my bloody finger on my dress.

  Elijah said, “Hurry along, Leah. The skin on your fingers gonna get thick like mine, then you won’t have nuthin to whine about.”

  I looked at my hands. “I’m gonna be a schoolteacher, not no cottonpicker.

  “A schoolteacher. You don’t say,” was his reply.

  “She’s like Daddy ... dreamin,” Ruth added.

  I looked at a tired old woman in the next row, reached toward the prickly plant, took hold of a piece of the white fluff, pulled at it without sticking my fingers, and placed it in the burlap sack.

  Elijah was ahead of me, singing and picking when he looked back at me. “A schoolteacher? Who gived you that idea, Leah Jean?”

  “It just come to me one day when I was watchin Mrs. Redcotton write on the blackboard. Mrs. Redcotton said I’m smart enuf. She went to college, so she oughta know.”

  “You don’t say.” Elijah bent over, singing and picking.

  I thought about the red rose box and the postcard from Paris, a train that was about to take me far away, all the while picking and picking until my sack was nearly full.