Little Sacrifices (3 page)

‘Did the Negro get convicted?’

‘Oh, I guess so. They usually did. I didn’t say Negroes get a fair trial, just that they don’t get lynched in Savannah.’ He smiled a little apologetically, then stopped and looked around. We were standing on Bull Street in front of the college where in a few days Duncan would take up his post.

‘What do you say we walk up to River Street and I’ll show you Factor’s Walk? That’s where the cotton buyers had their offices, on the bluff. Used to be that the entire world’s cotton prices were set right here in Savannah. Can you imagine? White Gold, they called it. It’s all closed up now. More cobwebs than cotton there. Everything went to pot after the Civil War. Not very civil if you ask me.’

‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ I mused, gazing at the houses. They were striking in an aged film star kind of way, trying to hold their composure when time hadn’t done them any favors. Some were in good shape, shaded by ancient trees, their yards groomed and their porches beautifully painted. I’d have given my little finger to live even in one that was derelict, as long as there weren’t any ghosts. We Northerners were as superstitious as Jim’s people when it came to spirits.

Jim’s silence drew my attention. ‘Not for us, it wasn’t,’ he said. I realized he meant the war. ‘It ruined the South and we never recovered, not really. You want to be careful who you say things like that to around here. I don’t mind so much, but you won’t make many friends with talk like that.’

I murmured my apology. For Pete’s sake, who’d have thought that anyone would care after eighty years? I still had a lot to learn about social memory. Jim didn’t hold my ignorance against me and after a few awkward seconds he chattered on again. Finally, near lunchtime, his momentum slowed enough for me to shoehorn a few questions into his commentary. Curiously, he didn’t want to talk about himself. All I got out of him was that his mother lived in Atlanta and that he’d been with his Nan since he was little. Reluctant to get hollered at again, I didn’t badger him about his father, who was as absent from the conversation as he seemed to be from Jim’s life. Since I wasn’t exactly forthcoming with certain facts about my own parents, I was happy to let him keep his secrets in return for keeping my own.

Chapter 3

The prospect of trying to fit in made me sick to my stomach. In a small town, finding kindred spirits within walking distance is as easy as falling off a log. Not so in a city where the white population alone had its choice of four high schools. I’m sure everyone was nervous starting high school, but at least they’d have some friends to lean on. I wondered whether one boy met forty–eight hours earlier qualified as a social circle. Given the answer, I managed to keep my breakfast where it belonged for half an hour. Only Jim was there to see my waffles make their second appearance and he took them in stride, so to speak, hardly breaking his train of thought as he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. Despite his obvious lack of social connections, I was glad to have him around.

School was a long way from home and Savannah was one of the most humid places I’d ever been. Stepping outside was like sitting too long in a hot bath. By the time we reached the front steps, my blouse made an unflattering first impression on the other students. I stole glances at them. Most looked older than me and none looked as sweaty. Great, I thought. Here’s the new girl. She’s from the North, she talks funny and has parents who are bent on changing the entire social structure. What? Oh, no, that’s just a glandular problem. Nice to meet you.

Everyone huddled in noisy little knots sharing their summer escapades. Their voices ebbed and swelled, breaking over us and making me homesick. I missed my best friend Lottie terribly. We’d been together since we were five. Naturally I assumed we’d start high school together, double date, celebrate birthdays, weddings, children and grandchildren and generally spend the rest of our lives within walking distance. Instead I was utterly alone except for Jim, whose three–day acquaintance hardly qualified him as my new best friend. While we stood on the steps in the maelstrom of soon–to–be classmates, I kept my eyes peeled for anyone who looked likely to acknowledge his existence. No one did. A by–the–way boy just as I’d thought.

As in the North, new students in Savannah weren’t allowed to slip quietly into class. In some misguided endeavor to appear welcoming, a parade of sorts took place, with the newcomer installed at the front of each class for inspection. I’d pitied them at home, the kid fidgeting at the front in a room full of curious stares, hoping against hope that the roof would cave in and end his humiliation. I dreaded the next few hours. Jim wished me good luck and left me at the principal’s office to await further orders. A booming voice answered my tentative knock.

‘Well, May Powell, welcome to Savannah. Very nice to meet you. Come in, come in. Sit down, why don’t you?’

Principal Mathers was a corpulent fellow. He spoke with the soft Savannah drawl that sugared unpalatable conversations. While I settled myself he asked what Duncan did, so I sat up straight and told him.

‘Excellent. We’re very proud of our college, you know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mayor Gamble started it just about ten years ago, for our less fortunate boys. A fine place. A history teacher you said your father was?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Very good. Of course, he’ll have a lot to learn about the South and our history. And there’s quite a lot of history here, I can tell you.’

I doubted that Duncan would be limiting his lessons to affairs south of the Mason Dixon line but didn’t want to spoil Principal Mathers’ proud moment.

‘Well.’

‘Yes, sir.’ We looked at each other.

‘So.’ His stock of teenage small talk was exhausted. He’d run out of steam. To our collective relief the girl nominated to be nice to me for the day materialized in the doorway. I was ridiculously grateful when she smiled at me. We shook hands, sized each other up and went to our homeroom where I stood, red–faced, while the teacher introduced me as ‘May Powell, from the North’. Once I sat down, everyone ignored me, so I took the opportunity to stare at them. Southern girls looked different. They were softer, more feminine. Whereas I came from the no–nonsense school of fashion the girls around me were perfectly coifed, combed and color coordinated. Pastels ran amok.

Throughout the morning the kids were polite in their ‘haddyados’ but no one fell over herself to be my friend. By lunchtime I was pretty grateful for my next–door neighbor.

‘So, how’s it going?’ Jim’s face was so earnest, so truly interested in whether I was okay that I wanted to cry. I told him fine, everything was fine. The lunchroom bustled with kids renewing their camaraderie after the long summer and I eavesdropped greedily on their taken–for–granted conversations. It was as if I had no history at all, or at least none to share. It felt terrible to be lonely among so many people.

I’d whittled my lunch to the crusts when I noticed that one table near us was particularly lively. I knew without asking that they were the popular kids. Every school has them. Every kid not with them harbors the desire, whether they’ll admit it or not, to be included.

‘Who are they?’

‘Idiots,’ Jim said, not losing focus on his sandwich.

‘That’s what they are. I asked who they are.’

‘They’re the girls you don’t want to get on the wrong side of. Minty’s daddy’s the police chief. That’s Charlene and that’s Ceecee. They’re her henchmen.’

‘I take it you’re not friends.’

‘Who’d want to be?’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘Hah, you can count me out of your plans.’

‘How come you hate them so much? What’d they do, tease you or something?’

‘Of course. Everybody teases me. But they’re mean.’

Minty was the ringleader, the other two smiling and nodding in time to her comments like punctuation marks at the end of her sentences. They were all pretty, but Minty was a stunner. It wasn’t anything particular about her face but rather how she wore her confidence. She had straight and glossy chestnut hair, swept back in a hair band, where mine preferred to hang about in my face and go curly in the heat. I stared at her green eyes. They turned up at the corners, were knowing, sly almost, and older than her years. They were eyes that promised a good time. I envied those girls like crazy.

The afternoon’s classes went the same way as the morning’s, and I was glad to see Jim lingering on the sidewalk after the last bell rang. It was nice of him to wait, especially since I didn’t know the way home. I started to wilt as we walked. The air was thick, like pea soup straight from the stove. At home, such humidity promised rain but I had the feeling that here I’d wait in vain for relief. The heat made a sound, like a bow high up across violin strings. ‘What’s that noise?’

‘Cicadas.’

‘Sick–what?’

‘Bugs,’ he said, as if entomological knowledge was common among Savannah’s teenagers. He seemed to know his onions about most things of small consequence. As we wandered, Jim pointed out the sites of local interest. Most of the houses were architecturally intriguing rather than historically noteworthy, and like their companions downtown, they tended at best towards a faded grandeur. Nowadays, would–be homeowners flock in droves to pay over the odds for the broken down old places – gentrification they call it. There was no hint of such a movement in nineteen forty–seven.

I was dripping by the time we reached home. Jim’s Nan waited on their porch.

‘Hello Missus Rumer!’ I waved.

She barely acknowledged my greeting. ‘Jim, I expected you thirty minutes ago. Why are you late?’ She was thin without any trace of elegance, reminding me of the woman in Wood’s American Gothic.

‘I’m sorry, Nan, I was showing May around on our way home. I guess I lost track of time.’

‘Well, go upstairs and start your schoolwork.’

‘Yes ma’am.’ He turned and went into the house. I knew he didn’t have any homework. No teacher was that cruel on the first day of school.

I waved to an empty doorway and went home, where the aroma of Ma’s peanut butter cookies drew me into the cool kitchen. ‘Hello miss.’ I started at the unfamiliar voice. I’d forgotten all about Dora Lee.

Our maid had turned up at the kitchen door in the middle of breakfast that morning. It’d be decades before convention would allow her through white front doors. Ma let her in and introduced us all around. She was tall and sturdy, of indistinguishable age, though some gray hair peppered her head. She had a kindly face and a smile for each of us. I struggled to remember my manners to keep from staring at the first black woman I ever met.

‘Well ma’am, I thank you, and you too, Mister Powell, for hiring me. I sure do appreciate it.’ Ma and Duncan nodded like sock puppets. ‘Now ma’am, just so I know how you’d like me to work. Do you have a schedule?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘For the big chores, ma’am. Washing, ironing? Baking?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t, I haven’t ...’

‘I see. Well, that’s all right. Maybe it’s best just to start fresh with today. What would you like me to do?’

My mother was no shrinking violet but being the lady of the manor was too much for her. She wouldn’t meet Dora Lee’s gaze. She started mumbling and stammering and wringing the life out of a perfectly innocent dishtowel. Dora Lee had to work hard to understand what she was carrying on about. I could barely make it out myself. It served Ma right. If she’d had a backbone, she wouldn’t be in this position. Before I had the chance to see if she’d escape the interchange with any of her dignity, Jim buzzed the door and I had to go. Duncan ducked out behind us.

Ma had regained some composure since breakfast. In fact, she looked almost comfortable with Dora Lee pottering around the kitchen in an apron.

She hugged me eagerly. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Fine.’

‘Did you meet lots of kids?’

‘Some.’

‘Are your teachers nice?’

‘I guess.’

‘Is Jim in any of your classes?’

‘Just one.’

She made the frustrated noise through her nose that she always did when I stonewalled her. I was glad.

‘More cookies?’

‘Okay... did
you
make them?’

‘What a question. Of course I did.’

‘Well I don’t know. Maybe you made Dora Lee do them.’ I was glad for the hurt look that flashed across her mouth. ‘I suppose she’ll cook dinner for us now too.’

Dora Lee looked up from the sink and said, ‘Yes miss, she sure will.’ I turned red. ‘She’s making chicken and dumplings tonight. With gravy. And potatoes. She does them real nice.’

Admiration welled up around my embarrassment. Dora Lee was going to teach me a thing or two about smart answers. I caught a wink as she turned back to peeling the potatoes.

It took broad daylight streaming through my bedroom curtains on Saturday morning to make me bold enough to venture into the attic. I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I was afraid of what I couldn’t see in the dark. The attic door belched hot air when I wrenched it open. I had to tiptoe on stairs designed for daintier feet. My aversion to rodents made sure I didn’t put my hands anywhere I couldn’t get a look at first. Two windows set into the eaves threw dappled light around the room. Boxes were piled neatly, and trunks and furniture crowded the floor. I could walk upright through the middle of the room but had to stoop around the edges to keep from cracking my head on the roof beams. Most of the boxes held books. Our old house had ancient tomes of the same ilk. Their smell was comforting, like paper that’d been in the rain.

There was mainly old furniture in the middle of the floor. All the pieces matched those downstairs, dark wood, cherry or walnut, their high gloss showing through the shiny tracks my finger made across years of dust. They looked like they’d lasted a hundred years already and would have no problem surviving a hundred more. Tucked in a corner were a couple of steamer trunks that held more interesting possibilities. It took some climbing to get to them, but they weren’t locked so I didn’t have to feel guilty about breaking into someone’s luggage. I was merely snooping in the bounty that lay before me. The heat was almost unbearable as I struggled to shift the trunks to where I could open them. Sweat ran a merry race between my shoulder blades, intent on making its way into my underpants.