The Mighty Miss Malone (25 page)

“Mother!”

I ran toward the orange glow right in front of our shack. The fire had grown much larger. Something flew through the air and landed in the middle of the flames. The fire whooshed and sparks flew up like a swarm of fireflies and flickered in the dark sky. A big-boned white man was throwing the sides of people’s homes into the fire. Something that looked like a wildly flapping pack of pigeons flew straight into the sky, then landed in the fire. It was Miss Stew’s
Reader’s Digests
.

I looked over toward our place. The blue gingham curtain was still hanging down.

I started toward the shack to see if Mother was inside, then stopped as gunshots banged out twice more. I ducked. A white man on the other side of the fire was pointing down with a gun
and shooting. He reached his gun down into the big stew kettle and fired. He was ruining it so no one could use it.

I pushed the curtain aside. For the second time Mother was putting everything back into the blanket. She’d already bundled and tied the one that I’d carry.

“Thank goodness you’re back! Move quickly, I might be able to get us back into Flint.”

“Might? Can’t we just take the road there?”

“The police said no one’s to go into Flint. They’ll block all the ways into the city.”

Mother tied the four corners of her blanket together and the bundle clanged as she threw it over her shoulder. She gave me a tired smile. “OK, Miss Malone, once more into the breach.”

I picked up my bundle and slung it over my shoulder. Mother had made mine half as heavy as hers. “We’ll take turns with the big one,” I said.

We hugged. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re here for me to lean on.”

I held the gingham curtain aside, and once Mother was out, I looked back into the place that had been our home for the past months. Now that we didn’t know where we were going next, this raggedy hut seemed pretty wonderful. I held the curtain up. “Will they throw something this beautiful into the fire?”

“Deza, let’s go! I promise, one day I’ll get yards of store-bought gingham and make you a dress.”

Outside, a big white man with a tired voice was saying over
and over, “Keep up that road there, and if you don’t want no trouble don’t come back.”

We followed the crowd away from the fire. We’d only been walking for a few minutes when Mother steered me to the side of the road. “Deza! I left my wedding ring in the shack!”

Since we’d left Gary, Mother’s wedding band had gotten so big that it was slipping off her finger at work. She put it on a string and wore it around her neck.

I pointed. “No, the string is right around your neck.”

Her hand flew to her throat. “Oh! No, no. I took the ring off the string last week.”

Mother was acting odder all the time. I put my bundle down. “I’ll be right back.”

“No, I’ll get it! I know exactly where it is. Don’t leave this spot no matter what.”

I watched as she ran toward one of the policemen. My stomach knotted when he raised his club and jabbed his hand toward the road.

Oh, please, please …

Mother pointed back at me and kept talking.

Stay back, Mother, don’t get too close …

He kept his club raised and with his other hand jabbed at the road again.

Please, please …

Mother kept talking and finally the cop brought the club down to his side. Mother headed into the woods to where the shantytown was slowly being turned to ashes.

I sat on the side of the road and watched our neighbors walk away.

They were mostly women with children tied to their backs or hanging on to their clothes or trailing behind like tired ducklings. A few old men hobbled along with the group. Anyone who was strong enough to work was on that train with Jimmie.

No one complained. This was just the way it was.

If somebody came along and saw us walking they’d mistake us for a very quiet parade instead of what we really were, a river of people who didn’t know what city we’d be in tomorrow, or what we’d be eating, or even where somebody would let us stop and rest.

The only way someone might suspect something was wrong was because of the fresh ones. I hadn’t understood what the hobo with the beautiful beard had meant when he said we were fresh, but now I got it.

There weren’t a lot of them, but all of the fresh ones, young and old, had a certain look, a expression that anyone who’s been on the road for a while has had scrubbed off their faces.

It wasn’t like they were worried or feeling sorry for themselves, they had a look of surprise, like they couldn’t believe what had happened. You can’t know that feeling unless you’ve had it.

One day you’re living in your own home, and then it seems like with no warning, the next day you’re carrying everything you own in a blanket or a sack or a ratty suitcase while being shooed from one place to another like a fly.

“Little Stew, you all right? Can we help you carry something?” A white man and his son had come over to me.

“No, thank you. My mother had to run back, she’ll be along in a minute.”

The man said, “You sure? Camden here is strong as a ox.”

The boy, who looked about six years old, made a muscle with his right arm. “Wanna see?”

I laughed. “Thank you, Camden, but we’re OK.”

He kept his fist balled. “You
sure
you don’t wanna see?” He looked like he’d explode if I didn’t feel his muscle. I squeezed his skinny arm.

“Wow! With muscles like that you could probably lift a whole automobile over your head!”

He smiled. “Well, maybe I could get the front wheels off the ground.”

“Thanks, Camden.”

They headed back down the road. In the next couple of minutes five other people stopped and asked the same thing.

Mother finally came back.

I said, “Did you get it?”

She looked like she had no idea what I was talking about.

“Your ring.”

She touched her throat. “Yes. That was close.”

I was starting to worry about her.

We fell in line with the other people. We’d walked for a half hour when the road split in two directions. People started dividing into two groups. There were hugs, pats on backs and even tears as they said goodbye.

Most of the white people started down the road leading south. Most of the black people walked north.

Someone told Mother there might be work in Saginaw, Michigan, which is geologically located about twenty miles north of Flint.

But Mother steered us south.

“We’ve got to get back into Flint. I have to work, and you have to go to school.”

“But how will we get past the—”

“I don’t know, Deza, but where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“A way” meant we did a whole night of walking to circle the city.

It was very late when we knocked on the door of one of the women Mother worked with.

Even though we woke her up, Mrs. Brand said we could sleep on the floor of one of the two rooms she shared with her family.

When I woke up the next morning, Mother had already gone to her first job.

I was surprised I was so tired the night before that I hadn’t seen how many people were in the room, and I felt terrible that we’d taken over the little bit of space that was left. I stepped over three of them and headed toward the tiny kitchen.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brand.”

“Morning, Deza. You’ve got another hour before you need to get up for school.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I thought I could help you.”

“Thank you, dear. You can go out back and get some wood if you don’t mind.”

“How much do we need?”

“Just enough for the stove, we got some grits and greens I’ll hotten up for breakfast.”

The house started waking up and more and more people walked by the kitchen on the way to the outhouse. All but two of them were kids.

I missed Jimmie already. But I couldn’t let myself worry about him. Or Father. That made two of them I wouldn’t think about.

When it was time to go to school Mrs. Brand said, “Your mother told me you’re to come here after school, she won’t come back between jobs, she’s going to look for a room to rent. She knows you two are welcome here as long as you need.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Me and one of the big girls, Analise, walked the youngest kids to Clark Elementary School. Then we went on to Whittier Junior High.

Mother and Mrs. Brand were sitting on the front porch when I got home.

Mother was smiling!

She dangled two keys. “Deza, we’ve got a place! It’s just one room, but it’s right between Whittier and downtown. No more half-hour walks for us, my dear!”

“What about the post office?”

“It’s not far at all. You can check every day!”

We shared the kitchen and indoor bathroom with two other families and a teacher from Clark Elementary School. Our room was almost perfect. We had everything we needed, a table, two chairs, a wardrobe and a bed that had a big dip in the center.

Me and Mother would get up and fix breakfast. She’d go to her first job, check the post office on the way home in the afternoon, then take a nap. She’d be up when I got home from school, we’d chat, make supper and she’d go to her evening job at the hotel.

Since we had a address now, I wrote to Jimmie at general delivery in New York and Chicago. Maybe he’d answer. I could also check out books from the library! After school I’d choose two, and since I wasn’t doing very much studying, I could go home and read. On Fridays I’d take out six books for the
weekend. I’d also check for word from Jimmie or Father at the post office.

I got to be friends with the postmistress, Mrs. James, a kind old white woman. She knew we were waiting for news and promised to keep a extra-sharp eye open for me.

One day I went by and said, “Hello, Mrs. James.”

“Deza, how are you, I haven’t seen your mother for over a month, is she OK?”

I knew it! I knew Mother had stopped checking!

I said, “She’s working two jobs.”

“I see. How’s school going?”

“Fine, thank you. But Flint schools are a lot easier than Gary’s. The things they’re teaching here I learned two years ago in Indiana. I don’t even have to study.” So that wouldn’t sound like bragging I said, “But I can’t believe how much I’ve forgotten.”

She smiled, “Sorry, no mail today, Deza. I’ll keep hoping for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. James.”

Hoping is such hard work. It tires you out and you never seem to get any kind of reward. Hoping feels like you’re a balloon that has a pinhole that slowly leaks air.

If Mother wasn’t even checking the mail, that meant she’d stopped hoping. But who could blame her? I was pretty close to being through myself.