With the Might of Angels (16 page)

Back to school tomorrow.

There’s a new girl in my homeroom class. Her name is Gertie Feldman. Gertie Feldman is not like any white girl I have ever met. She
tawlks
like that lady from the NAACP. She speaks to grown-ups like she knows them. There’s nothing shy about Gertie Feldman.

At lunchtime today, Gertie was behind me in the cafeteria food service line. When Miss Cora
and Miss Billie served my plate with the most food of anybody, then served Gertie with the same measly portions every other student gets, Gertie wasted no time telling them she wanted what I had. “And more gravy, too,” she insisted.

Miss Cora and Miss Billie exchanged a sharp look that could only mean they have never witnessed a child like Gertie Feldman.

When Gertie came to sit next to me, she said, “You get this whole table to yourself?”

Before I could explain that the lunch table has been my own since September, Gertie was
tawlking
about how much she liked the gravy.

The other kids in the lunchroom had their eyes all over Gertie and me. She didn’t seem to notice or care. The best part about so much
tawlking
from Gertie is that she was quick to tell me she’s moved to Hadley from Brooklyn, New York, the home of Jackie Robinson’s team, the Dodgers! She was proud of it, too.

And — Gertie’s father is a doctor!

When her mouth was too full of potatoes to speak, I was able to ask two questions. Gertie’s answer was the same for both.

“Have you ever seen Jackie Robinson play?”

Gertie slurped her chocolate milk.

“Lots.”

I let her swallow before asking, “Have you ever seen a colored doctor?”

The last bit of chocolate milk gurgled through Gertie’s straw before she said, “Lots.”

The only place I’ve seen more grease is at the bottom of Mama’s skillet after frying bacon, when Mama collected that thick yellow gunk to unstick my pogo spring.

This morning Mama was on a Vaseline mission. She would have shined my snow boots if I hadn’t begged her to put that jumbo jar of goop away. She was determined to slather my face, though. “Keeps the cold from chafing,” she said. “Protects you from wind.”

Mama had my cheeks squeezed tight in the grip of her folded hand. And, oh, did she smear. Even with my squirming, Mama was putting a shine on me that glistened more than a basted turkey. “Hold still, Dawnie!”

I had no choice but to stand there and take it. She even spread the Vaseline on Daddy, who let her do it without complaining one bit.

When Daddy and I left for school, it was cold.

“That stuff works, doesn’t it?” Daddy said as we faced the windy street, still cloaked in darkness.

My hood was tied tight under my chin. January’s bluster met us straight-on.

Okay, I admit — Brother Wind was no match for my basted-turkey face.

Waddle was waiting for me today. She’s lucky to have a face full of fur. No grease for her.

I’m awake, writing fast.

Tonight after supper the phone rang six times. Mama didn’t answer it. Daddy, either. I know
I’m
not supposed to answer the phone, but this whole thing is riling me. On the seventh ring, I grabbed for it. Daddy tried to coax the receiver from my hand, but it was too late.

A man’s voice whispered the same strange message as before, “Milk bath.”

I hung up quickly. Didn’t tell Daddy and Mama what I’d just heard.

I’m guessing this all has to do with the dairy boycott.

Tonight I’ll be sleeping with the light on.

I’m scared to death!

Mrs. Taylor must have gotten a note from Santa telling her that she needed to be more nice and less naughty. Today Mrs. Taylor told me that I could clean the erasers during Study Hall, so that I could go to PE in the gym with my class, which replaces the recess period I was missing last term.

The only thing is, I still have to find time to study somehow. Maybe I can clap the erasers fast, then make it to Study Hall for half the period. I’m sure not gonna worry my mind over it. With winter here, and me having no recess all last semester, I was feeling like a cooped chicken at school. But starting tomorrow I’m going to PE. Finally!

Mama says that high expectations lead to low serenity. That was sure true today. PE at Prettyman is for babies! This afternoon we did something called “calisthenics” — jumping jacks, toe touches, and arm circles. What kind of mess is that? We ended the period by hauling large blue mats onto the gym’s center floor and participating in what
Mrs. Remsen, our PE teacher, called “tumbling.” Each one of us had to take a turn doing somersaults down the length of the mat.

I’m no Charles Atlas, but I can do a bunch more than arm circles, toe touches, jumping jacks, and somersaults.

You wouldn’t know it, though, by watching me today. Thanks to Mama’s Vaseline, my somersaults were the slipperiest bunch of tumbling ever. Each time I pressed my head to the mat, my greasy scalp sent me sliding!

This did not sit pretty with the other Prettyman girls. When they saw my oil patches left on the mat, they wanted to quit the tumbling. Mrs. Remsen wouldn’t let them, though. She made them somersault, one after the other, behind me. The only one who didn’t make a stink about it was Gertie, who out-tumbled us all.

I guess every white family in Ivoryton wants clean clothes to start the year. Mama’s been under a mountain of laundry. With the weather being so cold, we hang the wet clothes on racks in our cellar. But we’re low on racks and space to hang. Our
living room has turned into a haunted house of sheet ghosts and headless dresses, hanging from ceiling rafters, dancing above our radiator’s steam.

“What if they boycott
us
?” I asked Mama.

“Then the Lord will provide some other way,” Mama answered, sounding sure.

Daddy said, “Your Mama’s laundry service is the only one — and the
best
one — within miles. Some white people can be mean, but they know what’s good when it comes to laundry.”

I AM NO MONKEY! I AM NO ELEPHANT! I AM NO DOG!

If going to PE means I will have to put up with stupid girls, then I’ll stick with eraser clapping. At least when I clap erasers, there’s Mr. Williams, who treats me kindly.

Today in the girls’ locker room, after I had changed into my gym suit, I had to pee before going out into the gym. Mama had warned me quietly that whites don’t like us using their bathrooms, and that I should always be mindful of this when I feel the need to relieve myself. Most school days I hold it from morning to afternoon, then
gush as soon as I get home. But today I couldn’t keep it in. So I went.

I knew something was strange when the locker room grew silent when I squatted to urinate. As soon as I let loose, I heard muffled giggles and whispering coming from someplace above my head. I didn’t want to look up. But how could I not?

Looking over the top of the stall was Theresa Ludlow from Science class, and four other girls. I yanked up my panties and gym bloomers, but it was too late. They’d seen my bare bottom already. Theresa said, “I thought monkeys had tails. Where’s your tail, Dawnie?”

Another girl, Jennifer Little, the redheaded child from Mr. Dunphey’s “Democracy Circle,” answered, “Maybe Dawnie’s
not
a monkey. I mean, she’s such a big-boned girl, I would think she’s got an elephant’s tail.”

They all laughed. Then two more girls whose names I didn’t know started making barking noises.

“Didn’t you know?” one girl asked the others, “All Negroes have dog tails. Maybe Dawnie’s tucked hers away in her underpants.”

Mrs. Remsen’s whistle sounded right then, and
the girls scurried away to the gym. I waited till I heard the door to the gym rattle closed. When I came out from the stall, I kicked hard at the lockers. I wanted my baseball mitt. I wanted to punch.

I sat for a moment on the locker room bench, punching at my knees. I could hear the girls’ squeals and shouts echoing in the gym. I made my way to join the rest of the class.

Gertie was waiting for me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No ghosts in there,” I said. “But plenty of witches.”

Mrs. Remsen’s whistle blew for the second time. Now she was blowing it at me. “Dawnie, you’re late. Take twenty laps around the gym.”

I didn’t flinch. Mrs. Remsen had done me a favor. I started off slow, then sprinted, while those baby witches tumbled their somersaults.

Daddy has taken to helping Mama wash, fold, and iron. He complains that this is “women’s work.”

I love my daddy, but that is a backward idea. God gave hands to men and women. Except for bigger palms and longer fingers, a man’s hands
can do the same things a woman’s hands can do.

The same is true the other way around — except for softer skin and nicer cuticles, a woman’s hands are the same as a man’s. Ironing and folding clothes can be done by anybody
with
hands.

I hope Daddy gets a job soon.

Gertie called out to me as I was walking home from school.

“Dawnie, wait up.” Her coat was made from the thickest wool plaid I’ve ever seen. It was a nice coat. She fished a black licorice twig from her pocket. “Want some candy?”

I am never supposed to take candy from somebody I don’t know well, and I’m sure not supposed to eat candy on a regular day that’s not a holiday. But Gertie wasn’t really a stranger. And, one licorice twig was more like a snack, not a treat.

Gertie chomped and talked and walked alongside me.

“Where you going?” she asked.

Where else would I be going?

“Home,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Gertie.

Gertie was with me for most of the whole two miles as we made our way closer to Crossland Avenue.

When we got to the place where Ivoryton ends and my neighborhood begins, Gertie kept walking. Now I was the one asking, “Where
you
goin’?”

“Home.” Gertie handed me another licorice twig. Red this time.

“Where’s your house at?” I wanted to know.

“Maple Street,” Gertie said.

I stopped walking. So did Gertie. “What’s the matter?” Gertie asked.

“You live in the colored part of town?”

Gertie shrugged. She looked puzzled. “I guess I do.”

Man sakes, I was witnessing a strange miracle — a white girl who does not live in Ivoryton.

I explained all about Ivoryton and Crow’s Nest, and how the neighborhoods work in Hadley.

“That’s just stupid,” Gertie said.

At the corner of Crossland Avenue, me and Gertie waved good-bye. “See you tomorrow,” she said. She handed me a third licorice twig. Another black one. It was sure sweet.

The ball on top of Gertie’s hat bobbled as she walked away.

A letter to the editor appeared in today’s
Hadley Register.
Here it is:

I read the letter twice, then I looked up
anonymous.

Anonymous:
Having an unknown name or identity.

I don’t agree with the letter from that unknown mother with the three kids. But she’s right about one thing. Integration has robbed people and ruined chances.

Because I’m attending Prettyman, nobody will hire Daddy in Hadley. Not even black people. Everyone’s afraid that employing Daddy will somehow bring them trouble. Today he drove as far as Richmond looking for work. He came home with his hands in his pockets, his head down, and no job. Tonight I heard him tell Mama that somehow, some way, word has traveled that his child is the one integrating the schools in Hadley.

When Daddy goes asking for work, he should tell the people his name is Mr. Anonymous.

Somebody threw a glass milk bottle at our front door. It smashed onto our porch, splattering milk everywhere.

I will be sleeping with the light on again.

The phone won’t stop.

My prayers stay strong.

I’M SCAREDER THAN SCARED.

Another letter to the editor of the
Hadley Register
appeared today. It said: