Excerpt
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Lilly-1924 An excerpt from the novel The Rock Island Line by Michelle Dobbs
There’s nothing I like better than a bonfire. The whole neighborhood turns out to dance with my family and me. My grandmother, Hester Moore, throws a bonfire almost every time the seasons change. She keeps track of the sun and moon and always knows when the time is right. She says you’ve got to rest between the seasons, says it’s important to mark life, lest it pass you by. Me, I like them because there’s something else to do for a change.
Rock Island, Illinois has to be the most boring town, ever. If there’s one more boring, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. And that ain’t too likely, because I’m a girl. One eight year old, Black, very bored girl. Last summer, I went all the way to Chicago down the Rock Island Line, when my great Aunt Hattie died. I got on the train with my parents, to stand for our branch of the family tree, and pray and wail for poor Hattie, but I had a ball. The big city is, I’m thinking, the place for me. I’m going there when I get grown.
“Here, Lilly. Bring this down to your daddy.” My mama leans over the porch rail and hands me a platter of something that smells like dreamland, and I make my way slow, balancing across the yard. I see my big brown shoes, which cover my big brown feet, kick out from my starchy dress, and I sigh, “Make me sick,” I mutter to myself. “Don’t nobody want to wear sensible shoes to a party.”
Daddy meets me halfway across the yard and takes the food from me, saying, “There you go, big girl.” I keep looking down at my shoes while I walk next to him, taking two steps for every one of his.
“Daddy,” I say, “Can I have some little patent leather shoes?”
“What’d your Mama say?” He squints under the dish cloth that covers our platter. “Cake.” He hums it. There’s no better friend to him that a piece of fresh dessert.
“She says they don’t make those shoes in my size.”
“What?” He couldn’t hear me over the sound of his mouth watering, I guess.
I speak up, “She says they don’t make those shoes in my size.”
“Alright, then.” He shrugs one shoulder and tucks a slab of cake into my mouth.
He puts the platter down on a long groaning table he and Uncle Pearl and Papa George make out of sawhorses and planks whenever we have a fire, and says, “That must be the last of it from our house. I hope Miss Livonia brings that red velvet cake.”
I wait a moment and say around my stuffed cheeks, “Well, can I have a baby brother, then? And please don’t ask me what my mama said, I’m asking you – can I?”
He puts the slab into his own mouth, leans way over, and whispers into my ear, “I’m doing all I can.” and then he winks, like he made a joke or something. I turn away from him, annoyed, but ready to carry out my own plans, to find the neighbors flooding our yard. Every race, color and class. Rich people stand and talk with their housekeepers, conductors with a bellman with a porter with a preacher. The Indians have come up from Blackhawk land, Dutch and Germans mingle with Jews. Old, young, White, Red, Black and all kind of mishmash get together a few times a year to make a wish. All the families around here come, because they have no intention of life passing them by. When the fire is just about burnt out, just down to glowing bits of log, Mama Hester calls the children to her, and whispers in her husky, I’ve-got-a-secret-voice, “Go on then, kids, make your best wish. See if you don’t get it before long.” One at a time, we make a wish, and jump from one side of the flames to the other. A cheer goes up sometimes, if someone is jumping for the first time in a while, and for the littlest ones, who’re making their first try. When we finish, we turn in for the sweetest sleep they’ve got in the world and dream of our dreams come true.
Just as I’ve stomped back up the porch steps, Aunt Maggie comes out to the gathering, the screen door slamming shut behind her. “Hey, Lilly! You ready?” She pushes her hair flat, trying to look like Clara Bow.
Uncle Pearl calls out from the yard, “Hubba, Hubba!” And she waves back, putting her hands around her tiny, flowered waist.
“I think he likes you, Aunt Maggie.” I try to hide my big smile.
“You think so, huh?” She shows me her dimples, pulls me by the braid to the edge of the porch railing and says, “Well, I like him right back. Come out of the way now, they’re going to be bringing out food.” She puts one hand on her hip, and one hand around my middle pulling me closer. I climb over the banister to take what my Mother always says is the best seat in the house. We rest shoulder to shoulder, me almost as high as her now, me leaning into her and watching the crowd grow.
Lois Peace walks up, her own giant brown oxfords caked with dust. “Find anything to do?
She says it smiling. So I rib her, “Hate your shoes.” I jump down the steps to her, and would probably hug her if I hadn’t just spent all day in school with her. She is my best friend, ever.
“Hate yours, too!” She’s got a passel of little boys with her. Brothers and cousins and nephews, and they are all grinning. I take one side of her basket, and help her walk it up the steps to the women.
“Well, thank you, baby.” My mama says. “Can you put it on the table? I can’t walk another step.”
“The fatter she gets, the fewer steps she takes,” I whisper in Lois’ ear, still mad about my ugly shoes.
“It’s fry bread,” Lois says proudly to Mama like she didn’t even hear me. “Aunt Myrtle sends it, and says she’ll be along directly.”
“Did you help? I ask, interested. I’m thinking she can teach me that, I’ll teach her biscuits, and then we’ll both have something new.
“Yep. It’s not hard even.” She gets to do whatever she wants. I swear.
I am desperate to get something, just one thing my way today. “Mama?” I say, “Can I make some bread to bring to the party?”
“The party is starting, honeybunch. It’s too late for that. Go watch ‘em build the fire or something.” She hustles away after something of another and Lois and I look out over the crowd, past some kids from our class. One of them raises his hand to Lois, showing her the palm of it and says, “How.”
Her eyes narrow and she tells him, “Guess you need your ass kicked one more time, huh Arthur?” His friends all fall out laughing, and he puts his hand down, slouching after them across the lawn. Seems like a good idea he go find his parents. The last time someone made an Indian joke was the most recent time Lois had had to fight. It doesn’t happen often, but when she fights, it takes her and all those boys, cousins and brother and friends, who live at her house to beat the person thoroughly. It only happens about once a year, usually when a new family comes up from the settlement, and White people get nervous about the “Indian problem.” They’re not a problem to me. We’re used to them and them to us. Black and Indian both count as colored, we’ve just got different ways of showing it.
“Same old stuff,” I say to her softly. She looks at me while I say, “Never mind him.”
We made friends a few summers ago while I was wandering by myself.. She and a family of little boys moved into the Blackhawk settlement, with a railway wagon and a bunch of tents. People said Lois’s family was fresh in from Creek country, way out west, on the far end of the Rock Island Line. Every time I saw her, she was cooking on a fire in a big black skillet, with a baby on her hip. She was five, and because she’s tiny by nature, she looked about three. She had no grown ups hounding her, no schoolwork out in front of her. She looked free, to me. I wasn’t supposed to go down there, because folks said that the Indians don’t want to mix with the people in our town, but I used to sneak and just watch them, imagining how much fun it must be to live outside every day, even in the winter.
Lois and all these little boys had no mother keeping track of their coming and going. I saw them living the way they did and was jealous. And so I would go, every chance I got, just to stare at them being free.
One day, I was spying on her from a ridge of land over her campsite, and she called, “What’re you looking at?” I jumped, because I had started thinking of them more like shadow box figures than people. I didn’t answer her, and she called, “You there, in the green plaid dress!” I pointed at my own chest, and raised my eyebrows, and she nodded. Then she said, “At least come down here, and help me out, coming over here staring all the time. You can see these kids going crazy, can’t you?”
I looked around, and they didn’t seem too crazy to me, so I said, “No.” But, I walked, sideways, down the rim of the hill that ran along the edge of the campsite. When I got to the bottom, I marched across the sunburned grass to her, because I always follow direct orders, and said, “My name is Lilly. What should I do to help?”
She handed me the baby on her hip and said, “I’m Lois. Rock him.”
“Rock him?” There are no babies in my house, and I have no cousins either. What was I supposed to know about a baby?
She took him back and said, “Like this,” and she started swaying him back and forth. I was watching her closely, and she said, “You never rocked a baby before?”
I hadn’t so I told her, “No.” And then while me and her baby swayed in the valley, next to the railway wagon, I told her, “But I like it.” I decided to get me a baby of my own that day, and me and Lois have been the best of friends since.
And since then, Lois eats lunch with us every day because there’s no one at her house to feed her hot food, unless she fixes it herself. My grandmother has a soft spot for Lois, because her own mother was an Indian from out west, too. She knows that wagon living is not easy, and wants to ease the load for anyone she meets. Our house even has markings on the porch out front to let travelers know that there’s always food here to share. My father found it a long time ago, and when he washed it off, Mama Hester made him put it back. Everyone knows that Mama Hester is kind to travelers, but Lois really does work hard with all those boys. And maybe she favors Mama Hester’s mother. I don’t know, she died when I was a baby.
Lois has stepped away from where I stand near my mother and looks over her shoulder at me. “This could take hours,” she says. “Maybe we should do something else.”
“Like what?” I snort. “Everyone we know is right here.” We step on each others’ ugly shoes, just to do something instead of being useless. A shout from the voice of a child goes up, and Lois and I snatch our heads up so quickly we almost collide. I look into the eyes of my friend, and see firelight dancing there. Indian jokes are put away, the night has fallen, and it is time to get my brother.
When Lois and I’d started planning a baby brother, my parents were amused, and they told me that I’d have to start putting some money away to cover the costs of another mouth to feed. I wasn’t thinking at all about the trouble a baby caused – I was more focused on what fun we’d have in my clubhouse and all the things I could teach him.
That summer, I dragged the biggest bell jar I could find out from the pantry, and set up a post by the back door where the railway men would come to get their freshly laundered shirts from Aunt Maggie a few times a week. As they hauled themselves up, tired, at the end of the day, to the screen door, I’d ask, in the most polite way possible for a girl who was begging, “Excuse me, sir. May I please have a penny?”
My requests were met with, “What you want with a penny, darlin’?”
I told them, “I’m going to buy a baby brother.” They’d smile, and pass me a penny if they could find one in their dusty trousers.
Sometimes, if a man was new to the town, or to railway work, I’d hear him say, whispering to someone nearby, “That girl think she White. Hear what she just said right there?”
Or once even, “Where you get those proper ways, girl? Who you think you is?”
I told him, “My name is Lilly Moore, Sir. My parents like for me to be polite.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the only way I can make something of myself.”
“And you want to be what?”
“Somebody who uses good English.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not a slave, and so I’m not serving myself by talking like one?” I was getting nervous from all the questions, and hoped I was giving them the answers they wanted. I was repeating exactly the things that I’d been taught on other days, around the supper table, in the garden. I know this much for sure, we Moores are proud to be free. The railway men would hunch each other in the ribs, and come again with a penny, asking me questions and having me read them something for them, making jokes about how I hadn’t learned my place yet. And me, I read and talked with them, not even getting noticed by the principle I live under.
This happened all summer, without being detected by anyone, save Aunt Maggie, who never said a word. She saw me take pennies from more than one man, and she just winked. She was proud of me, I think, for thinking of the idea, and happy the fellas who got their shirts starched and ironed at the Moore house wanted to be part of what had come to be called, “The Brother Fund.” Each time I walked through the house with a pocket jingling with coins, Aunt Maggie would look away, and smile wide.
Our secret was discovered this way: The women were up early one morning making biscuits, and I had to be up too. There was woman’s work to learn. My job was to cut little circles of dough with the open end of a bell jar and place them in a pan to be baked. The most challenging part of this was to keep my long, fat braids out of the flat dough. As one of the women whisked the first pan away from me, I stood, still holding the jar, looking inside it very seriously. I squinted, and frowned, until suddenly, I announced, “I think I have enough now.”
I went back to concentrating on the biscuits. After all, it took a lot of aim.
“What’s that? You have not made enough, little girl. Your Grandpa can eat a whole pan of biscuits, just warming up!” Mama Hester was in no mood for laziness.
“Not biscuits. Money. I nearly got enough pennies to buy me that baby brother. I got pennies, and some nickels too.” The women smiled at each other.
Mama spoke for all of them saying, “Don’t tell stories, Sugar. You do not have any money. We may get you a brother for Christmas, if you’re good.”
I was insulted. I knew that lying was a problem, and did not want to be accused of it when I was innocent, so I said, “I do have pennies, Mama! I have so many pennies, I can’t even count them. I’m rich!”
“What did I tell you Lilly?” Mama said in a less patient tone. “You’re headed to the corner to think about lying…”
It was too late to do anything but defend myself.
“But, Mama!”
She was finished with me, and said, “Don’t talk back. I think you have a job to do.” I got still for a moment, and thought it over. I filled another pan with biscuits to show my obedience, and then headed for my room, high up under the eaves of our house. I reached up under the bed until I felt the edge of a bell jar. It sang a little song of baby brothers as I rattled down the hall.
When I got back to the kitchen, I climbed back on my little stool, and placed my treasure in front of them all. I could feel them staring at me as I walked away from them without having spoken, and when I checked over my shoulder, smiles were beginning at the corners of their mouths. I made that trip from the attic to the kitchen four more times. Finally from my mother, “How…”
“I asked. The railway men give me pennies every time they come for their shirts. I told you I was rich. See, I didn’t lie, Mama.”
Mama’s face made two thousand rapid-fire expressions, and then she said to the women, “I’m torn. Part of me is afraid that my baby is a person who can keep secrets from me already. Another part is scared that whoever gave our daughter money thinks that we send children begging.” My grandma started to nod her agreement, and so I jumped in to clear things up,
“Oh no, Mama. They were very nice and don’t think anything bad about you at all.”
She looked down, and there was fire in her eyes. She said, “I am seriously considering whipping you on general principle, Lilly. You would do best to keep quiet.”
My mouth snapped shut, and that was when Aunt Maggie intervened. “You know,” she said, “I’d say that’s a sign of a girl who’s smart. She had a problem, and went about fixing it by herself. She knows how to make a way out of no way. She’s just like us. And we taught her right.”
Mama cooled off with the vote of confidence from Aunt Maggie, but in the end, I was required to sit at my usual post by the back door and apologize to every railway man who came by for his laundry. “Hey, Mr. Willie,” I’d say. “I shouldn’t have asked you for pennies. You can have your money back. I’ve decided to ask Santa for a free brother. I don’t know how much money you gave me, so you should take your money back out of here, sir.” The five jars were lined up beside me as evidence of my sneaky ways. Very few of the men took any pennies back; in fact, most of them said it was my money to keep. They thought the Brother Project was a fine idea, they liked my fancy-pants ways, and I might could get my Mama, Grandma and Aunt Maggie something nice. We also did a real good job on the laundry, and always gave a fair price. The railway men know the men in my family from around the bar, and considered them up front, if a little proud. Once the project was officially closed, the jars went back under the bed, in case Santa fell through.
Tonight is a new time though, and I’m feeling lucky. My Daddy’s friend Mr. Skeet comes up the walk, and all of us kids run for him like he’s got ice cream in his pockets. Something about his Barry Tone and his guitar makes every gathering into a party. “No, don’t even look at me until I’ve had something to eat. Tonight. Somebody fix me a plate.” Half a dozen children scramble to be the first to bring Mr. Skeet something hot for his stomach. Makes him sing better, he always says. “That food already blessed?” he asks his server, and the boy shakes his head no, probably afraid to disappoint the music man, and runs for Papa George to whisper a request for a blessing.
Papa takes the needle off the Victrola and shouts, “Alright then, we’re praying over the food!” Folk start to wander back to the porch from all over the yard. Even heathens, who don’t pray any other time of year wouldn’t think of ignoring a prayer request from George Moore. He looks around and says to anyone who might be in earshot, “Where is my wife?” Then steps on to the porch near the rail, to wait for his bride.
We all look toward the house, where she will be, as always. And while we gather, I can see the face of everyone in my whole world, it seems. They are impatient, with empty stomachs and firelight dancing down one side of their heads. Everyone here can bear witness for me, while my dream comes true.
Once everybody has drawn together, Mama Hester comes out on the porch, looking around at what she has made. Papa George puts one hand over his heart and takes off his cap like he is about to say the Pledge of Allegiance or something, and says, “Here comes my heart.” He is crusty on an ordinary day, working and worrying and all, but on a day like this, when his wife comes out to greet her neighbors, he is a gentleman, and a king.
Mama Hester usually comes out about half way through anything to finally get a bite to eat. Today, Papa says, “Hester, Hester.” She looks at him to figure out what the problem might be, and he just fishes a hankie out of his pocket and dabs at his eyes.
I whisper to my daddy, who’s suddenly standing next to me, “What?” Mama Hester’s smiling, so I know the tears aren’t exactly bad news.
“He loves the ground she’s standin’ on,” is what my father tells me.
And that’s what I think when Papa George starts the applause, followed by his sons, Uncle Pearl and my daddy, Jim standing nearby. They look so much alike they’re photographs of the same coffee-dipped man at different times in his life. Same blazing eyes, Papas’ grey, Daddy’s hazel and Uncle Pearl’s green. Same fine hair, combed straight back, but parted on the left. The three of them clap, and we all join them while Mama Hester makes a pretty, old lady curtsy. The clapping turns to whistles, and Lois puts her hands to her cheeks, overwhelmed with anticipation. “It’s almost time!” she says.
Mama Hester raises one hand, and gathers all of our thoughts. Then she bows her head and says, over crackle of the bonfire, “Lord, please make us and keep us truly grateful. Amen.”
“Amen!” The neighbors shout back, and head for the tables, as though there is gold hidden at the bottom of every platter and basket. Lois and I dash out of the stampede to the porch again, because we can see everyone from here, Kids have to wait until grown folk have been through the line once before they can get something to eat.
“So can we eat?” Lois says, “I don’t think Rock Island is going to seem new anytime today. Maybe tonight once the fire gets going good.” Lois says, not lingering on the insult, because she never does.
“Oh, that’s what I was about to tell you! I’m going to get me a baby tonight at the bonfire.”
“They got babies here?”
“No, they’ve got wishes.” She nods thoughtfully, and I keep going. “I want a baby brother more than anything. Everybody’s got a brother or sister, but me.”
“True.” She says, almost laughing, “Some people want a brother, and some people just got too many brothers. But the bonfire is a good idea.” Lois almost always likes what I can think up, and she’s got good ideas too.
And now, from the back of the crowd, Mr. Skeets' Barry Tone calls across the grass. He is over by the fire pit, where some of the company has been drifting for the past hour or so. He's got one foot on a rock near logs piled high. Lois pulls me by the hand, and we sit, with a bunch of other kids to hear him say, "Now, this here's the story about the Rock Island line. See, the Rock Island lilne is a railroad line, and it runs from here down into New Orelans. And just outside of New Orleans is a big toll gate. And all the trains that go through the toll gate, why, they gotta pay the man some money. 'Less of course, they got certain things on board, then they okay, then they don't ever have to pay the man nothin'."
“He make this song?” asks Lois.
“I heard he learned it in jail.”
Lois’s eyes get a little wider, and she leans in, “Who told you that?”
“I didn’t say anybody told me. I said I heard.”
“Yeah, but is it true?”
“That’s what I heard, is all I’m saying.”
"The Rock Island Line, it is a mighty good road, Oh The Rock Island Line is the road to ride. I say, The Rock Island Line it is a mighty good road, If you want to ride it, gotta ride it like you find it, Get your ticket at the station for The Rock Island Line!" |
