MammieDoll-PDF

MAMMIE DOLL

A Novel By
G. Franklin Prue

In Memoriam
Aunt Pearl, Aunt Elthel and Aunt Cleo

“Few women, I fear, have had such reason as I have to think the
long sad years of youth were worth living for the sake of
middle age.”

-George Eliot

Prue / Mammie Doll i

PROLOGUE

Jack Jefferson was like any other Negro in 1880 —
a soul that wanted to run, run, run from the cotton fields.
Minnie Green, South Carolina was the only home he
knew. He could smell the hog guts cooking up between
the fried chicken shanty towns, smoking remedies of
nicotine tobacco fields spread under the nervous black sky
of shock-white stars that didn’t quite blink away the
hundred years of slavery thrust upon a fashionable, strong
people.

He waited in the barn for the hoof beats from a
dozen carriages. Walk-about white men with sheets over
their heads, torches in their hands, looked to eat the flesh
from a darkie picnic. . . .

Heat pressed the summer night. Hound
dogs howled at the crying babies in the families,
sniffed out the flesh of a territorial black man
running from the fields of his documented slavery
in the still of the night with a brown bag of an
heirloom in his hands, stolen from the house of
Mister Baker. His small maid-waif of a wife,
Pearlie Jefferson, broke down and cried about her
husband leaving her for the north with all their
savings of ten dollars and the heirloom dinner bell
doll baby in the chicken sandwich paper bag.

Some winds stirred up as he pressed
himself against the shadows in the barn. His face
and hands were burned from the many years of sun
and shoes kicking him in his ass. He couldn’t wait
for her any more. She was his wife, his love. But
she had to face the night alone without her warm
arms around his neck. Dogs were coming. She
wouldn’t be able to outrace them. . . .

Some of them took up pick handles.
They bred a hatred of black, fire, name-
calling under their hoods. Twisted Christianity
kept them niggers at the end of a long rope. Whip
’em like you wouldn’t whip your best horse. He
heard the hollering, the white-skinned men
languishing, looking in every house to catch his
rabbit ass.
Jack knocked the sweat off his face. He
started to feel his heartbeat through his wet shirt.

Prue / Mammie Doll ii

He offered himself to God with a mixed prayer of
strength and fear to protect him in the winds of a
lynch rope. He ducked lower on his belly. He
scraped the ground like a soup spoon between the
pitchfork and four carriage wheels.

Horses winked at him, sniffed down at his
face. The barn door cracked. One of them
blocked his path. . . .

Jack lifted his chest up off the hay. He
sucked up his breath and crawled closer between
the legs of the horse.

Sixty seconds seemed like a thousand
minutes waiting for the Klan to leave. But the man
moved closer to the horse stall. This gave Jack the
chance to come up behind him. He hooked a right
arm around his wind pipe. His left hand balled,
punched him in the head. Jack felt the strength of
the man simmer down and go limp in the straw.
He gently brought the soft man down into the hay
stacks.

Jack took up the pick axe, slammed it down
in the middle of a face he couldn’t see. He ran
from the barn, jumped over the fence. He fell,
hopped up, scattered from the gunfire chasing right
behind his ear. He wasn’t going to stop until he
got to the river.

Jack stuck the brown paper bag down in his
shirt and pants, confident that he had the dogs beat.
But he wasn’t going to look back, too afraid he
would die under dem bright white stars. Too
afraid to stop kicking for his life with this bag of
pieces of a family going up north for the freedom
train.

Too afraid to cry for leaving his wife and
children behind.

He sang, “Ohhhh, wasn’t going to be me
tonight, Lord! Wasn’t going to be me tonight. . . .”

Prue / Mammie Doll 3

PART ONE

Prue / Mammie Doll 4

THE GIFT

Prue / Mammie Doll 5

CHAPTER ONE

World War II

Thursday morning crowd ran to waiting train lines
resembling the junk of street art. Growling grey faces of people
became the hungry wolves of ancient Rome. Noses blew off the
chill of war that was about to heat up for the Depression babies.
Families fought to continue on. Women sobbed at windowsills.
Children sat with their parents around the radio listening for a
sign from the Great Roosevelt. But they still played, laughed
over games, keeping the faith in the Lord — to get through the
next day.

Mileston, in upstate New York, didn’t break under the
winds. It stood with two churches that separated the whites from
the coloreds. A belief that if they could work things out in some
way — grow gardens, raise children — that they would see the
next day come Monday.

In this pool hall, men with cut-glass faces studied the
green velvet pockets, butcher-boy caps tipped to the side. But
ugly voices rose at the top from a blood splattered ceiling in the
mists of cigarette smoke curling across the hot lamps. Sonny
Nickles was in the back near the toilets, in somebody’s face.

“Sonny! You know I was kiddin’ bouts Sweet Sugar
Willie takin’ out Kid Columbo in the sixth round.”

“Fred, you know the rule. . . . Don t play with my
money.” Sonny slapped his back pocket for his knife. “Give it
up!” He gripped him up in the collar, making him jiggle on his
toes.

“Uh, all right.” Fred slapped the money in his hand.
“Here, man.”

Sonny counted, loosened his grip. “Now get on, punk.”
He backed up, watched him run through the tables and out the
door. He lit up, puffed, watched the early morning crowd get off
to work.

A mustachioed slim man came up. “I see Fred had to
leave real fast.”

Sonny said, “He had to get his collar fixed.” He stuck the
money in his wallet.

“Sonny, I m going in.”
Sonny plucked ash. “Going where?”
“In the Army.”
He reached for a pool cue. “Stop bullshitting, Baby T.”
He looked over the table at the balls. “Play pool.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 6

“I m not joking.” He chalked the tip.
Sonny patted his shoulder. “They don t want you.”
“Sonny, they want everybody . . . and you next.”
He leaned on his stick. “You a dead man, Baby T.”
“Goddamit! At least I’ll be killing the white man and they
can’t lynch me for that. . . . God bless America!”
“Mannn, I’m gonna have to kick some sense in that long
head of yours.” He stomped his cigarette out. “You crazy.”
Baby T racked up the balls. “They coming after you,
Sonny, and you betta be ready.”
“Mannnn, fuck Uncle Sam. I ain’t ready to die yet.” He
moved around the table, scratched his brow. “Shit.”
“You don’t understand, do you Sonny?” He pointed.
“I’m a dropout and you a dropout. . . . So what the hell we got to
live for?”
“Don’t forget you a Negro too. Haaa.” He stuck his hand
in his pocket and pulled out an empty pack of cigarettes.
“Shhhh.”
“Jeeeeez-us Christ!” Baby T spotted a pair of long legs
going by from the storefront window.
Sonny stared. “Hey, man, I know her.” He threw the pool
stick down and ran after her. He pushed through the crowd with
the winds almost blowing his cap off. He kept running, past the
hot dog man and the paper boy with buck teeth. He scooted
around a blind man begging for money on the corner. He flipped
a dime in.
He saw she had on a navy blue beret, and wrapped up in
an ankle length trench coat. He called her. “Allllma . . . Allllma
Jefferson!”
A light stopped her. She spun around. “Sonny. Sonny
Nickles!”
“Whew! I thought it was you.” He hugged her. “God, I
betta exercise.” He bent over. “Ahhh.”
“Haaa, haaa. You better.” The light changed. “Come on,
walk me to the train station.”
“Okay. I saw you go by the pool hall and I just started
running.”
She pulled her collar up. “It’s been a while . . . since
school and all.”
He said, “Over two years.”
She said, “I understand . . . you had to leave.”
The train slowly pulled up on them. People pushed,
pulled by the couple. “Uh, problems at home.” He stared down
at the steam coming from the train wheels. “Where you on your
way to?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 7

She said, “To my job.” She wrote her number down.
“My number. You call me now.”

He took it. “Uh, I will Alma . . . I will. Uh, have a nice
day.” He didn’t want her to go. “Bye.”

“Bye, Sonny.”
Chilly people hugged, bunched up, pushing her towards
the door. Smokey, grey faces looked ahead at the steel doors.
The conductor with a pencil neck commanded, “All aboooard!”
Sonny started back to the pool hall — to Baby T and the
rest of them who were all under pressure to sign up before Uncle
Sam came after them. Signs were stuck on buildings of the man
with the stovepipe red, white and blue hat. Long lines of white,
black, yellow faces stood waiting for their turn. Names, dog tags,
open chests for a bullet. Time to give blood. Time to die. He
stopped at a paper stand, read: “HITLER TAKES POLAND. HITLER
MOVES ON. HITLER SETS SIGHTS ON FRANCE. ARE WE NEXT?
ARE WE NEXT?” Sonny didn’t look at the brave men. The dead
men. His world was routine, motionless. Another broom, mop,
stale pack of cigarettes, bottle of scotch, gin. Another cheap
girlfriend. A fist over the wars of Joe Louis. He lit up another
cigarette, yawned. He watched the girls glide in their gingham
dresses. He was cold, part of the walking dead. Motionless,
bobbing his head. He fought, with his only weapon a long
handled broom. It didn’t shoot bullets, but suds at night, over the
floors of Tudor Elementary School. Dance with the mop, Sonny.
Dance with the broom. Feel the wood pop in your fingers, splash
the water up your legs. Dance with the floors, halls, bathroom
stalls. From six to ten you the man. You the one. Sweat under
the lightbulb, lockers, children’s desks pushed to the corners of
the classroom. This is your life. Dance with the mop till ten, till
the songs of men carry you to finish. This is your chain gang.
You want to eat, man. You got to pay for a room. A hole. You
got to work. You got to swing that mop till you drop. Pull the
trash, smell the suds of ammonia up your nose. It’s gonna knock
you out. It’s gonna give you a high to fly. A high to make you
keep swinging that mop. No, don’t think. The man don’t want
you to do that. No, don’t try it. You don’t have time. Keep
swinging, flaring the long stick with those Satchmo, Ellington
horns. Childish man, tears, heat in the basement by the graham
crackers. Did you want to steal the children’s milk? They leave
nothing else for you to take. Dirt, sweat, tears, graham cracker
cookies. Bite into one. Shit! That’s all you had to eat anyway
today. Keep swinging that mop. You got your job. You got
your manhood, behind a long stick.
No, just think of the nice face of an old friend — Alma
Jefferson. Your moth has turned into a black butterfly. With

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wings, she flies. She meets you with a smile. A pair of eyes that
would melt the snow from your heart. Keep swinging that mop.
Keep thinking of Alma Jefferson, your butterfly. She will save
you. She will bring you up from the waters of the mop and soap
suds.

Kindergarten keys to room one twenty. Unlock the door,
spot furry animals, dolls, balls, crayons, trash cans that had to be
emptied. Keys to class two-ten, he entered the third grade. Saw
his little-boy ghost on how to write. A perfect name. A perfect
world by his teacher, Mrs. Harper. Her eyes showed off brown
diamonds. Her love and care made him want to give her
everything: marbles, apples, flowers, pretty pictures of ships,
birds, houses. His keys opened the doors to the sixth-grade. He
had to peek under Sara McKinney’s dress, pull Patsy McGuire’s
plaits, pour milk on Margie McClain’s hair. Take an ass-
whipping from Helen Good. Wet dreams, his mother’s earrings.
Dry mop away the hearts, faces, souls of chalk dust from the
floors. Erase the wrong answers, and get caught for doing a dirty
dance. He was finished for tonight.

He pulled up his collar and got lost in the world under the
blue, black night. He stuck, chewed down another graham
cracker, swallowed down hard the white stars. And not let the
chills rub him the wrong way. Night frost came from his mouth,
nose. His keys rubbed and jiggled in his pants pockets, keys to
his room, to his mother’s place. He locked his mind away from
the ones who wanted to shoot the shit to him. A quarter, a dime
anytime. Ten to twenty behind a broomstick instead of a
blackjack. A third generation, scared nigger from Mississippi. A
fourth generation slave. His grandparents ran from the lynch
mob to another rope up North, closer to Canada.

Sonny’s back and arms were sore. He stepped faster, his
head down, trying not to blame his mother for lying down with
her legs open. He was lost with the rest of the Jew haters. False
nigger lovers. He was set up, from the beginning, to live with the
lost.

October night, Indian summer moon. Sonny went to his
mother’s apartment at fifty-two Green Avenue. A suffocating
box full of cats, dogs, rats, mice, children throwing rocks and
bottles at other children. Crazy-eyed men, three of them, sang
Chicago Blues under the white globe of the lamp post, singing
tunes that would soothe a new baby to sleep. Shanty houses,
single rooms, overnight hotels and back alley apartments that hid
the bad laundry of Mileston. White man’s shame.

Voices rang in his ear of his place in this land, this
America. You live where we let you. Young boys vomited
cheap wine. He sniffed out dog shit, dead rats, empty liquor

Prue / Mammie Doll 9

bottles. He stepped around knife fights, crap shoots, a little reefer
selling. He spotted a big tit gal, Momma Too-Tight. He turned
down some of her good, down-to-earth pussy. Another whore on
the corner had to be about sixteen. He wanted to take a peek
under the red winter coat with a fox collar. He lit up, let the
cigarette smoke take him the rest of the way. But he had his
switchblade ready, if a monster was going to come after him.

He spotted Momma Maybelle peeking away from torn
curtains. He hugged her at the door, but he wanted to scream at
the puffy, glassy eyes. He kissed the small moles over her
cheeks. “Hi, mom.”

She touched the bobby pins in her hair. She should have
washed the liquor smells from her mouth. She closed the door
behind him. “Hey, baby.” She tightened the rope robe around
her waist and walked over to the dining room table. “Sonny, you
got some money? . . . I need a pack of cigarettes.” She balled up
an empty pack.

Sonny dipped into his pocket. “Ma, here.” He slapped
the money into her hand. “But I’m tired of supporting your
habits. I’m tired of the drinking. I’m tired of you sleeping
around with one man after another. Goddamit, I’m tired of you
killing yourself.” He wiped his eyes, pulled up his chin. “Ma,
please, please, stop drinking so much. . .”

“Sonny, if I could . . . I would.”
He stomped around. “Dammit, you could if you stopped
living in the past. Dreamin’, prayin’ for my father to come back.
Hell, he’s been gone for ten years, Ma.” He shook her. “Come
onnnn. Stop it. Stop it!” He rubbed her neck. “Ma, stop
worrying ’bout a no-good motherfucker who ran out on you and
me.”
She looked into his face. “Boy, stop worrying so much.
You gonna get old before your time. Ha, ha.” She turned away,
straightened up the table some, stuck the butt in her mouth. “Bo
is a good man. Oh, he might have treated me wrong now and
again, but you got to remember, Sonny, he’s your father.” She
threw the butt. “Boy, I’m gonna be all right. Just don’t you
worry so much, okay?” She went back to sweeping off the ashes
on the table.
He watched the woman whom he loved so much, her hair
falling out from the sides, her wrinkles curling under her chin.
Still an unshaken woman — proud, small, with eyes that got you
to fall right in. He rubbed her back. “Okay, Ma, but you just try
and do what I tell ya to.”
“I will. Now it’s late. You just go on. I see ya tomorrow.
”She pecked his chin, unlocked the door.

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“I will.” He hugged her. He left with a heavy head that
hurt. A breeze cooled off the tears from his cheeks. He held up,
went into Jake’s Drugstore to make the phone call to Alma.

Water song dripped from a leaking faucet, paint chip walls
from a yellow closet. Kitchen leftovers smelled of cod fish and
fried potatoes. Over the stove, Alma spit on a hot combing iron,
stuck her fingers in a jar of grease. She scrubbed her hair,
sticking the hot iron in as she glanced in the mirror at the small
mole over her lip under her left nostril.

She snipped, curled and rolled the rods around. Her robe
lingered down loosely. A cockroach crawled on the ironing
board in the corner. Bread crumbs had to come off the table, and
she still had to wash the dishes, comb out a plait, and press her
maid uniform. Her father’s shirt had to be done and she needed
to put the food back in the ice box. Don’t forget the two large
pans of fish grease that had to be cleaned. Shit, she was tired of
this, along with her mother’s deceitful voice, her father’s radio
and her big sister’s snores. She hated the early train ride to
Poughkeepsie to clean up behind two nasty old women. Her
diploma was catching dust in the hall closet. No sleep in her
father’s house. It wasn’t hers. She felt like a roomer, a boarder.
Her father told her to get out whenever she was ready. Her pig-
nose sister, the pretty one, had long hair. A sacred one. She had
the boyfriends, daddy’s little poodle. But a sister who made
Mom break down in tears over the fear of doing any work around
the house. Barbara the Bitch. A broad, she hoped, who would
someday get a husband who would beat and rape her to sleep. Or
grow a beard and have ten dumb children.

She placed the hot iron back on the stove and clipped her
hair with metal pins to keep the wave in place. She tossed a hair
net over, tightened it. She slapped the roach off the ironing
board, let it out. As she plugged in the iron, goddamn, she was
glad tomorrow was Friday so she could sleep longer on Saturday.

“RRRIIINNGGG RIIINNNGGGG!”
Her mother’s voice trailed down the stairs.
“AAAAlllmmmaaa, get the phone.”
“Okay, Ma.” She ran to the dining room, plucked the
receiver up from off the end bookcase. “Hello.”
“Alma, this is Sonny. Hi.”
“Hi, Sonny. I thought you wasn’t going to call me.” She
smiled. “Why so late?”
“Sorry ’bout that. . . . I just had to see my ma tonight.”
He looked around the drugstore. Jake was pulling down the blind
and tapping his watch at Sonny.
“Oh, how is Miss Nickles?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 11

“She’s okay.”
“You don’t stay with her?”
“Naw, I got my own place. Uh, over top the pool hall
with Baby T.”
She swayed under the arched doorway. “Baby T.” She
stuck her hand on her hip. “You and him were always pretty
close.”
“Yeah, but he’s talking ’bout going in the Army.”
“Ha! He’s gonna shoot his foot off.” She peeked in at the
iron. “What about you?”
“Naw, I wait . . . see how things gonna go around here.”
He pulled his ear.
“I’m glad to have you here, instead of fighting for some
ofay.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. It’s good to see that handsome face again, those
big ears. . . .”
“Ha! Uh. . . .” He stuck a hand in his pocket. “How
about going to the movie with me this weekend?”
“I can’t, Sonny.”
“Why?”
“Because you have to go to church with me first.” She
played with her earring.
“Church?”
“Yes, church.”
He tapped the counter. “Okay.”
“Good. Be at my house by eight.”
Sonny frowned. “Eight?”
“Yes, and don’t be late. . . . Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Alma.” He hung up and handed Jake a
dollar. “Thanks. It was worth it.”
“You lover boy. Go on, get out of here.” Jake opened the
door for him.
Sonny walked away whistling, feeling better after the
phone call. Her voice calmed him. He would sleep good tonight.

***
Blue, yellow and green stained glass window figures:
Baby Jesus, the man Jesus, his miracles, with lambs passing
under the morning light. Velvet-clad women and men dressed in
wool suits spoke quietly. So quietly. Candles, with a choir in
white and gold robes singing hymns under walnut rafters. Sonny
and Alma sat and held each others’ hands in fear. Prayers of
love, rejection, retribution, redemption that washed away the sins
of the Sixth Street Ebenezer Baptist Church. A simple won-
derfulness to celebrate man and woman. The stirring up of
coffee-colored people praying for any sign. Fathers, sons rocked

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in the arms of women. Options for the soul. Above them all
Reverend Bacon spoke at the parishioners. He sweated and
swore over the coming loss of loved ones.

“On this fifth day of October, a race for our souls has
begun in this house of prayer. We are the lambs who will be led
to our death. We are the children of God. We will find, discover
each other. We must talk to each other about ourselves, about our
children who will be led to the guns of Germany. To this devil
we call Hitler.”

He picked the Bible up, waved it. “We aaalll interpret this
great book differently.” He put it down. “To let us know why
we are on this earth. We all are going to go someday. When?
What day? What time?... But that’s the glory of it aaalll!” He
leaned back, then stretched out his arms. “So many of us get lost
in our hate. And from this we have created this viper from this
emotion. Now we must destroy this man, this hate. ” He pointed
around at the faces. “And when we walk out of that door today, I
want us all to understand this, and this one thing only. That is . . .
forgiveness.” He flapped his robe back off his shoulders, brought
his hands together. “Let us pray.”

People stood with their bibles, all bowing their heads,
clutching hands, cradling babies.

“Heavenly Father, guide us, show us the way. Shield our
sons from the fires of the Black Fox. Take our bullets and direct
them at this evil force that has taken over this world. Grant us the
courage, the strength, the stamina to fight this racism here in this
country and around the world. We give you our sons, for they are
the lambs of peace. Dear Lord, oh Lord God, shed your light
down upon us. . . . Amen.”

Paper fans flapped under the wings of angels. Teardrops
enveloped in the arms of strangers. There were hugs,
handshakes, back slapping and baby kissing from friends and
family as they reflected on the words of Reverend Bacon’s
sunlight morning sermon.

Alma took Sonny down the back steps of the church
basement. Before them a banquet table with a white tablecloth
was laid out: Coffee, grape juice, banana bread, baked rolls,
pound cake, eggs, bacon, ham, toast, fried chicken, potato salad,
orange juice; fruit bowls with bananas, apples, peaches, pears,
oranges and grapes; salads of lettuce, macaroni, tuna, tomatoes,
covered in vinegar and oil with roast beef on the side.

People jammed amongst the oil paintings of Jesus, his
disciples, and Mother Mary. Alma and Sonny got in line with
plates while some of Alma’s girlfriends welcomed Sonny to the
church. Alma shooed them off with introductions.

“Sonny, I like for you to meet Leona Lawrence.”

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Sonny shook her hand. “How you do.” He touched his
tie, kept moving in the line.

She smiled. “It’s good seeing you.” She winked at Alma.
“See you later, girl.”

Alma said, “Uh oh. The town gossip.”
“Huh.”
“Uh . . . Sonny, I like for you to meet Sandra . . . Sandra
Campbell.”
They shook hands.
Sandra said, “Nice meeting you.” She turned to Alma.
“Reverend Bacon was up today.”
“Uh . . . I must say, he moved me.” Alma touched her
pearls. “It’s definitely a time for praying.” She touched his hand.
Sandra nodded. “I see you later. Let me get in line. I’m
starvin’, child.”
“Bye.”
Sonny coughed, whispered, “I want to make love to you . .
. under this white God’s eyes.”
Alma said, “Sonny, you ain’t changed. You still a dog,
and a slick talker too.” She stuck her purse under her arm.
He grinned. “I’m not playin’. I wanted you every since
the third grade . . . that day I poured milk on your head . . .
but. . . .”
Pushing his arm, she asked, “But what?”
“I wasn’t ready yet. I was too scared and my feet was
bigger than my brain then.”
“Haaaa! They still are.” She looked at his shoes. She
kept moving up. “Ummmm, those eggs smell delicious.”
“Alma, real funny. But no, I’m glad you invited me to
your church.” He took bacon, eggs, a couple of rolls and some
juice.
She scooped up some eggs, ham, toast and half a cup of
coffee. “It’s some nice folks here.”
He stepped to the side and waited. “Mostly a bunch of old
people waiting to die.”
They walked by one of the tables and sat down.
She said, “It’s not that bad, Sonny.”
He winked. “You right. Ya serve good food here after
the preaching is over with.” As he bit his roll he added, “But
you know why I’m here in the first place.”
“No, why?” She bit into her toast.
“You. That’s all. Just you.” He checked around at the
eating faces. “Is your father coming?”
“Un uh. He home listening to his radio.” Alma dabbed
at her mouth. “My mother told me he came here long ago to just
find a wife. So he’s finished with the church now.”

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Sonny stared at her. “I can understand that. There’s some
good looking gals around here.” He touched her hand.

She looked away. “Here comes my mother and sister.”
Sonny stood. He towered over the five-two mother with a
large forty-four D cup chest. Her sister, Barbara—hair was
longer, but she wasn’t any prettier. But he could tell by the way
she sneered her nose up at the plates of food that her hands never
touched a dirty dish.
He shook the mother’s hand. “How you do, ma’am?” He
balled his napkin in his fist.
Alma interrupted. “Momma, you know Sonny Nickles.
He use to live across the street from us . . . Miss Maybelle’s
son.”
“Oh, hi Sonny.” She squinted up. “Forgive me, I don’t
have my glasses on right now.” As she grabbed his hand she
said, “Boy, you got big. Ya moved, didn’t ya?”
“Yes ma’am. We moved off Bryant Street about five
years ago.” He sat back down and looked up at her.
“How is Maybelle doing?”
“She’s fine, hanging in there.”
“Good. I’m glad my daughter got you in here.”
“Ma, you gonna sit with us?”
“No, baby. I sit with Mamma Gladys and Sister Frances.
Nice meeting you, Sonny. Tell your ma Daisy Jefferson said hi.”
“I will.” He pushed his plate away.
Alma asked, “You all right, Sonny?”
“I just wish my ma would come back to church. She
needs friends right now.” He wiped his hands on the napkin.
Patting his hand, Alma said, “Sonny, I know about
Maybelle’s drinking problem.”
He frowned, “You do, Alma?”
“Sonny, this is a small town and it ain’t many of us in
Mileston. We all know.” She sipped her coffee. “We have to
look out for each other. . . . Maybe my mother could talk to her.”
He said, “That would be nice. I just worry about her a
lot.”
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”
They stood and picked their coats off the back of the
chair. More people were coming in for the second service.
Alma kissed her mother. “Ma, me and Sonny are leaving
now.” She glanced at Barbara. “Need me to check on Daddy?”
The older woman patted her daughter’s hand. “Naw.
Just check on the roast that I left in the oven. I’ll be home round
three. Bye, Sonny.”
“Bye, ma’am.” He followed Alma back out of the church,
up the stairs into the flakes of a light snow coming down.

Prue / Mammie Doll 15

“Sonny, it’s colddddd.”
He grabbed her around the shoulders. “Just watch your
step, I don’t want you to trip on any ice.”
Alma stepped over the pine cones on the ground. A white
fog brought them closer. She felt Sonny’s warm breath tickle her
neck. She pulled her collar up as steam slipped from her lips.
Sunday afternoon quiet streets. Feeling safe with him, she
wasn’t alone anymore. Covered up in a cavern of arms, a man’s
love saved her, protected her from this soft white blanket of clean
air. Snuggled soft steps. Four blocks from her door steps some
kids ran by. Nudging them as she listened to his voice. His face
tucked closer to her ear. All she needed, all that would ever be.
They passed cathedral brick homes. Iron gates melted under the
ice under the snow-covered sharp spears. She warmed him with a
kiss on his gravel cheek and wrapped her arm around his waist.
They walked slower. Cars went by as other peoples’ shoes made
imprints in the slush. How deep would it get? Work tomorrow?
She hoped not.
She looked at his wet face under the street lamps. His
shy, sometimes brown eyes. A thousand smiles across his face.
A touch, a kiss back. A glance from this Indian-mixed black
man. Her wooden sandman, nibbling on her ear. Giggling, she
slapped his hand from her butt. She wanted to hit him with a
snowball, tackle him and feel his legs between hers. Golden door
knobs of houses’ black doors. Almost home, as snowflakes fell
on her nose. She became nervous, afraid, in love, scared, empty,
full, shaken-up, a Civil War raged in her stomach. She slipped
into his arms again.

Prue / Mammie Doll 16

CHAPTER TWO

Aproned hips of mother and daughter anxiously worked
around in the kitchen on this Thanksgiving Eve, basting the
turkey, slapping honey on the sweet Virginia ham, baking butter-
homemade biscuits in the oven, cutting off slices of fatback for
the string beans, whipping up the mashed potatoes in a bowl,
mixed in with butter and cheese. Alma took a sharp knife and
started to slice sweet potatoes for the candied yams. Her mother
turned the oven up to three hundred for the turkey. She plotted to
put an extra dash of cloves in the cornbread stuffing. Clayton
liked his stuffing spicy up his nose. She dripped baking grease in
the collards, added a pinch of sugar and a couple of teaspoons of
vinegar. Her rolls were rising nicely. Puffed up all golden
brown.

“Was your daddy up when you came down, Alma?”
“Ma, he was going in the bathroom to shave.”
“And what was your sister doing . . . still asleep?”
“Ma, she was in her room painting her toenails and
listening to the Fibber McGee and Molly Show.” She sipped on a
glass of ice tea. “Whewwww, smells good in here, Ma.”
“Baby, it should. We been cooking since this morning to
get this supper ready.” She scratched her head. “Did you invite
Sonny and his ma?”
Alma smiled. “Yeah, Ma. They be here.” She sprinkled
brown sugar and butter on the potatoes. “I told him to be here by
six.”
“Good.” She looked at the turkey browning in the oven.
“Ahhhh.” Wearily she sat at the table. “Girl, you got your head
on straight?”
“Huh, Ma?”
“I’m talking about Sonny, Alma.” She poured herself a
drink of ice tea.
Alma opened the bottom door of the oven. “Yeah, Ma,
it’s on straight. He treats me good.” She placed the pan of
candied yams in. “It’s not like he’s some stranger.” She wiped
her hands on her apron and sat down across from her mother.
Her mother was a stern friend. “You got a problem with Sonny?”
“He’s okay. It’s just that, um, he’s from the street.”
“Ma, come on. Every man around here is from the
streets.” Alma pulled her ear, then fingered the ice cubes in her
glass.

Prue / Mammie Doll 17

“I just want betta for ya.”
Alma smiled and patted her hand. “Do you ever
remember telling me a long time ago about the man of your
dreams?”
Her mother sipped. “Yeah, I think so. . . .”
“Well, it was about Daddy, and you said, ‘Honey, you
can’t ask much from a man . . . just that he has a strong back, a
hard worker and the guts not to lie.’”
“Child, you remember too much.”
“Haaa haaaa. Let’s just say . . . I’m your daughter.” She
stood up, bent and gave her mother a good, tight hug. “Ummmm,
luv ya.”
“Luv you too, baby.” She stood and stretched out her
arms. “Uuuggghhh, let’s let that bird cooking and me and you
can go on upstairs to get ready for this evening.”
Alma slipped off her apron. “Okay, Ma.”

***
Iceman in the summer, fishman in the winter, Clayton
Jefferson was a crusty, husky man with thick shoulders and a
twinkle in his eyes for old women and children or whenever he
tried to sell something. He made others want to smile back at
him. He relaxed on comedy shows most of the time: Jack Benny,
Fred Allen’s Alley, Bergen and McCarthy. He kept his world
light laughing at John Doe, Socrates Mulligan and Senator Boat.
But when he shaved in the mirror, he dreamed he was from the
Old West with the Lone Ranger, Cisco Kid and Tom Mix. Now
he wasn’t just a frivolous man. He did listen and care about the
cats overseas. Lowell Thomas and Eric Severeid were his
favorites, with the radio waves constantly bombing his and
everyone’s ears with, “Slap a Jap. Slap a Jap. Slap a Jap.”
He stood up at the head of the table with a glass of wine.
It was a dining room of gothic back chairs, on the side a china
closet in light mahogany, a Philadelphia rococo highboy
underneath a wall mirror. Two candles flickered at both ends of
the table, with the wild bird in the middle amongst friends and
family.
“I like to thank everyone for coming and spending this
Thanksgiving day with me and my family. I want us all to try
and move on, to keep this season going on as normally as
possible. I know of the stories of young men coming back from
over there with no legs or half a face burned off . . . but I want us
to sit here and enjoy this turkey and sip the sweet wines from my
table. And to give thanks for the shit that we go through each and
every day . . . that we made it through another season. So, here’s
to all ya. And the coming holidays. May God be with you.” He
drank his wine. “Now ya sit while I cut this here bird.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 18

Collard greens came Alma’s way. She passed them off to
Sonny. Across from her was Uncle Ted, her cousin Tina and
Sandra, who was slapping mashed potatoes on her plate. Cousin
Eddie, a diabetic man with a gold tooth, picked at his string
beans. She became nervous, polite, quiet, cumbersome as she
pushed her knee against Sonny’s.

Her father hacked off the leg, sneezed again this year from
the stuffing. He handed down a plate of dark meat and juggled
the carving knife for the other leg. Alma spotted her mother
whispering at Barbara. Her sister rocked, bit her bottom lip. A
face with no reception to the flickering candle lights. No warmth,
not a reversal or review. Her sister cradled secrets that she would
never know. She was three years younger. Three years of too
much pain, too many phone calls, flowers from men and boys.

Alma passed a plate down to her Aunt Mae, a widow
woman who collected dead husbands’ insurance monies — four
of them so far. Mae was a queen in the sack with her big tits,
high cheek-boned face. Alma liked her, a woman who loved
white wine and a highball every Wednesday around eight. She
never complained, because she always had love.

Revolving plates, her candy yams went fast. She felt
fuzzy from the red wine, noticed Sonny speaking to her father,
impacting a gentle face, not showing off, just showing. She
watched him eat up his vinegar hot collards. She rubbed his knee
again with her right hand, coughed into her left.

Aunt Suzy poured some hot sauce on her chitterlings. She
was tall like Alma. Let men eat her up. They would beat her, fill
her up with love and beat her again, and she had a thing for high
yellow men. Even went back to one of them three times.

White linen tablecloth, silver gravy bowl, butter dish, half
bottle of scotch, empty bottles of white wine.

Maybelle Nickles wanted a taste, but complimented Alma
instead. “I love your necklace.”

“Thanks, Miss Nickles.” She thumbed the pearls.
“Daddy got it for my sixteenth birthday.”

Her father peeked up from his turkey wing. “Sold lots of
ice and fish to get ’em, too.”

Everybody laughed.
“But my baby’s worth every pearl.”
Barbara said, “She only wears them on special occasions.”
She looked over to Sonny.
“And your earrings?” Alma asked. “When do you wear
them . . . a gift for your sixteenth.”
“Why, I forgot to put them on.” Barbara acted surprised
by touching her ears.

Prue / Mammie Doll 19

Daisy Jefferson asked, “Maybelle, you will be at the
prayer meeting this Sunday?”

Maybelle sipped her coffee. “Oh, I’ll be there.”
Sonny hugged her, gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“’Cause we need good workers right now,” Daisy said.
“This war and all. . . .”
Clayton interrupted. “Uh, Uncle Sam knocked on your
door yet, Sonny?” He cut up his greens.
Sonny felt the stares. He nodded. “Alma, I. . . .”
She knew, jumped up from her chair.
Sonny ran after her to the vestibule, slammed the door in
front of her to keep her from escaping into the muddy grey night.
“Alma, I was going to tell you.”
She backed up. “When, Sonny?”
“After dinner.” He threw his hands up.
She slapped his chest. “I don’t want you to go.” Tears
dropped. “Don’t go.”
“You think I want to?” He hugged her. “But I have to.”
“I love you, Sonny.” She grabbed his face. “Especially
that dimple.”
“Ha ha.” He kissed her fingers. “I’ll be back, baby.”
She squinted in the darkness of the hall. “When are you
suppose to leave?”
“December the sixteenth.” He tightened his grip on her
waist, jiggled her in his arms. “Ummmm.”
“Not much time.”
He picked her chin up. “Marry me.”
“Okay.” She kissed his cold face.
“Some Thanksgiving, huh?”
“Uh, I’ll say.”
He took her hand. “Let’s get back to dinner.”
“No, wait.” She pushed her leg through his. Smelled the
cologne from his neck. Rubbed his waist, butt. She pulled him
into her, closer under the shadows of Thanksgiving eve.

***
Broken wings of a dream, Alma woke up to the shrill
voices from her sister’s room. Her father’s voice rumbled,
roared, boasted of killing Barbara. “I told you once, I told you
twice, Barbara . . . don’t hurt me or your mother ever like this.”
“Daddy, I was afraid. I was afraid!”
“Damn you, child! I want you out of here!”
“No! Daddy, no!”
“Goddamit! You hear me? You hear me?”
“Daddy, please! Please!”
“You a goddamn whore! You goddamn bitch!”

Prue / Mammie Doll 20

“Daddy. Daddy, I promise. I promise . . . it won’t happen
again. . . .”

“Shut up! Goddamn you, shut up! I told you, Barbara,
stop running out here in dem streets. Who the hell is it?”

“Daddy, Daddy, I can’t tell you that.”
“Goddamn you then. . . . I want you the hell out of here
then. . . . You some goddamn she wolf. Ain’t no whores sleeping
in my house!”
“Daddy, Daddy, it was a accident. . . . a accident.”
“You were a accident. Now get the hell out of here!”
“Ma! Maaaa, please, Ma. Please, Ma.”
“You heard your father. . . . Now you go on and get
packed. . . . You going to Washington D.C. to live with your
Aunt Nana. Hush, girl. You brought this on your own.”
Hearts cried in the night while sisters wept. A musical
surrender of violin tears corrupted the air. Alma stood shaking at
her bedroom door, clutching to the whips from her father.
Cussing at three, fussing at the strokes of a desperate man.
Trying to correct the birth. Trying to lash out the
misbehavin. She tiptoed down the hall.
Her mother stuck an arm out, spinning her shoulders away
from the punishments of a family.
“Ma, what’s wrong?”
“In the morning, child. . . . in the morning. Now you get
on back to bed.”
She tried to peek. “But Ma — ”
“No buts. Get back to your room . . . you hear me?” She
pushed her in the back and slammed the bedroom door.
Night’s darkness closed in on her. The loud voices
continued. She drew the covers over her head and listened to her
heartbeats. Her pulse raced, scaring her, scaring the innocence of
pain, malice, midnight’s used-to-be’s, her father’s sweet kisses,
her mother’s bedtime stories. Around the night of stars, moons,
blackness, plaits, teddy bears, her sister cried out to stay. For
what? One day she knew it would happen. Under the darkness
of the warm covers Alma whispered her Sonny’s name. She
pushed the pillow over her ears. She smothered under the
warmth of the night. At three, she smothered the sounds of a
family. The weeping, the screams, the blood, the words of love
flew away. Off into some bad dream.
Friday morning Alma sat with her mother and father in the
kitchen over cups of coffee — no cream, burned toast. Moments
of silence answered in front of oatmeal bowls. Clayton said,
“Daughter, I don’t want you to worry none. Your sister will be
just fine in some other place.” He patted her hand. “In
Washington D.C.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 21

“Daddy, why?”
“Because of the earrings.” He sipped his coffee.
“Ma, earrings?”
“Alma, when you asked her about them. . . . I remember
you girls always wearing your jewelry on special occasions. . . .”
“Later on, I asked her about them.” His eyes started to
water up. “She couldn’t answer me.”
Alma picked at her oatmeal.
Her mother stuck a spoonful of sugar in her cup. “I went
to her jewelry box, but I couldn’t find them.” She stirred. “She
finally broke down and told me that she had to see Doc Harper.”
Alma looked at the porcelain faces. Two pieces of broken
parents. Sorrow, frozen in grey hairs of a mother and father. A
question, no answers. Just years of lost pain. Not much
happiness.
She went to the sink and started to wash the plates. Hot
water, cold. A life went down the sink. Blood-stained sheets that
had to be scrubbed. She turned the faucet to more cold water and
scraped away the egg yoke. The embryo of a baby chick. Dish
water life, pearls for a child.

***
Winter yellow, white popcorn flames roared from a
fireplace. Pronounced fire shadows danced on living room walls.
Picture window, two french doors leading to the hall. A piano to
the left with ripped rolls of sheet music. Glorious freshness of
winter snow came down this night, around ten p.m. A wingback
chair in front of the window destined to watch out on the streets.
Satin blue sofa, sprinkled with fleur de lis. Poinsettias sprayed on
a paw-feet coffee table gave the room less contact, low-light of
serenity. Winter shadows, beginning days. Wishes, dreams,
bottles of cold cream, dresses hemmed, steam from coal stoves
coming from the kitchen. A chocolate cake had to be baked.
Time lost, problems of a house, a room. Value of a family
treasured in holidays. Home just a picture frame. Tides, times
changed in front of you.
On bended knees, Alma prayed for forgiveness, then
rested back in the chair by the window, waiting for him. A time
right for love, a baby. Fire shadows went over her. A house, a
room danced with flames. A mantle of pictures, cousins, aunts,
uncles, the dead. A room danced with flames. Muffled sounds
over her. Her parents’ room. Night of ten degrees. Night of
flames, comfort secure her for a wedding day. A house, a room
with no more arguing. From winter’s tears a daughter gone. One
last phone call from Washington, D.C. No more forgiveness left
in a house, a room. Trees have died. A radio played the “Star
Spangled Banner.” Christmas lights blinked in her heart. Men

Prue / Mammie Doll 22

went overseas. She became frightened of the snows, the winds.
Where was Sonny?

And at a quarter to eleven he came to her.
Sonny’s eyes explained winter’s sadness. But a hint of
kindness came up in his chest when he held Alma in his arms,
arms that were sore from pulling trash cans.
“Hi, baby. Tell your father I want to see him.”
“Okay.” She ran up to her mother’s bedroom.
Mr. Jefferson held onto the wooden banister because of a
stiff knee. Popped up his suspenders, zipped up his pants. He
went to the living room.
Sonny swiped snow from his face. “Uh, Mr. Jefferson, I
just want you to know that I’ll be leaving soon.”
Her father picked sleep from his eyes. “Got everything
ready?”
“Yes sir, but I got to ask you just one thing.”
They both sat, feeling the flames.
“What’s that, son?”
“May I marry your daughter?”
“Ha! Son, you surprised me. . . .” He rubbed his chest,
rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.
Sonny looked down at the puddles of water that had
dripped from his chin, tapped his foot.
“You can marry her, but I like for her to stay here while
you gone.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sonny said. “I want her to stay here.” He
turned back to the flames. “I might not be coming back.”
“We all be praying for ya.”
“I know that.”
“Just keep your head down and write your wife every
day.”
“I will, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Now, this is my daughter. . . . Just don’t hurt her. Love
her, but don’t hurt her.”
“I won’t, Mr. Jefferson. She’s the bes’ thing that has ever
happen to me.” He twirled his cap in his fingers.
“I know. But ya takin’ a big step. This ain’t a game. . . .
You gonna have fights. But you got to come up from that. You
got to just let things go. . . . Just let her have her say sometimes
if you gonna sleep peacefully at night. And you betta believe, I
done had some big ones with her momma. But we always seem
to recover . . . not drown in the words. Rise above all the name
callin’. It ain’t easy, and if you want to hit her, just take a walk
around the block. Marriage ain’t no piece of cake. It’s gonna
take a lot out of both of ya. It’s full of love, full of pain. Just try
to get along, hear?” He stood up.

Prue / Mammie Doll 23

“I hear you, sir.” Sonny got up.
“Now, I gonna fix me a turkey sandwich. . . . You go on
and call her down these stairs.” He shook his hand. “And you
just remember to bring your ass back here in one piece.”
Sonny went to the stairs and called up. “Alma! Alma, I
love you.”
She came out of the bedroom with her mother, who
hugged her. “Oh, Ma.” She ran down, right into his arms.
He kissed her. “Let’s get married.”

***
December 7, 1942
Snake faces, vipers’ tongues cupped the skeleton bones of
the diamond eyes in their hands. Praying for money, life, death
shouts, what’s it all about. Goodbye Johnnies, crying Cindy
Lou’s in polka dot arched skirts. Bosoms lifted for Sam, Baby T,
Mr. Mars, Jack Gilley, Barefeet Jack, Bobby Ringnose, Cuby
Scott to taste. Hot whiskey flowed. Joe Black was making it up
in the bathroom. Poker games, a few knife fights broke out in the
six rooms over the top of the pool hall. Men were saying their
last goodbyes. Janet Greene licked Mike’s neck down. Josh
slipped a hand up Marie’s pencil skirt; a cute brown and white
hound dog licked blood off the face of Timmy Jeffries. He was
hit with a bottle of beer for messin’ with Sam’s Ellie Mae. Buck-
toothed men stuck their fists out, threatening to fire on slippery
fingers with an extra pair of aces.
This was a war party. Sonny was right in the middle of
the circus, hugging Baby T. He slapped some tears off his face,
stuck up a bottle of whiskey in his face and screamed at him,
“Have a drink. Have a drink, man. Just one more. I’m right
behind ya, T. I’m right behind ya.”
T snatched it from him and drank it down. Drunken lips
pulled on the foul liquid that was burning his heart out. He
pulled on Joyce Summers’ arm. “Baby, where you going?”
“If you got five you can go too, T.”
“Haaaaaaaaa haaaaaaa. Bitch, I fuck you later.”
“Nigger, fuck yourself.” She threw up her skirt, patted
her ass at him and went down into another room.
Jitterbugging couples stepped to some Goodman swing.
Beer flowed, while some Navy boys slipped behind some flower
haired girls for a dance.
Sonny tapped his glass to T’s. “Here’s to our hell-raising
days.” He slurped up his glass of gin. “Ahhhh!”
“Sonny, you remember when Chipmunk and his gang
chased you from his back yard?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 24

He rubbed his lips. “Yeah, I remember. . . . I was
peeking at his momma screwing the shit out of Mr. Toon in her
bedroom. Haaaa ahhhh!”

“And you ran under my porch with your dog. Ohhhh,
mannnn. Haaaa ha.” He rubbed his eyes and pointed at Sonny’s
face.

Sonny pushed him. “Shut up, man. I was scratching for
days.” He hugged T around the neck. “How ’bout the time you
was jumping Mr. Ben’s donut truck . . . and you caught your shirt
sleeve on the door handle just when you was trying to jump off.
Haaaa haa. Right!”

T was disgusted from busting his ass. “Sonny, that’s not
funny man.”

“Haaaa haaaa. Those tire tracks on your face were. Haaa
haaaaa. Uhhhh.” He spilled his drink. “Shit.” Licked his
fingers.

“Ah, nigger.” T rubbed his forehead. “Man, those were
some days.” He nodded. “I’m gonna miss being at your
wedding.”

“I know, man.” He leaned on the wall. He spotted an old
friend coming his way and nudged T.

T straightened his tie. “Uh, Betty James.” He picked his
nose. “What you gonna do, Sonny?”

He hunched to notice her reddish September face of fall
leaves. Soulful dark eyes of orchids on a summer’s grave. A
walk that covered miles with hips that rolled with the Sargasso
Seas. Her sequined red strapless dress fit her tighter than north
and south. She sipped on a bottle of beer.

“It’s good to see you Sonny.” She knocked some hair off
her left eye.

“Hi, Betty.” He held her hand and tried not to stare.
“This is a surprise.”

“Yes, yes it is. . . . I hear you getting married.”
“Um, yeah, real soon. . . . Then off to the Army with the
rest of my buddies.” He finished off his drink. “Ahhh.”
“Even though we didn’t stay together, I’m gonna miss
you, Sonny.” She rolled a finger over his top shirt button.
He pulled her finger off. “I’m gonna miss everybody.”
He winked at Baby T on the wall with a woman.
“How about one last dance?”
He took her deeper into the crowd and pulled her up to his
chest. “Come on.” He slid his right hand over her back and let
the horns carry them under the blue lights. He shifted his body
closer. Small breaths of silence, smelled the perfume from her
neck, almost making him forget the problems of the past. Too
much drinking. Too many fights. Reluctant, afraid to love her

Prue / Mammie Doll 25

again. Closing his eyes to Alma’s cotton brown face. Not hers.
Changes occur. No kisses stolen. Bodies danced and said
goodbye. One last time.

***
December 9, 1942
Sacred womb of love, marriage, holidays, funerals,
embracing the hearts of a man, a woman. Catbird laughter from a
mother’s bedroom. Striped blue walls, canopied bed with a hope
chest at the end. Chiffonier with a father’s colognes, belt buckle,
cuff links, razors, shaving cup. By the window a dressing table
and stool covered with bottles of pink perfume. A maiden, a
mother, sister, a daughter stared at herself in a mirror. Aunts,
cousins, friends surrounded a bride this day. Her cloud white
bridal gown was from her mother’s closet. All trimmed in silly
swirls of silk lace from the collar to the back. Her hair was
curled, bobbed, rolled to the right and parted in the middle. It
became hard to avoid the tears of a mother, sister, daughter.
Hugs, and a nervous stomach calmed down by some seltzer
water. Traditions carried over, stories first time told. With
country tales from colored gals.
She pinned on a brooch of blue stones, put on white
gloves from her aunt’s closet. Stuck her toes in a new pair of
gold high heels. Although times were hard between them, it
would be nothing without her sister near. Alma reached to her.
“I’m glad you here.”
Barbara stood over her, uncapped the lipstick. “Shhh. Put
this on.” She gave it to her. They glared at each other in the
mirror. She hugged her around the neck. “Oh, look at us. Ha ha
ha.”
Lilac smells. Her mother reached in the hope chest, dug
under some of the pillow cases and sheets. “Alma, I have
something for you.” She pulled out an old cigar box. “Here we
go.”
Alma stood. “What is it, Ma?” She whipped the train of
the gown from around her ankles.
Her mother showed her a porcelain, black-faced doll with
a red scarf tied over its head. Starlight pupils, eyes that stared, a
smile that would make babies laugh. Four inches, with a red
polka-dot handkerchief around its neck. Silk yellow blouse,
checkerboard red and white dress. It was laid over the top of a
copper dome. A bell was attached. She placed it in her
daughter’s hands.
“It’s so cute, Ma.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 26

Aunt Suzy fingered the dress. “Baby, it’s a Mammie Doll.
You ring the bell for supper or whenever you feel your family is
in trouble. It will bring your guardian angel to you.”

The women surrounded Alma, all looking down at the tiny
black face. A smile, a glint, a glow seemed to come from it.

Her mother said, “Alma, we pass this down from daughter
to daughter.” She pointed her finger. “Especially the ones we
feel are about keeping the family together. Baby, I received it
from your grandmother. This doll is a reward for all the hell I
done put you through with this house. This doll is for your hard
work, friendship and love for your family. And it comes out of
our slavery. Now Alma, it is to be given to your daughter one
day. But if she ain’t deserving, you must pass this doll on to one
of the nieces or cousins you feel is deserving. You are the one to
make that decision.” She looked at Barbara. “This ain’t a slap in
the face to you, but something that must be shared. We just feel
that your sister will be the caretaker of the Mammie Doll.”

Mr. Jefferson took his daughter and walked her down the
stairs to a somber wedding march. Eyes rose from the three
o’clock guests. In Alma’s home she would wed her dream.
Down the stairs, around the corner. In a shattered bright blue
dining room, friends, family, gossiping neighbors shrank from
her pearl veil. Faces faded, the notes from the piano died. Sonny
stood erect as a chocolate spoon. Someone to lick, soak up and
enjoy. She lost herself in his brown eyes. She took her place.
To be his wife, mother, whore. Her day to be in a dream. His
dream. Masked faces shed their wings. Cloaked rainbows
brightened her. His heat guided her from those woods of
darkness. She took his hand, took a place in his heart.

She listened to the words from the Lord—unmistakable,
unforgettable words that would shine on them both. She smiled
and wiped tears from her cheek. A glance at the wallpaper of
roses, so many flowers in the house today. Vows spoken, hearts
pounded, braved the day. In the doorway of the home small
utterances. Evolving into a man, a woman. She looked back at
the little girl dreams. She wanted to scream. Back out? Back
down? She wanted the music, the love. Yes, she wanted the
love. She looked up and said, “Yes, I do.”

Sonny smiled, wavered. “Yes, I do.”
A voice from a light. “You may kiss the bride.”
They folded up and embraced under the chandelier in her
mother’s dining room. They cherished the love. Whispered
away the lost and goodbyes of a war knocking on the front door.
An uninvited guest.

Prue / Mammie Doll 27

CHAPTER THREE

December 26, 1942
Pvt. Sonny Nickles
9th Cavalry
Camp Clairborn, Louisiana

Hey, Ma,
Writing you this letter to let you know I am all right.
Merry Christmas, wish I was there. Ma, the work of being a
soldier is hard. Especially when you being cussed and spit at by
the white troops. But they making me strong as a bull. You all
right? Make sure you don’t do no tasting. Ma, take good care of
yourself. Don’t you miss those prayer meetings. Ma, take care
of yourself. Okay?

Love
you,

Sonny

January 5, 1943
Alma Jefferson
618 Bryant Avenue
Mileston, N.Y.

My dear husband,
How you doing, hon? Did you get the Christmas cookies
Ma baked? Everybody misses you, baby. You know I miss you
the most. I dream about you every night. And sometimes I cry
myself to sleep. Sonny, I’m so happy. I have some good news
for you. Sonny, we going to have a baby. I hope you happy
about this good news. You take care, don’t you worry about me
none. Ma’s going to make sure I eat plenty of vegetables and
drink plenty of milk. Hurry up and write me back soon.

Love,
Alma

Prue / Mammie Doll 28

January 22, 1943
Pvt. Sonny Nickles
9th Cavalry
Camp Clairborn, Louisiana

Dear Alma,
Baby, I’m so happy to hear the news. We going to have a
baby? I love you so much, Alma. Did you get the money I sent
you? You be able to visit me down here soon. I want to see you,
rub your belly. Baby, I’m so happy. You will come down here?
Don’t worry about me, you just take care of yourself. God, it’s so
hot down here. I can’t wait to see you. I miss you.

Love,
Sonny

February 11, 1943
Maybelle Nickles
280 Greene Avenue Apt. #3
Mileston N.Y.

Hi, baby,
Just want to tell you, I got the money you sent me. Sonny,
I know things are hard on you right now. Baby, you don’t have
to send me no more money. Daisy Jefferson got me a job
cleaning up the church after the sermons and supper are over.
And I ain’t tastin’ ever. The Lord is with me, son, and I pray
every night that he be with you. Don’t you worry none bouts
Alma. We all watchin’ after her. You don’t pay no mind to that
white trash down there, son. You just do what they tell you. And
come home soon.

Love,

Maybelle

March 3, 1943
Pvt. Sonny Nickles
9th Cavalry
Camp Clairborn, Louisiana

Prue / Mammie Doll 29

Hi, baby,
Sitting on my bunk, dreaming of you. Another day of
duck walking with my rifle, cleaning up garbage sewers with a
shovel. I’m so sick of peeling potatoes. Alma, I want you to visit
me, but so much shit is going on here. Some of the wives and
girlfriends have been getting picked on by the Klan MP’s on the
streets. Baby, they got it in for us down here. Do not visit me. I
don’t want to have to kill some cracker for touching you in this
Jim Crow Army. Baby, it just ain’t worth it. But I hear they be
moving us soon to another base up in Pennsylvania. Don’t you
worry about me. I be seeing you soon. Kiss your ma for me.

Love
you,

Sonny

Prayers from her lips. Alma kissed Sonny’s letter. She
folded it, stuck it down the front pocket of her apron. Her last
day on the job for a while in the house of Elthel and Susan
Hirschberg. Her knees scrunched, tucked under her, she dug into
the black and white linoleum kitchen floor. Small aches, a slight
headache. Some nausea. She scrubbed till that magical time of
five p.m. She dunked the scrub brush in a pail of soap suds,
slapped water over, pushed hard on the floor, digging, digging,
the dirt and grease out. Her sore knuckles gripped, dipped,
sloshed in the grey waters. Her neck, shoulders, arms, pumped
back and forth, back and forth. Believing of an idealistic clean,
spotless world someday. No dirt, no surrendering, just work. A
world of hard work, sweat. Small pains circled, flew, scooted
over her back, arms, wrists, ankles. Pain jumped, danced,
pranced through her legs and knees. Pain to clean out the dirt.
Pain to clean out the rain storms of losing your husband, your
child. Sonny’s reflection appeared to her in a bucket of dirty
water. His smile flickered with the suds. She smiled back .
Dipped her brush back in. On her knees, on her good knees she
was stuck to this floor. Her baby growing inside of her. She
scrubbed harder, harder. For a world that would not be gentle to
her or her baby.

She was glad to get that thirty-six dollars a month. It
helped to buy things for the new baby. Sweat, tears all from the
souls to the floors of white folks. Some were good. Some were
meaner than the smell of dog shit — pure evil like that Hitler
fella. But the Hirschberg sisters were good people. Women who
have felt the whip on their backs. They had nothing to gain by
just being nice to her. Too old to do much but listen to Mutual
Broadcasting radio most of the day.

Prue / Mammie Doll 30

Elthel and Susan were short, Jewish, old flapping flags in
a world wind that wouldn’t let up. Their days were once spent in
well lighted dining rooms, operas, offices of bankers, lawyers. A
life that was shrouded in false promises. A world with five
hundred Jews in Germany. Packed with some fine foods, wines
from Vienna, Austria. Pearls, diamonds, gold coins stored from a
father with money, money that would later threaten their whole
race of family. When times were hard, everybody was a nigger.
Everybody would feel the pinch of the rope.

They were quiet most of the time, sophisticated heiresses
of Germany’s long gone days. Then one day a little man from a
beer hall came. Then the political underground had them talking
to friends at night in back rooms, basements and attics. They
were all going to die. Die like dogs, rats, cats. They were all
gonna die.

From the floor, Alma heard the sisters screaming at each
other. About whatever, a good guess would be tears over the
war.

“Amerikans. Amerikans vill save us.” Miss Susan’s face
was a giant hole screaming for salvation, a cigarette in her hand.

“Shut up, you. No Amerikan cares about Jews.” Elthel
shook her by the shoulders, slapped her. “Ve are being cheated.
I not fooled. Even the milkman has cheated us of one bottle of
milk.”

Susan pushed her. “Who vill save us? Who vill save us?”
She rubbed her jaw, took a swing at her. “Sister whore.”

Elthel rubbed her eyes. “Bitch.” She spat. “No one. No
one. Ve are old pieces of shit. Old pieces of shit. Ve lucky the
CV got us out.”

“I ashame to live. I ashame to live. Let me die.”
Elthel slapped her again. “Shut up. Shut up. Poppa gave
his life for us to get to Amerika. Shut up.” Tears were flowing
down her powdered cheeks, blinding her vision. “Tank God you
have escape death camps.” She blew her nose with a lace hand-
kerchief. “I slap you again. You old child.”
Alma stepped between them, arms both between the two
grey-haired sisters. “Sisters. Sisters. This here screaming ain’t
gonna solve a thing. Ain’t saving anybody either.” She put her
arms down, watching them cool off. “Now ya settle down here.”
Elthel raged over at her sister. “Ve Jews will fight . . .
fight in ghettos, Alma. . . . Uh, Bialystok, Kovno, Piotrko.” She
stuck her hand on a hip, pointed at Susan. “Ve are fighting for
our life. Amerika spits on us. On us.”
Alma slapped Elthel’s finger down. “Stop it. Stop it! My
ma would always tell me, child you got to fight to live and
sometimes you need help to do that.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 31

Susan shook her head. “Ahhh, crazy.” She slapped at
her sister.

“You drink too much grape,” Elthel hollered.
Susan stamped out her cigarette with her left hand, the
hand that had a pinch of arthritis in it. “Ve vill miss you, Alma,
but you must take care . . . not be around fuss so much.” She
looked at Elthel. She hugged her around the neck. “Take dis.”
Slipped her an envelope.
Alma opened it. “Fifty dollars!”
Elthel poured a drink of wine. “You take, for the baby.”
Alma rubbed her belly. She hugged both of them. “I will
miss you two . . . but don’t listen to the radio so much. This
Hitler will be gone soon. My Sonny will see to that. Haaa haaa.”
“Not soon enough,” Elthel said. She took a drink of wine
and rubbed her brow, trying to swipe away the headache and tears
from her face at the same time.
“Vill your Sonny be home soon?” Susan asked.
“Miss Susan, I don’t know this. Uncle Sam is the boss of
us all.” She pushed a few bobby pins back in the side of her hair.
She was tired of cleaning up their mess, and their arguing too.
But they were sweet pickles in a world of hate. She would miss
the stubby rich tree trunks.
A bitter memory lingered in her throat. Elthel poured
another drink. “Your Roosevelt knows nothin of open cattle cars
of people. The years ve starved up in a cramped attic, ve were
made to feel like, like dogs. Dogs. In a camp. Our bellies
swollen, our brains burning for food, drink. Amerika. Amerika.
took its good time to help. While families, friends died, fought,
died, fought. Amerika took its time, right.”
“Colored people . . . de Negro est know of ghetto, right?”
Susan asked Alma. “But your baby will be born in ghetto too . . .
like us . . . like us.” She pointed at her bosom, slapped a tear
from her face.

***
Alma was glad that five o’clock came around before she
could get to cleaning the bedspreads. She kissed and hugged the
sisters at the door, bundled up a bag of fried chicken. As she
hopped up into her father’s fish truck she waved. Grey evening,
night was coming quicker than the angels. Sour, puke smells of
fish were all around. She didn’t care, just glad to get home, go to
bed, dream of her baby and Sonny. Not many stop lights, just
whistles from a cop. She dozed.
Her father smiled over. “You warm enough, daughter? I
can turn the heat up.”
“I’m okay, Dad, but you can turn on the radio.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 32

He flipped on the switch. “Ahhh, they got some Blues
Mulligan playing.”

She tapped her feet to the bluesy, silk voice.

Oh, sweet baby, don’t you cry; don’t you cry
We lover boys, soldier boys are going down,

down, down.
Kiss your wife, kiss your babies
Poppa gonna march over dem waters.

down, down Going downtown with Mr. Brown.
See the world going round and round
Oh, sweet honey, I be back, I be back
We lover boys, soldier boys are going down,

Kiss your wife, kiss your babies
Poppa gonna march over dem waters

I miss the moon under your door steps
I miss stars under your windowshades
As the sun burst into bombs
I will see your smile in the moonlight

Going downtown with Mr. Brown
See the world going round and round

down, down Oh, sweet baby, don’t you cry; don’t you cry
We Lover boys, soldier boys are going down,

Kiss your wife. Kiss your babies
Poppa gonna march over dem waters

Daddy, I’m so sick of these war songs,” Alma said.
“Makes me want to cry all the time. . . for my Sonny.”

“Daughter, you gots to admit dem blues sounds good with
anything. . . . Betta than grits and gravy. Haaaa haaaa.”

“You right, Daddy. Dem blues go good with anything,”
she said. “Especially with grits and gravy. Haaa haa haaa.”

Slowing down at the exit sign, he said, “Blues makes you
forget about your troubles.” He sped up. “Yours ain’t never as
half as bad as that.” He caught up with the traffic.

“They ain’t!” This surprised her. “Could have fooled me.
Huh. My knees and back are singing the blues right now.”

He leaned over some, rubbed her neck. “Well, they won’t
be for long. . . . They won’t be for long.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 33

“Ah, Daddy, you been smelling too much of your . . .
your stinking fish or drinking too many scotch and sodas for
lunch. Momma gonna get you. Ha.” She started dozing some
more. The heat in the truck took her away with some violins and
a man’s soft voice from the radio.

***
By six, she was nearing home. Her father’s face became a
white and blue blur from the oncoming headlights. She noticed
they were on Adams Place, two blocks from her door. Lamposts
were lining up on both sides of the streets. No one was outside.
It was too cold, with a few drops of rain coming down on the
windshield.
He checked on her. “Alma, we almost home.”
“Ahhhh, I’m so tired. . . . All I want to do is hit the bed.
Ummmm.” She stretched her arms out, sniffed in the chicken
bag.
He patted her shoulder. “Um, something’s gonna wake
you up soon.”
She scratched her hair. “Daddy, what are you talkin’
abouts?”
He grinned and pointed. “Right there, honey.” He
stopped the truck.
In the light from her front door, she saw her Sonny
standing on the stoop, his hat and uniform on, a big grin on his
face. She hopped from the truck. “Sonny! Sonny!”
He came at her with the speed of train engines. Nestled
her in his arms, kissing her over the face and neck.
She wiped tears from her eyes. “Oh, baby, you home.
You home.” She hugged his neck, stepped back. “I can’t believe
it!”
He picked her up, carried her into the house. “Believe it,
Alma. Believe it.”
He took her upstairs and closed the door to their bedroom.
He pulled her to him, kissing her, but to slip her coat off,
dropping it to the floor.
She took his head, pushed it down on her neck. She
slipped out of her penny loafers, tickled her toes up his pants
legs, zipped him down. “Baby. Shhhhhh. Shhhhh. Haaaaa.
Heeeee. He. Heeee.”
He slipped his tie off, licked her ear, unbuttoned her
blouse. His mouth came open when he saw her tits. He grabbed
her, pushed her against the wall. He stuck his mouth over hers,
and their tongues danced. His face bit at her bra strap, shoulders,
sucked her lips again. His hand fingered at her dress, tugged, let
her slip it off. Smelling the perfume from her neck, he cupped
her tits again.

Prue / Mammie Doll 34

She took his head. “Enjoy, baby. Enjoy.” She pushed
him tighter on the left one. Then the right. She rested back,
feeling life come back into her thighs, her belly.

Friday night lovemaking, to Saturday morning breakfast
of fish, fried potatoes, eggs, juice, coffee. Alma tucked a napkin
down his collar. Her mother poured him another cup of coffee.
Mr. Jefferson sat back and grinned, happy to have his son-in-law
back again.

Sonny dug in, scooped up a fork of the catfish, hot
saucing it down. He leaned and kissed his Alma’s hand. He
sipped up the black coffee, praising the Lord and chewing at the
same time. “Ummmmmm. Um, this is some breakfast. . . Beats
that stuff they call food on the Fort. More like dog food. Maybe
it is, haaa haaa.” He swallowed down his eggs. “Thanks again,
Mrs. Jefferson.”

Mrs. Jefferson patted his hand. “You eat up, son. . . . I
know there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal. But, uh, you
gotten kind of thick rounds the neck since you been gone.” She
winked.

“Ma’am, that’s just from a bunch of hard work duck
walking with my rifle and running every day.” He pinched off a
biscuit from the plate.

“You gonna go see your momma soon?” Mr. Jefferson
asked.

Sonny rested back. “Yes sir, right after breakfast here.”
He held his hand over his mouth. “S’cuse me.”

“Bless you,” Alma said.
Mr. Jefferson peeked at his daughter. “How long you
gonna be staying, Sonny?” He noticed her head was down.
Sonny rubbed Alma’s hand. “I be here just till Sunday. I
was hoping to be sent to Pennylvania next. Closer to home. But
I got orders to get to Fort Riley, Kansas.” He reached under the
table and rubbed her belly. “Don’t you worry none . . . .hear?”
She picked at her eggs. “I won’t, Sonny. I won’t.”
“I’ll make sure she takes care of herself,” her mother said.
“That’s my grandchild on its way here.” She sipped her juice, a
proud woman with two daughters, a morning peacock with pink
curlers in her hair for colorful feathers.
Sonny reminded Alma with a kiss. “Don’t you worry
about me. . . You worry about our baby.” He reached into his
top pocket. “I got something for ya’. . . .” He took out a money
clip stuffed with fifty dollar bills. “Get things for the baby.” He
stuck it in her hand. “That little bit of money a month from
Uncle Sam ain’t enough.” He winked across to Mr. Jefferson.

Prue / Mammie Doll 35

Alma was shocked. “Why, Sonny, it’s almost seven
hundred dollars here. . . .” She hugged him, then stuck it down
her dress.

He went back to his eggs and catfish. “Ummmmm. Um,
sure is a fine breakfast, Mrs. Jefferson.”

***
Sonny picked up some roses, borrowed Mr. Jefferson’s
car. He took his wife with him over on Green Avenue. It was
warming up some, killing away the winter rain. Sunshine stuck its
head out from a few clouds. He was happy, glad to be back on
the block. He had to drive by the pool hall. No one was out. He
guessed Johnny B, Tony Costello, Al Mayberry, Jeff Dick, Bobby
B., Slim and Buck Johnson were still away. He went by a couple
of the jazz clubs on Hayden Place. Music was coming from the
open doors. The tenors and drummers were rehearsing for
tonight. It would be nice to take Alma to the Fat Belly Club to-
night since he had to leave her early Sunday morning.
He swung the car around the block and waved at some of
the banana-nose Irish cops still twirling their Billy clubs on their
fingers. “Gus McGee! Officer Joe!”
Sonny pulled up alongside their car in front of the barber-
shop. He stuck his hand out.
“Why, I be. Is that you, Nickles?” Officer McGee said.
“Son, you look like a real toy soldier in that uniform.”
They all shook hands.
“Officer Joe, how you doing? I see you still losing your
hair and your teeth. Ha ha ha.” Sonny turned to his Alma. “Ya
meet the missus?”
The cops tipped their hats. “How you do, ma’am? That’s
a looker you got there, Sonny,” Officer Joe said. “I bet that
Army ain’t make you play pool any better.”
Sonny shook his head. “Ya just cheat, that’s all. Ya take
it easy now. Bye.” He drove off, beeped away.
Green Avenue hadn’t changed any. It was still full of
drunks, hot women still selling their love for two bucks. Wild
children and dogs still ran up and down the street. Sonny fixed
his tie, tipped his cap. He got out, opened the car door for Alma.
He knocked. “Maaaaaa! I’m home!”
The door came open. He felt hesitant, but he went in. He
still called, “Maaaaaa! Maaaaa! I’m home.” He looked at Alma.
“Wait here, baby. Let me see if she’s asleep.” He still carried the
flowers in his hand. He pushed open the bedroom door and
peeked in. “Oh, no, Ma.” He ran to the bed. On the pillow her
head was to the side. A thin line of blood came from her mouth.
He took her hand. “Myyyyy God, nooooooo! No, no!”

Prue / Mammie Doll 36

Alma ran in. She kneeled beside him and tucked his head
on her shoulder. She kissed his tears, rocked him in her arms.

***
A funeral fire burned in his stomach. Sonny held Alma’s
hand. In the pews people wept. Silent tears dropped from brown,
yellow, black cheeks as the preacher spoke of love, childbirth, a
son.
Folks knew Maybelle. She was the woman with the big
brown eyes, the skinny woman who babysat some of her
neighbors’ kids. She was the woman with the sharp, toothpick-
twirling son, a ladies man. If you knew Maybelle, you knew
Sonny Nickles. He would take her to the grocery store every
Saturday morning with his winnings from an all-night crap shoot.
If she ever needed anything she could always call on her boy, and
a few of her girlfriends.
She was strong until the “Whiskey Man” got her, took her
down with a bunch of others. Thank God she didn’t get the DTs
first. But this was a time you had to drown your pain in buckets
of whiskey. Love was scarce like food, and you found it
wherever you could. To just forget what day it was. Not much
wood, not much coal. Young boys, men on Work Camps,
children dying in the streets. Maybelle did the best she could in
a dark life for dark people. Hymns were sung in her honor. Little
fight left for a woman with no loving. No man. She did the best
by her Sonny. A spanking now and then when he sassed back.
But he knew, and he got his hugs and kisses too from a woman
who didn’t have much.
She had him out selling the morning papers — a penny
apiece at the train stations. Not much time for school. Just time
for a dollar, to put some food on the table. Time for a kiss, a hug,
a dance from his momma Maybelle, and at her casket he slapped
tears from his face.

Prue / Mammie Doll 37

CHAPTER FOUR

Alma reminisced about school dances, old boyfriends,
Fourth of July picnics. But she felt the kicks of the baby in the
middle of a dream of a friend’s face, Joey Browner. She rubbed
her stomach, propped her feet higher on the pillows in her bed.
She was breathing less, going to the bathroom more. Holding her
nose from collards, cornbread, and pig feet smells coming from
the kitchen, she went back to sewing up the holes in Sonny’s
socks. A big part of her days was spent nursing her sore back,
along with the extra ten pounds she’d gained over the months.
Her momma wasn’t about to leave her alone. Alma heard her
shaking at the door knob now.

“You up, darlin’?”
“Yes, Ma, I’m up.”
She came in. “I brought you a cup of mint tea.” She sat
at the end of the bed and placed the cup on the night stand.
“Now, you drink that tea. . . . It’s good for you. Settle your
stomach down some.”
Alma protested. “Why, huh? Then I got to run back to
the bathroom again.” She stuck a finger through the sock.
She rubbed her daughter’s face. “Now, Alma, you drink
that tea. It’s also good for getting the chill off your legs.” She
rubbed her daughter’s feet under the covers. “Don’t want you to
stiffen up none.”
Alma put the needle and sock down. “Oh, okay. Since
you not going to leave me alone.” She took the cup of tea and
sipped at it.
Her mother looked over to the dresser on the wall. The
Mammie Doll was standing next to the jewelry box. “I see you
made a new dress for it.”
“Huh? Oh, the doll. Yeah, that’s how I spend most my
time nowadays.” She put her cup down, rubbed her belly and
rested her head back. “That and thinking about some of my old
boyfriends. Before you came up, I was just thinking about Joey
Browner. You remember him, Ma?”
Her mother bit the corner of her bottom lip. “I . . . I
remember him. Your father didn’t like him.”
Alma picked up her cup. “Daddy said something about he
was too good to be true. He liked a boy with a little tarnish on his
nose.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 38

“I guess Sonny fits that shoe,” her mother said with a
frown. She pulled the covers up on her daughter. She took the
cup from her and stood. “Alma, don’t sew all night.”

“I won’t, Ma.” She leaned forward to let her mother
plump up the pillows. She hugged her mother around the neck.
“Goodnight, Ma.”

Her mother opened the door. “’Night.”
***

GOD CREATES DREAMS:
Men with epaulets stood in rows saluting her as she went
down the middle of them into a golden light. She wasn’t afraid.
But she did fear for her baby. She felt a flat belly. Unpregnant.
Her baby wasn’t there. Into the light, through a ramp, tunnel,
gaze of haze. She went over a bridge into another land of camels,
doves, tigers, bears, horses. Children, mothers, babies, tables of
food. Blue oceans falling unto green rocks of lime. On shores
women waited for men. Ships, planes flew overhead. Her
Sonny. Would he come?
On the sandy dusty shores a long table of silverware, full
of fruits, covered platters of some of the finest foods. People
flocked to the table. She followed, with the noise of planes flying
all the time. She followed women and children to the feast under
the blue skies. White clouds of doves singing. In the distance a
flute was playing from somewhere. She didn’t care. She sat next
to her dead relatives. Aunts, uncles from the south, ropes tied
around their necks. Lynch- ropes dangling from their shoulders.
There was Uncle Silas, Auntie Jessie, Uncle Tim from Nachez,
Aunt Bula from Kill-a-Nigger, Georgia. She watched them eat
steadily at the fruit. She picked up a silver top. She felt a cold
wind go over her from the dead rat staring up from the platter.
The people around the table laughed and sang out to her.
“Judgement Be Damned. Judgement Be Damned. Judgement Be
Damned.” Over and over she heard these words. She ran, ran
away from them on the stretch of sandy beach.
In the distance, she spotted a woman standing waiting for
a ship or a plane like her, a red cloak around her head. She
couldn’t tell who she was. Alma got closer. “Are you waiting
for your husband too?”
The woman turned. “Yes, I am.”
Alma pulled back. It was her sister Barbara. Her sister,
of all people. “Barbara. Barbara.” She hugged her. “Who is
your husband? Who is your husband?”
“I, I don’t know. . . . I don’t know.” She walked away
from her and pulled the cloak back over her head.
Alma didn’t follow her, but stood watching out over the
sparkling waters of the ocean’s floors. More planes kept coming.

Prue / Mammie Doll 39

A man in a laughing black mask stood beside her. His
nose was long and hook-like. His eyes burned with purple
flames. He asked in a childish voice, “Have you found him yet?”

She stepped away. “No, no I have not.”
He pointed at the sky to a black, muscle-shaped cloud.
“Don’t worry. He will come soon. Just look at the clouds turn
black. The rains shall bring him.”
She searched the skies as the black clouds rumbled and
rolled out over the ocean. Waters started to create huge waves.
A light rain started to come down.
The man asked, “Do you see him? Do you see him?”
“No, No. Get away from me.”
“You mustn’t be afraid of me. . . . You mustn’t be afraid
of me.” He threw a cloak of red velvet over his shoulders. “I
come to save you.”
“From what?”
“From everything . . . all your sorrows, the loss of your
baby.” He pointed at her belly. “You lost the baby.”
She touched her stomach again, looked down. Found her
stomach opened up. Inside she could see the round of a fish tank,
with water, seaweed, rocks and sand.
He touched her fingers. “Let me help you. Let me give
you a baby.” He grabbed hold of her arm.
She pulled away and ran from this face of his, this face of
purple eyes. Back down towards the feast. The people were all
gone. Drips of rain came down her arm and the sun came out
again.

***
September rains rushed down the living room windows
with the heavy hoofs of bulls. Alma sat at the front window in
her robe knitting booties. She felt the baby roam around in its
dark cavern. It was cozy in the dry, quiet room. Chipped
furniture, piano, flowered rugs from far away that needed
cleaning. But she was warm under the blanket, with her slippers
and socks on. The summer had gone as her stomach protruded
with life. It rolled from side to side. Her breathing became easier
and her nausea gone. Lightning flickered off and on like a bad
light switch that needed a bulb changed. The evening came
faster. Winter would be there soon and so would her child.
Ankles swollen, she stood. She stretched her back with a
yawn, rubbed her belly, tightened the robe around her. She
listened, listened to the hoofs of rain. She went to the fireplace
and gazed at herself in the mirror. Hair thick, uncombed. Eyes
brown, puffy with her face. She waited for the next kick, wave of
pain circling her back. On the coffee table sat a jar of cocoa
butter. She uncapped it and, gazing back in the mirror, wiped the

Prue / Mammie Doll 40

cream over her eyes, nose, cheeks, even smoothed some over her
forehead.

Her mother crept in. “You okay, Alma?”
“Just putting some cocoa butter on my ashy face.” She
screwed the cap back on.
Her mother hugged her. “Ha ha. You need it.”
Alma sat back down. “Any mail today?” She picked up
her knitting needles, placed her legs up on a stool.
Sighing, her mother answered, “A letter from your
sister.” She took it from her sweater, handed it to her.

60 Sherman Avenue

Hi, Ma.
I miss all of ya so much. Just writing to ask you and
daddy for the hundredth time, if I can come back home again.
Just to help out around the house after Alma have the baby. Ma, I
know I done wrong, but I learned a whole lot since Daddy kicked
my butt out. I got my head on straight now, Ma. I do. I even got
a job working at a diner. Food and coffee here ain’t worth two
cents. But it’s a free meal. Ma, tell sis I miss her. Please, please
ask daddy if I can come home. Just for a little while, that’s all.
Bye, love you all.

Barbara

Alma handed the letter back. “I do miss her around here.”
She picked her ear with the knitting needle. “You gonna ask
Daddy?”

“I don’t know. . . . This place do needs a bunch of
cleaning round here.” She slapped dust from the blinds and
peeked out at the rain. “Ahhhh. choooo!” She wiped her nose.
“Um, when she was here, Barbara was too cute to lift a finger at a
broom.”

“I know, Ma, but maybe she has learned her lessons in
D.C.” Alma twisted a spool around her finger. “You know Nana
don’t play with you. . . . She throw you out on your butt in a
minute.”

“I’ll call your father’s sister. I believe her before I believe
my own daughter.” She rubbed her hands. “Child, ain’t you cold
in here?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 41

“I’m okay,” Alma said. “I got this blanket and socks on.
Plus I got the baby keeping me warm. Haaaa haaa.”

“I see.” She tightened the sweater around her. “Your
father went around the corner for some coal for the stove. Hope
he don’t come back drunk, ’cause it be hard to talk to him then.”

***
Hysteria at lunchtime
Bell’s Diner on the corner of Beech Street and New
Mexico Avenue collapsed under the weight of hungry muggers
chirping after three peacock waitresses with blue aprons on who
bounced, jostled, pencils behind their ears, sass in their mouths
— mixed with a little sugar in between.
“B.L.T. on rye.”
“Ham and cheese, slaw on the side.”
“Tuna on white.”
“Hamburger and coffee.”
“Two beers over here.”
“That be two bucks, mista.”
“Tell your wife I love her orange hair.”
“Don’t pinch. Don’t pinch.”
“Keep your paws off my tip, Maxine.”
“Go to hell, Gertrude.”
“Barbara, you seen my order of fries?”
“Check under the counter, Gertrude. Damn.”
“That be fifty cents, Mista Franks.”
“Cheapskate.”
“Whore.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Watch your hands. Watch your hands.”
“Pass me the salt, Maxine.”
“Ain’t hot enough, Cookie.”
“Soup’s just fine. . . . Set a match to it.”
“Complaints. Complaints. Complaints.”
“Shut up. Barbara, you think you betta.”
“I am, Gertrude.”
“Maxine here too classy for this joint.”
“Hey! Where’s my fork at?”
“Keep your pants on, mista.”
“Pick up and shut up.”
“Go to hell, Cookie! Ahhhhh haaaaaa haaaaa.”
“Kiss my you-know-what, Cookie.”
“Lay off of him, Barbara. Dis here the only life he got.”
“What, Gertrude?”
“Yeah, cooking poison to Negroes.”
“You gonna see Big Mike tonight, Barbara?”
“Don’t know. . . . Got to sneak out.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 42

“From your babysitter?”
“Fuck you, Gertrude.”
“Fuck you.”
“Maxine, can I get a menu?”
“Be right over. Keep your dirty shirt on, honey.”
“Yeah, I want to order a cheeseburger and shake, and
while you at it, I want you to shake those tits in my face.”
“Mista, I ain’t in the mood.”
“My tip ain’t either.”
“You still seeing that soldier boy, Gertrude?”
“Yeah, I’m still seeing my soldier boy, Barbara.”
Scratched her ass. “Why?” She served up a plate of chicken and
biscuits to a customer. “You just keep your hands off my man.”
She slapped the bill on the table. “I hear you got a thing for
heroes.”
“Not dead ones, honey,” Barbara said. “What you have,
mista? We got some fine pork chops. . . . that is if Cookie ain’t
burned them up. Haaaaa haaaa ahhhh.”

Marlboro Hotel:
Half-filled whiskey bottles, pork chop sandwiches.
Bones, newspapers on the floor. Four-cornered room of light
green walls. Four-cornered hearts seek out love. A dim lamp on
the nightstand gave off an orange glow from the front window
shade. Car noises, street voices could be heard seven floors up.
Drizzling rain, winds didn’t care. Faces, places, room without a
view. Thin paper walls felt the pain, screams from black, blue
faces. A bed, sweat dried up bodies . A rope. A woman, a man.
Barbara sat on his lap and unbuttoned his shirt, loosened
his belt. Her fingers, tongue roamed over his T-shirt.
Pork pig belly of a man. His lips, tongue, teeth filtered
over her neck. He rubbed her butt, bouncing her tighter to him.
He pushed her away from his face. “Lay down.”
She got on the bed.
He took the rope from the dresser, stood over top of her.
Gently pushed her on her back.
Arms, mouth, legs open. His Black Orchid, his
wildflower. She picked some bobby pins from her hair, looked
away from him.
With the rope, he took her right wrist, twisted and curled
her arm behind the steel post. He did the same with her left. He
smiled, bent. He whispered, “I luv you.” He unbuttoned her
blouse, pulled it from her skirt. He took another piece of rope,
circled it over her left ankle at the cold end and tied it. As he

Prue / Mammie Doll 43

kissed her ankle, he slipped off both her heels and skillfully slid
his hand up her leg. Then he tied up her right ankle.

She closed her eyes and let the night explode, carrying her
up above this all, above the heat of his tongue, to her father’s face
back when she was eleven. Catching her father and mother in the
shadows of their bedroom. Her mother crying, crying, crying on
their bed. Begging him to say. “Do you love me? Do you love
me? Do you love me?” Pounding his back with her nails. Tears
of love, tears of sin coming from her mother’s throat. A hurt dog
whining on a sheet, it wasn’t blood. Just sweat. Butts, legs,
arms, harsh words of the devil coming from both of them.

She had backed away from the door. From the tall chair,
leaving her dog, puppy dog in the bed. To shit, finding it the next
morning. She got a spanking for letting him sleep with her. She
didn’t cry. Just apologized to her father. But she just kept
thinking about her mother’s tears in the shadows, her father’s
back smothering her. She asked, “Daddy, is Momma all right?”

“She’s fine, dear.” He pecked her on the forehead and
took her puppy away from her. Next thing she knew he had sold
it to some other child who lived somewhere else.

From his pocket, Mike took out a roll of tape. With his
blade he sliced it. Stretched it over her mouth.

She turned away from the corner of her sight. His
saxophone sat in the corner of the room. She twisted her wrists
some.

He picked up the sax, pulled up a chair beside the bed. He
sadly licked his reed, unzipped his pants, and started to play. She
struggled quietly, feeling some beads of sweat roll down the side
of her cheek. She felt the sad, bluesy music crawl up in her
stomach, felt the rope burning into her ankles. She smelled the
cold food and whiskey come up in her throat. A night still young
with the man and the music.

He kept playing, slapped a handkerchief across his brow.
Tapped his foot, over, and over. Blowing, blowing.

She looked away.
Her senses took her back home to a summer day, a breeze,
a father with fish smells, a mother who always stayed home, a
sister uglier than her. All the boys wanted her. She had big tits
just like her momma, big tits that had the little boys sniffing be-
hind her all the time. Always giving her trinkets, money, movies,
clothes, even doing her homework for her. She was just the little
darlin’ of Mileston, New York.
She turned and smiled up at Mike playing, his bald head
shining in the orange, yellow shaded room. Her dress was pulled

Prue / Mammie Doll 44

down around her ankles, her bra and panties showing him
something nice. She mumbled at him from the bandaged mouth.

He stopped, smiled and nodded back at her. He kept
tapping his foot, blowing out some nice riffs.

***
Barbara sat beside Mike in his car under the night’s white
moon. It was almost twelve. She checked her face in her
compact, spread some of her lipstick — indigo red — over her
lips. She puckered, gave him a goodnight kiss.
He didn’t want to say goodbye. “You sure letting you off
a few doors down from your aunt’s home is okay, Barbara?”
She crossed her legs and buttoned up her coat. “Baby,
this is just fine. . . . I don’t want to wake up the old mule when I
go in the door.” She rubbed his hand on the steering wheel.
“Give momma a kiss goodbye.”
He leaned over. “Here you go, baby.” Kissing her, he
squeezed a couple of twenties in her hand. “You know, uh, I
want to be your one and only.” He checked her over, pulled her
closer.
She looked out the window, then back to him. “You are,
Mike. You are.” She hugged him and opened the door. “Bye,
sugar.”
She ran down the street and checked back over her
shoulder, noticing his car pulling off from the curb. She ran
down towards the house, fumbled for her keys in the dark from
her purse. She slipped her heels off and sneaked on in the house.
Right up the stairs, from her aunts closed door she just
heard the old woman snoring up a bunch of shit from her lungs.
When she started to doze off to sleep, all she could hear was
Mike’s saxophone playing some crazy, catchy tune, a song that
made her sleep off the good loving and good whiskey.
It was a sorrowful, quiet Saturday morning. Birds weren’t
chirping, but Aunt Nana was in her kitchen of peach-painted
walls cooking up a pot of oatmeal mixed in with raisins.
Cinnamon, butter aroma spread all around the small house. She
had coffee and toast to go with her newspaper. She stirred up the
pot. Same old news. Nothing about black folks was ever good.
Just a second World War to kill more of them. She had to get to
the Second Street Baptist Church this day. As a school teacher
her work was never finished. At fifty-two, she was married to
teaching Negro children how to read. Her left hand stiffened up
sometimes on cold mornings.
She poured herself a bowl and wished she could sprinkle
some sugar on this oatmeal. She blew the steam away as she sat
down at the table and delicately placed a napkin in her lap. She
was a southern woman. Nothing like her brother Clayton.

Prue / Mammie Doll 45

Rough-soul. When her family left the south from the lynchings,
her grandmother, Bula, sent her to college. Her brother went to
New York. He loved to fish all the time. Books for her, a fishing
pole for him.

RRRIINNNG. RRRRRRIIIIINGG.
RIIIIIINNNGGGGG.”

She shuffled to the phone near the kitchen door.
“HUUUUULLLO.”

“Hello, Nana. This is Daisy.” She cradled the receiver,
slapped flour off her hands. “How you doing?”

“Finnnnnneeee, Daisy. Finnnnneeee. How’s my brother?
Is everything okay with Alma?”

“We okay here. Just call to tell you that Alma done had
the baby.” She rocked on her feet, smiling. “Yeah, Nana, I got
me a pretty little granddaughter.”

“What ya’ name the baby?” Nana asked. “How much she
weigh?”

“We named her Ruby after Sonny’s mother. . . .
Maybelle’s middle name. She came in at seven pounds, two
ounces. Cute little girl too.”

Nana played with her pearls. “Be on the lookout, I’m
gonna send Ruby something in the mail.” She smiled. “Let me
wake up Barbara . . . tell her she got a niece.”

“Wait a minute, Nana, I want to ask you somethin’.”
“What is it, Daisy?”
“It’s about my daughter. I got to know, how is she doing
down there in D.C. with you?”
“Barbara’s doing okay. She got a job, and she even help
me out around here whenever she can. Ain’t heard one cuss word
out of her since she came to stay with me.”
Daisy picked her nose. “Don’t wake her up. You just tell
her that she can come back home whenever she’s ready.”
“I will, Daisy. Kiss Alma and the baby for me.”
“I will, Nana. Bye.” She hung up, went back to her
baking. Guests were coming over to see Alma and the baby.
When Nana hung up, she spotted Barbara. “Oh, you
scared me.”
All sleepy-eyed, she asked, “Nana, was that Ma?” She
went in the kitchen, by the stove. “Any coffee?”
“Yeah, Barbara. . . . She just called to let us know that
your sister had the baby. A beautiful little girl.” She sat down.
“Naw, you have to fix some coffee. . . . I got the last cup. And
your ma said you can come back home.” She stirred her oatmeal.
“You got a niece.”
Barbara touched her head. “Oh, that’s great, but I still
need a cup of coffee.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 46

“Barbara, you got to remember to slow down some. You
too darn young to be getting them headaches.”

She went in the cupboard, took out the can of coffee.
Fixed her drooping hair some, tightened the belt on her robe. “I
know, Nana, but I ain’t been myself. . . . Just seems like I’m
drifting away since Daddy put me out.”

Nana peeked over the top of her pointed eyeglasses.
“Now, Barbara, me and you know you had gone and got yourself
knocked up.” She closed the newspaper. “Now you forget the
past. Hell, you should be jumping like a bull frog just to show
him and your ma that you ain’t some wild dog out in them
streets.”

She spooned out the coffee. “I know, Nana. I’ll show
them. But I just seem to have this thing for nothin but bad-ass
men.”

Nana stood up, defiant, trying to encourage her. “Well,
baby, find you some good ones. And don’t mess around until you
do find a good one. When that thing gets to itching between your
legs, you just go without. Have some respect for yourself.”

“I use to think they were in the church,” Barbara said,
closing the top on the coffee pot.

“Let me tell you something, child. Huh! The devil even
goes to church every now and then. Hell, that’s where he finds
his sinners. He just plucks ’em right out of the pews.”

Barbara turned the fire on under the pot. “Ha ha. Aunt
Nana, you crazy. You remind me so much of Alma. You both
got that classy, smart look. Always believing that the day will
just take care of itself.” She stuck her nose over the pot of
oatmeal. “I miss my sister a lot. Never thought I would. Um.”

Nana slipped her bowl in the sink. “Now you go on and
eat some of that oatmeal and start getting packed to go on back
home. Your ma needs you right now.”

Barbara reached for a bowl from the counter top, slapped
some toast crumbs off the top. “I will, Nana. I just got to get
those bad men out of my heart.”

“You will, baby. I’ll pray for you.”
“I want to thank you for taking me in, Aunt Nana.” She
started to tear up.
“Child, you hush now.” Nana grabbed her face with both
hands. “You just remember that if a cold wind blows in New
York . . . there always be a warm wind here for you in D.C.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 47

CHAPTER FIVE

It is as if life had retreated eastwards, as if the Germanic
life were slowly ebbing away from contact with Western Europe,
ebbing to the deserts of the East.

– D. H.
Lawrence

Black masks in the Huertgen.
Rain, black rain. Dead faces. Colored troops trudged in
snow and mud. Ugly, ugly earth of trees, trees everywhere.
Blanket of fire and the black sky. Pine forest of green sprigs.
Men in a holocaust. Battling, battling with machines of fire. In
the shadows. In the cold, cold earth. Screams, nothing but
screams. Darkness and death. Death, god-awful death. Frozen
mouths unspoken. Unheard of, ever again. After today. After
yesterday. Negro souls. Blue, black souls. Pity. Cry. Cry. In
the ears of our Lord this day. This moment.
Nazi armies. Nineteen divisions, teenagers who should
have been in school, at the blackboard. Dying for their
Fatherland.
Grey dawn broke over grey, scared faces and bellies.
White eyes popped. Into the rain, snow and blood, men ran for
cover from the shelling. White haze of mist with frostbite. More
shelling, pounding from the German 88mm guns.
Uneven terrain. Snows ran red with the German and
American blood. Narrow road, more ice, snow, coughing,
cigarette smoking, fog, and foxholes. Retreat and panic. The
west wall packed with German soldiers.
Sonny Nickles dug in. Pitched grenades by his side. A
sight of blackness. A sight of death all around him. Miles of it.
Was he next? A machine gun was his wife, woman right now.
He had to live, breathe the stinking air. Have Christmas under a
fucking fir tree.
Many times Sonny saw his life float away from him. A
platoon of German men coming after him with machine gun fire
over the Roer River Dam. But he was pulled away from the
sniper fire by a Corporal McCaine from Kansas, a rifleman.
Charlie Company was his family now. Other men fed him. Kept
him alive from his final ending. Dreams, reality all were
confronting him of the white-blue winter faces. German soldiers