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Prue / Mammie Doll 98

Alma asked, not letting up, “Have you talked to Homer
about these so-called changes?”

Now this question scared Ruby. “You had to ask.”
“He’s your husband.”
She sighed and closed her eyes to hear the sparrows
singing from the backyard. “I’m tired.” She took her hat from
the table, walked upstairs to a Sunday husband and a hungry baby
girl.
A small electric fan blew hot air in her face when she
opened the bedroom door. Homer was sitting on the side of the
bed, holding a bottle to Ida’s mouth. The bed was unmade. He
had on a tee-shirt and blue boxers, and was barefoot and
unshaven. The TV blasted a football game. He rocked Ida in the
fields of blood and grass.
“Hey, honey.” Ruby gave him a kiss, then took the bottle
of milk and Ida from his arms.
“You back? Must have been some meeting.” He wanted
to know, but wasn’t going to come straight out and just ask. “Ya
women can blow a bunch of air when the praying is over. Ha
ha.”
She kissed the baby. “No more than you men do.” She
cradled her gently. “Who’s playin’?”
He sat back on some pillows and crossed his legs. “More
like who’s losing . . . dem damn Giants.”
She squinted at the black and white screen. “Who’s
wearing yellow helmets, Homer?”
“Green Bay.”
“Who?”
“Green Bay Packers, baby. Shhhhh.”
She looked around for a pillow and threw it in his face.
“Homer, that game ain’t the ending of the world you know.”
Homer rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to hear any
preaching. He just wanted to see some cats knocked on their
asses. “I know, baby. I know, baby. Now shhhhh.” He leaned
over and kissed her.
“Nigger, that ain’t gonna quiet me down. I might be
getting ready to go to jail.” She shook a finger at him.
He sat up, then jumped up. “What?”
“You heard me. I might be going to jail.” She brought
the baby up to her shoulder and patted her.
“Baby, I thought you was just going to church.” He paced
over to the TV and flipped the switch to off. “Now, let’s take it
slow. What’s this about jail, Ruby?” He sat back down on the
bed.

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She looked in the child’s eyes and saw his. “Homer, you
not a complex man. . . . I can tell when you try to hide fear in
that face.”

He didn’t care about her tough act. He just wanted her
and the baby safe at home. “You ain’t hard to read either, Ruby.
Now what’s this shit about jail?”

Ida’s eyes closed.
“Quiet. Before you wake her.” She smoothed the black
locks down over her brow then left the bedroom.
It was just a couple of minutes before she came back in.
She unzipped her dress, but the zipper got stuck. She turned
around to a helpless husband.
He came to her and unzipped it the rest of the way. He
scratched his head. “Okay, baby, what’s going on?”
Stepping out of the dress, she snatched it up from the
floor. “It’s just that me and the other women from the job are
going to ask Mr. Charlie for more money and opportunity.” She
slapped the dress on a nail on the back of the door.
This scared Homer. He saw what was going on around
the country — riots, dogs and water hoses eating on his people —
all because they wanted something better. He watched her move
around, doing her business in a white lace bra and panties.
Garters stretched her stockings up to her thighs. She still had her
white high heels on. Her frisky tall beauty made him want to
melt, to give her anything, to give her courage and understanding.
She stood in front of a long mirror combing the sweat out
of her pressed hair and picking out pins from the back.
He went to her. Looking at reflections of him and her, he
asked, “You sure about this?”
She turned to him. “I’m sure, baby. . . . The church is
backing us. God’s hands at work.”
“Hell, God’s hands need a .45 to do the work.” He
cuddled up closer to her from the back.
She looked at him. “Homer, it’s going to be peaceful.”
She rubbed her butt back on him.
He hugged her. He put his palms on her waist and nestled
a tongue in her ear. “You know how to win this argument, don’t
you?”
“Yes, because, Homer, you a bad boy.” Her hands went
around his arms. She poked her butt back harder on him.
“You remember when you first told me that?”
She closed her eyes. “Um huh.”

***
He heard the school bus coming back from a high school
football game. He had acquired a cast up to his knee. Crowds,
pom poms waved in his face, and the bus’s bad muffler rambled

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on and on. The kids were finger popping, chewing gum, singing
fight songs loud and wrong. Even the last cups of sneaked gin
were being passed around. A wondrous bunch of teenagers,
going to live forever and ever. Amen. It was their victory and
his busted knee. He was mad, hurt he couldn’t play.

But he went with Ruby and her girlfriends. They sat in
the back. Under ice packs, coats, dirty towels thrown at him from
some of his teammates, he was up to his neck in pain and tears.
But she was there for him, always there for him.

A secret hand drifted up her plaid green skirt.
Her legs tightened. Wet flower, virgin dew dripped from
her panties. Her legs tightened, then slowly opened, under the
laughter of kicking the snot out of the other team, forty-five to
twelve.
His finger slid up closer. Nibbled, tugged, pulled under
the darkness of the coats, under the darkness of their victory.
She pinched his hand. “Homer, you a bad boy.”
He pulled her hand off. “Girlll! That hurt.”
A finger fight began under the cloak of friends’ screams
on the bus. They all started to laugh at stupid jokes from Rosie
and Cookie McDonald, the big tit twins. Homer and Ruby kept
fighting under the towels. Spit balls were shot off. Rivers of
tears flowed over how Big Jeff fell in the mud, losing the ball and
his pants all at once. A slap rang through the noise. Harriet
Topper had just smacked Little Mike for pinching her butt.
He was in love. She wanted to kill the squirt. “Homer,
you a bad boy.” He was a dream boy in love with Ruby Nickles.
He was pissed, his broken leg propped up on helmets, his girl-
friend beside him, not feeling sympathy for his hand under the
heavy winter coats.
He whispered.
Begged her, to cop one more feel. “One more, Ruby, just
one more.” He begged on the bus, under the lights, with the
crowds, blood and gauze. He begged her at every stop light. He
whispered and touched her knee.
She pushed him away with a school girl smile and stuck a
tongue out at him. Her giggles wouldn’t stop.
He became crazy, teared up. They didn’t work. He
threatened her, grabbed her arm, twisted. He begged her some
more. A hand fight under the coats.
He wanted to finger-fuck her under the victory sign.
Sweat, bodies. Hot dog faces, full of pimples. Pigtails floated.
Short skirts had him feeling sad. He drank more gin, laid his
head on her shoulder. He got no sympathy from her. Just a smile
and a kiss from her lips. He called out to his buddies — football

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players with more than one girl. He just had one girl and that was
Ruby Nickles. “Homer, you a bad boy.”

***
Sugar plum faces roamed in the mirror. Reflections of
love, reflections of pain.
He said, “I can be there for you.”
“No, you stay with Ida. Just check on her. I’ll be okay.”
She hugged him and licked his ear, stuck a finger in his mouth.
He sucked. “Baby, I can take off from school.” He licked
her palm, tasted her arms and shoulders.
Kissing him back, Ruby pushed his tee-shirt up and over
his head. “Homer, stay with Ida.” She reassured him, “There
will be other men from the church.”
He shook her. “If anything goes wrong . . . you just get
out of there. You hear me?”
“I hear you, baby. Now just hold me.” She looked over
his face and watched the fear go away. She pushed her soft body
into his.

***
Candle flames flickered at the altar of Mary and child.
From the church pews Pastor Payton sat with his head
bowed, crying at the Lord’s feet. “Awash, O’ hallow man, in the
blood of my son. He is there for you. For me. For us. Why
must we suffer so much Lord? Why must we endure the pain?
This world, this country hates us so much. It is a trial that will
never end.” He pounded his fist on the back of a seat, awash in
his tears, praying this morning, this bitter, bitter morning. He
kneeled to the faces of Jesus. He kneeled to the light of his heart.
He had to go face the people who wanted to eat him alive. He
stood and picked up his black hat, straightened his collar, slapped
out the wrinkles in his coat. He moved from the pews quietly and
let others come in the church to pray. He left the church talking
to little babies. He decided to take the walk to Eighth Avenue
where McKay’s stood.
Summer rains came.
They knocked down ant mounds and drank up evening
shade, opened the pain to heal under the yellow hot sun. Summer
rains teased, lit up a dog’s heart, making him jump and scratch.
They brought out the apple cinnamon from Afro cheeks, children,
gin-drinking bums, dope-smoking cats from the alleys of
Broadway and Green. Blue faces, white teeth, dandy brown hues
ran under their umbrellas and smiled from the rains’ wet cloak.
Two o’clock men came out of go-go clubs, swallowing down
paper-cup beers, watching out for the police. Drunk enough to
pick up a nickel with your tongue. They tipped their caps to him.
They lit up, chased the hot women fanning their tails down the

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street. Wolves braved the rains. Pastor Payton peeked up,
watched the clouds move on, just like him. A crowd waved,
shook his hands. Sad eyes told him their life in a three-ring
circle. He didn’t want to know right now. He just told them to
come to church. In response they said, “Pray for me, Pastor
Payton. Pray for me.” He spoke with his hat, told them to check
out the lessons. “He will show you the way.” Some raised their
fists instead. Black Power Panthers would die like Brutus, in a
fit. They weren’t going to listen. But they kept on trying. Just
kept on trying. Skipped to the party. Skipped to the sun.
Skipped to the music from James Brown’s buns. Scream for me,
Boss. Scream for me.

He came past a record store blasting out good-time music.
Summer rains just kept coming, pounding out that rot-gut liquor
shit in your veins. Bad dope too. Three more blocks to go. It
poured you down the drains, traveling down the streets of
garbage and God. Made you feel dead and alive all at the same
time.

Isolated grey stones.
A three-story building that took up two blocks, McKay’s
was surrounded by huge glass windows of wet, clean air.
Mannequins with frozen body parts, cartoons with figures in long
sleeveless dresses were unsmiling, with closed lips. Cracked
dolls with eyes looking nowhere and colored plastic hair.
Blondes, brunettes, redheads. They didn’t look like his mother,
sisters or aunts.
He went in and tipped his hat to the guard.
Perched up high in large white letters were signs directing
buyers: Kitchen Wares, Household Items, Dresses, Kids’ Toys
and Clothes, Garden Tools, Hardware, Power Saws, Menswear,
Sale On: Shirts, Ties, Pants; Shoes for him, Bras for her; Want to
Look Good: Makeup Counters, Lipstick. Let a rouged woman
put it on for you. Perfume parlor: Spray stuff on and Buy, Buy,
Buy. All this under violin music, drugging you to make you Buy,
Buy, Buy. Children ran behind their mothers, hollering for the
moon. He spotted some of the women from church. Some
nodded and spoke. Some didn’t. They were too scared, and kept
their heads down as they swept up the floors, mopped up
popcorn, lifted heavy wastebaskets or carried huge boxes. He
found the stairs and went up to the third floor, hat in hand.
He knocked on the door to Personnel.
After going in, he told the beehive receptionist, “I’m
Pastor Payton and I’m here to see Mr. Sullivan.”
Astonished at the man in black, she picked up the phone.
“Uh, Mr. Sullivan, your appointment is here.” She stuck the

Prue / Mammie Doll 103

phone down. “He’ll be right out. Have a seat.” Then she went
back to her typing.

He turned and sat, hat still in hand.
Some women came in and peeked from the corner of their
eyes. To the receptionist they made false comments about the
heat or the lack of rain.
Mr. Sullivan came out and met him with a wet handshake.
The manager of Personnel had red hair. He was a slight man who
stood about eye level — five eleven. He wore thick black-framed
eyeglasses over a pair of green eyes.
They shook hands. Mr. Sullivan cordially followed him
back into the office. The typing stopped; whispers, gossip gave
birth to rumors.
He met two other men waiting.
Vice President of Personnel, Eli Lear, had grey hair and
saggy, baggy, watery eyes. He wore a dark blue suit and was a
short man with a wide red tie. His chin hung low over his collar,
and he had stuck a pencil behind his left ear.
Director of Personnel Jim Peterson was a bald man, a
pudgy man with a bulbous nose. He was a drinker — probably
had too much gin for lunch — on the verge of a nervous
breakdown, and just around the corner from a heart attack. He
kept smoking a pack of Camels.
Handshakes took place all around the office of one lamp,
phone, stacks of folders, coffee cups, ash trays, and a catalogue of
McKay’s Fall Season on the desk.
Mr. Sullivan gestured to an empty chair. “Have a seat,
Pastor.” He pulled on his ear. “Now, what can we do for you,
Pastor Payton?”
The preacher rested his hat on his lap.
Mr. Lear interjected first. “Let me say, if there’s a
donation you want us to make towards your church . . . I’m sure
we can be of help.”
“That’s good to hear, sir.”
Mr. Peterson said, with the crossing of a leg, “McKay’s
has been in this neighborhood for over forty years. We have
given a lot to you people in the past and the other churches in
Mileston.” He lit another cigarette. “How much you need,
pastor?”
Payton stuck a hand up. “Hold it now. . . . This ain’t a
stick up. I’m here on behalf of the ten women who work for
McKay’s.” He rolled a thumb over his hat. “That’s why I’m here
today.”
The three men rose, engaged in reading each others’ faces.
In the silence, inquisitive eyes rolled back to him.
“What ten women?” Sullivan asked.

Prue / Mammie Doll 104

Touching his starched collar, Payton answered, “Why, the
ten women who attend my church, Mr. Sullivan.”

Mr. Lear pulled the pencil from his ear. “What are these
ten women requesting?”

“A chance to prove themselves to McKay’s.” He looked
at the faces of the men. Their shoulders started to slump. “I
believe these women have showed that they are all good workers
and that they deserve to work in higher positions at this store.”

Mr. Sullivan leaned back, loosening his tie. “I see.” He
gazed at the face of the pastor, then checked his spit-shined shoes
and pressed suit. “These women have higher positions.”

“No, I don’t think they do. These women need to be in
jobs at McKay’s to show the changin’ of the times.” He tapped
his thumb at the brim of his hat. “I hope that McKay’s can show
that they are a part of this change.”

“Why, sure we are a part of this change,” Peterson said.
“But sir, it’s just a matter of timing. . . . These ten women have
never once complained to us and I don’t see what the problem is
anyway.” Smoke came from his purple lips. He knocked ash to
the floor.

Mr. Lear jotted down some notes. “Pastor Payton, I must
tell you we do have plans to promote these women.” He
scratched his ear with the eraser of the pencil. “We do care about
all our employees.”

“When will these plans be put into action? Must I remind
you that the nineteen-sixty-four Civil Rights Act was passed two
years ago, Mr. Lear.”

Mr. Lear broke his pencil between his fingers. “Don’t you
dare read that riot act to me.” Holding the pieces up in the
pastor’s face, he said, “Our plans will be put into place soon. . . .
That’s all I can tell you right now.” He dropped the pieces to the
floor.

Payton nodded. “Mr. Lear, your ‘soon’ . . . is too damn
late.” He pulled some folded papers from inside his coat. “This
here is a list of the women’s demands.” He stuck the document
in Lear’s face. “This second piece is a permit to picket in front of
your store.” He slapped them on the desk in front of Mr.
Sullivan. “This community will be protesting till your answer of
‘soon’ can be changed into a ‘right now’.” He stood. “Have a
nice day and I see you in the streets.” He put his hat on and went
to the door.

Mr. Sullivan called, “But pastor, give us time.”
He turned with hand on the knob. “Not until you take the
brooms from their hands and your foot out of their asses.” He
opened the door and walked back out.

Prue / Mammie Doll 105

CHAPTER TEN

Aisle 1A was across from women’s hosiery, men’s shoes,
children’s toys, men’s suits and flowered ties.

Ruby bit at a hangnail, waiting for the pastor to come
from his meeting. Two children cried over a red fire truck. She
wanted to slap the truck from the kids and slap the mother too.

Willa Blue came up behind her just as the pastor was
coming down the steps. Shoppers were unsure, and a foghorn
voice boomed over their head spraying out the latest lies on the
sale in menswear.

Ruby saw his face — nothing but broken veins popping
from the right corner of his temples, a mask that spoke of
struggle.

He took their hands. “Ruby, I want you and Willa to get
the other women together. Tell them that the picket signs got to
go up.” Sweat dripped from their hands. “Uh, I tried to talk to
them about the lateness of their actions . . . but they couldn’t give
me a time on how long it was going to take. I couldn’t let them
stall us. . . . We been through too many years of that.”

Willa said, “We understand, Pastor.” She slipped an arm
around Ruby’s shoulder. “Shit.”

The other women came. From his melancholy words of
sweet surrender, they knew their time was up. They were out of a
job.

“Ladies, they left me no choice. I want you women to get
right behind our stone.” He laid a hand on Ruby’s arm. “Get
your pocketbooks and walk on out of here.” He waved the
license. “We got the right to march, sing, and even dance for our
freedom. We ain’t gonna give up. The good Lord ain’t gonna let
us do that. Naw, he ain’t. Just be ready to meet me tomorrow
morning.” He pointed over their heads. “Right across the street
from this Sodom and Gomorrah.”

In a lions roar the women hollered,
“AAAMMMMEEEENNNNN, Pastor Payton.”

This praising the Lord had the other shoppers in the store
nosing around to find out what was going on with the women.
Bosses came out from their offices, stretching pencil necks,
shutting their doors, watching the commotion of protest, strike,
and “Don’t buy their shit” coming from the mouths of the
women. Hell was spreading out and over onto the streets of
Mileston. Neighbors ran out with bags in hand cussing the white

Prue / Mammie Doll 106

folks for showing unkindness toward the women who worked
long and hard hours for pennies, all in a Negro neighborhood.

Ruby saw the pastor stepping away. Hands on her hips, a
mess of people around the women on the first floor, she asked,
“Pastor, where you going now?”

He stuck the paper back in his pocket. “Ruby, you take
care of things around here. I’m just going to rustle up some of
the chitlins in the choir to make us a bunch of protest signs for
tomorrow morning.” He tipped his hat. “Now don’t you ladies
worry. . . I see y’all in the morning. . . Be here eight sharp.” He
pointed at them, then left them humming some Gospel tune.

Willa looked at Ruby. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Ruby could tell from the women’s faces that some of the
strength was leaving with the tide of the pastor’s humming.
“Now, don’t ya get cold feet. . . Just get ya’ high heel sneakers
on and follow me out that door.”
Some ran for their purses. A few patted their asses at their
bosses and threw their brooms and boxes on the floor. They all
got behind Ruby and departed the crowd of McKay’s. In silence,
dead silence, they all hit the streets.

***

Diary Pages — June 26, 1966:
I walked the four blocks from McKay’s to my home
today. I was just as scared, just as nervous as any of the other
women. It was a nice day to lose your job. Birds sang like Tina
Turner, little girls were skipping rope and big-eared little boys
were kicking the can in the school yard. Mothers pushed baby
strollers, flip-flops on their feet, curlers in their hair, screaming
about their no good men. Young boys with soft whiskers spoke,
passed me by singing some of that Smokey Robinson Doo Wop.
Going on strike ain’t no summer fun in that. What did I expect?
Them white folks ain’t gonna give up nothing that easy. Not
wanting me to live free like dem birds singing in the trees.
Nesting, having babies, working hard for their plate of worms and
bread crumbs.
I’m too young to give up, just walk off. I guess I’m just
scared of losing my girlfriends. I stood at the corner shaking in
my high heels, crying all the way home from the store. I just
pushed up my shoulders when the police car drove by with the
white cops in it. My enemy. Slapped the tears away. Don’t let
them see you cry. No, I won’t cry. Smile. Smile in their faces.
I was so glad to get home to my baby, so glad to hold my
Ida in my arms today. I miss her. . . I miss her. Only love is all
she needs, and a bottle too. She is going to be strong. I can see it
in her eyes. When she cries, I must be that rock, that stone for

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my little baby girl. I won’t fall. If I did . . . I would just get back
up. Find another job and make sure my Ida knows black folks
ain’t got the time to be stupid. I teach her, black folks just got
time for study, hard work, study, loving, dancing to some good
Ray Charles records, and go wherever the fuck we please. Even
to the moon, if we had to. It would be all right. This strike is just
a little shit turd. Ain’t nobody gonna stop me or those other
women from getting our management positions. We will walk on
every ache and pain in our bad feet to march that line.

Tuesday 8:15 A.M.
Waiting for McKay’s doors to open. Ruby and the others
clutched signs that had phrases of protest in bold black letters.
Pastor Payton had set up a tall silver thermos full of hot
coffee on a table on the street, a Bible at his left hand, coffee cups
at his right. “You ladies stay alert. We got plenty of hot coffee
here. Don’t forget, when a customer goes through those doors,”
he pointed, “I want them to hear our voices loud and clear.” He
put the cups on the table, strapped a bullhorn around his neck and
played with the switch.
Ruby handed Willa a cup. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” Willa took a sip. “How you feeling this
morning? You get any sleep last night?”
A couple of police cars parked near them. Some of the
women gave out cat calls.
Ruby looked at them. “Hell no. I was up all night tossing
and turning. This morning I had to take Ida to my next door
neighbor, Miss Waters. Ma went back to work and Homer had to
get to school.” She hunched her shoulders. “So I be drinking
coffee and screaming all day, girl.”
With cups in hand they went over to some of the other
workers from the store. They hugged, patted each other, and
shared pieces of pound cake, chocolate chip cookies, donuts.
“I was with Roger last night,” Willa said to Ruby.
“Honey, he kept me up till two in the morning.”
With a sly nudge and a wink, Ruby asked, “What were ya
doing all that time?”
Willa grinned back. “Naw, it wasn’t like that.” She
sipped. “Uh, he was just crying on my shoulders, talking about
his problems on the police force. . . . Shit like how he finds rats
in his lockers, bullets unloaded from his gun chamber, or just
having Nigger painted on the hood of his car when he left his
shift at night.”
“Maybe he ought ta get in line with us.” Ruby sighed
with a shake of her head. “Willa, the first anything catch the
most hell for the whole race.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 108

A squad car came up. Two cops got out and went up to
the pastor. They were out of hearing from the bunch of them, but
they could see one cop slap his Billy club in his hand and another
point a finger in the pastor’s face. They left, got back in the car
and drove away.

The women stared at each other. All of them ran over to
the pastor as he was handing out their signs.

Josephine asked, “Pastor, Pastor, you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just our local officers don’t want nothin’ to
get out of hand.” He looked away from them as a paddy wagon
and some more cops drove up. “This here’s a free country, and
we can march and sing just as long as I got this here piece of
paper and the Lord in our soul. Don’t ya worry none ’bout the
devil.”
Ruby slapped a hand on her hip with defiance. “Come on.
Let’s not worry about dem cops. Let’s get our signs and start
marching.”
A parade of agreement came from them all. “All right!
We hear you girl. Yeah, let’s start marching. We ain’t got shit
anyway.”
Ruby went to the table and picked up some signs. “Willa,
take this one.” It read MY BROOM AIN’T NO PROMOTION.
Wanda got hers saying, PROMOTION FOR ALL. NOT FOR
SOME.
Sheila took hers out of Ruby’s hands. WE SHALL
OVERCOME.
Elthel picked hers up. JOBS AND JUSTICE.
Denise swallowed her fear and got hers. DON’T SHOP
AT MCKAY’S.
Andrea snatched her up. DON’T BUY. LET THEM FRY.
Billie sure wasn’t bothered and got hers. NO
PROMOTION FOR US.
Yvonne waved hers up in the air. NO COINS FOR
PHARAOH.
Josephine jabbed hers in the sky. K.K.K. AT MCKAY’S.
The last sign was left for Ruby. NO JUSTICE AT
MCKAY’S.
Marching, stomping, shouting and clapping, the women
came about. Some cops moved sawhorse barriers between them
and the store just as it got to be nine o’clock.
A bus rose from the morning traffic packed with about
twenty more. Church people got off and hugged, shouted, praised
the skies and the good Lord in them. Pastor Payton went to
Deacon Francois and kissed him on both cheeks. Tears streaming
down the side of his face, Elder Johnson got right in the middle of
the circle of women, stepped and sang, “WE SHALL

Prue / Mammie Doll 109

OVERCOME. WE SHALL OVERCOME SOME
DAYYYYYYY. . . . DEEEEPPPP IN MY HEART, I DO
BELIEVE, WE SHALLLLL OVERCOME SOME DAYYYYY.”
Three more cars came with men from the Catholic Church.
Bishop O’Toole blessed every one of the women, his fingers
waving the sign of the cross. His attendants stood in white lace
robes, waiting in silence.

“Dominus Vobiscu. Estu Spiritus Sanctus.”
Ruby teared up at the fields of faces, the signs of the cross
in a town on American soil. She walked, stomping her feet,
going round and round through winds of honking traffic, pointing
her finger at customers going through the doors of McKay’s.
Shouting, praising the Lord, her church sisters, in flower
dresses, wearing big Sunday hats wrapped up in red, white and
blue ribbons marched with Ruby. Stump knee old men from wars
long gone marched with the rest. Young zip-head boys in
sneakers shouted with the best.
Geometric shapes of her adorable neighbors came from
busses. Mr. and Mrs. Scott from across the street picked up the
step. Sally Mae Jefferson came down the steps with her lemon-
honey muffins. Princess Marie Jackson and her little girl
Vanessa dismounted hand in hand. Mr. Potts and his Annie were
right behind the Butterfields from around the corner. Dentist
Thompson and his wife Loretta shook their fists at the doors.
Number man, Mr. Charles, didn’t put in his policies today. He
just let the horses ride.
Wonders occurred as the sun went up the side of hot
heads. A gallon of sweat, a gallon of tears were washed down
with cups of iced tea and water passed around to dry lips.
A song broke out. “AAAAAMMMMENNN.
AAAAMMMMEN. AAAAMMMEENNN.
AMMMMMENNNN. AMENNNNNN.”
Cops on horses galloped by, cussing at traffic and
passersby. Motorcycle police puttered past, pointing fingers at
slow gas. “Keep moving. Keep moving. Dis here ain’t no
sideshow.”
A rainbow canvas of people flowed into the circle, scaring
away shoppers, not knowing what was going down. But the signs
told the truth this day and the women’s faces showed the same.
Muslim brothers came up on the scene. With their clean
shaven, Quo Vadis-style haircuts, silk bow ties, grey suits, they
carried newspapers under their arms. “Buy Mohammad Speaks!
God’s Not White. He’s a Black Man. Read Mohammad Speaks.
Mohammad Speaks. Black Man’s Day Is Coming. Our Day Is
Coming. Mohammad Speaks. Mohammad Speaks.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 110

Ruby could see a flock of reporters running at them with
their cameras out, mikes pushed in people’s faces from several
TV stations and newspapers in the area. Flying neckties,
screaming faces rushed towards Pastor Payton.

He spoke at the microphone. “We are here today to
protest in peace and nonviolence. Our concerns are with the
proprietors of this department store, McKays. The owners refuse
to promote, train and encourage our beloved sisters from my
church. These ten women have given their sweat, time and tears
to make the owners just as wealthy as Pharaoh of Egypt.”

Voices from the marchers screamed, “NO COINS FOR
PHARAOH! NO COINS FOR PHARAOH! NO COINS FOR
PHARAOH! NO COINS FOR PHARAOH!”

“Pastor Payton! Pastor Payton! How long will your
group be out here marching?”

He was amazed at this question. “As long as it takes. As
long as it be for the evils of that place to fall down and leave the
good people of this community alone.” He took the mike. “The
devil is everywhere. Everywhere. Y’all hear me? In such good
men, all over this country who think they are doing black folks a
favor.” He pointed dead straight at the cameras rolling. “But
this country ain’t doing us no good. Just as longggggg as they
keep ten women down.” He gazed over the sea of blue eyes.
“None of us will ever be free in this country until we all are free.”

Amidst sweaty necks and bullfrog faces another reporter
blurted out a conspiratorial question. “Pastor Payton, the
managers of McKay’s say you are a Communist.”

The pastor blinked at this red-baiting. “Sir, I don’t have
the time for this nonsense.” He shoved the mike aside. “S’cuse
me now. Let me get back to my flock.” He went back in the
crowd of marching, singing circle of women. He turned on his
bullhorn and spoke toward the glass doors. “WE AIN’T GONNA
GO NOWHERE TILL YOU SETTLE THIS DAY HERE. WE
AIN’T GONNA STOP MARCHING TILL DEM DOORS
COME TUMBLIN’ DOWN. YOU HEAR ME, OL’
PHAROAH? THOSE GOLD COINS WILL TURN TO DUST
AND YOUR CUSTOMERS WILL NOT ENTER TILL YOU
SETTLE WITH THESE HERE WOMEN.”

Ruby had tears in her eyes, laughing and shouting away
the people going to the doors of McKay’s. She thrust her chest
out, patting her butt across the street. She was really having fun
with the others, joking and laughing as the count of customers
started trickling down to maybe close to only two or three an
hour.

“Ruby! Ruby!”

Prue / Mammie Doll 111

She searched for the person calling out her name through
the flood of police shirts, cars, and reporters.

It was her husband.
“Homer!” She waved. “Here! Here!” She went over to
the long wooden barriers separating them on the street.
He reached over shoulders, around her head and touched
her fingers. But he was shoved away as if he wasn’t a part of the
march by some cops.
“Keep moving. Keep moving, mister.”
“Okay. Let me see my wife.”
Ruby didn’t want her man going to jail. “I’m okay, baby.
I’m okay.” She lifted her sign higher up over her head. “Pick up
Ida from Miss Waters.”
Their fingers just touched as he kept going by. He didn’t
want to feel that Billy club either. But the police had left him
alone to pay attention to some young boys raising their balled-up
fists.
He smiled back, threw her a kiss.
She followed his eyes spinning away from her and the
loud people singing their hearts out. She turned back and joined
in with the rest across from McKay’s glass doors. She locked her
arms between Willa’s and Elthel’s. “Deeeeeep Innnnnnn
Myyyyyyy Heart, I Dooooooo Believe, Weeeeeee Shallll
Overcome Some Dayyyyyy.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 112

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Oh, yeahhhh, baby. Ohhhh, yeah, baby. Baby, right
there. OOOhhhhh.” Ruby was ecstatic with relief, falling deeper
into the sofa pillows on her back and neck. “Ummm, Homer,
your fingers are doing the trick on these bunions.” One day of
marching had her crying on the sofa with hurting feet.

“Ruby, just remember to soak your feet tonight with some
Epsom salts. . . . That’ll do the job.” He patted her ankles.

“You good to me, Homer.” She sat up to tell him this.
“You know that?” She reached down and rubbed her fingers
through his fluffy hair. “Ummmmm. Ohhhh, yeahhhh.”

He dug his thumbs under the balls of her feet. “And you
are driving me crazy.”

She didn’t quite know what he meant by this, but she
wasn’t going to let him get away with this nasty tone in his voice.
“You drive me crazy sometimes too.”

“You know what I mean, Ruby. This protest thing.”
She stopped his hands. “Homer, you got to come to
peace with this . . . protest thing.”
He dismantled his hands from her toes. “Hell, I can’t
come to peace with this if you get busted upside your head by
some stinkin’ redneck cop.”
“Homer, stop it. Stop it.” She pulled her feet back.
“Dammit. Don’t worry about me. Okay?”
“You my wife. What you mean, don’t worry about you?”
He got up, rolling down his sleeves in a hurry.
“What’s all this fuss in here?” It was Alma huffing in
from a sleep that had left bed curlers flopping from her hair,
wearing goose down slippers and a pink gown covered up by a
cotton blue “my daughter gave me for Christmas” Mckay’s robe.
“Ida’s asleep and I got to go to work in the morning.”
Homer boomed, “Your daughter won’t listen to me!”
Ruby stood up in his face. “Go listen to yourself, man!”
This tipped him back on his Chuck Taylor sneakers. “I
just don’t want you hurt out there, that’s all.”
Alma came between them. “You both listen to each other.
Ya sound like foolish children. Ruby, if something goes wrong at
that march . . . you jump the hell out of the way. Don’t you get
in no mess.”
“Ma, I’m already in the mess.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 113

Alma turned from her daughter to Homer. “And you,
young man, you just let your wife be. She’ll be just fine. You
know us black folks gots to fight for respect and decency. Ain’t
nobody gonna give it to us.” She shook her head at them. “Now
ya both get the hell out of my living room and go on to bed.”

Homer looked around Alma. He spread his arms open.
Ruby went to him, becoming a dove in the arms of this
wide, hard man. “I’m sorry, baby.”
He bent down, kissing her.
Alma pulled them apart. “Good. Now ya git.” She
yawned. “Ahhhh. But don’t make another baby.”
Ruby stuck up a finger. “Haaaa! One Ida is enough.”
Alma gave her daughter a hug. “Don’t forget to soak
those sore feet. . . . I see you in the morning. ’Night.”
“’Night, Alma.” Homer gave her a kiss on the cheek, then
took Ruby’s hand and pulled her through the door. He held her
around the waist, still afraid of losing her to some jail or hospital.
Up the steps he took her, to a bedroom and child.
Alma smiled and started to follow behind them. But a
knock came at the door. “I get it.”
A muffled night voice came back. “Alma. Alma. It’s
Joey.”
“Joey.” She opened the door. “You old fossil.” She
hugged him around his neck. “Come on in here.”
He patted her back. “Hi, Alma.” He limped into the
house on a cane with a bronze eagle-head handle. His crusty, soft
face, with deep brown eyes that manufactured a night calm, was
covered by a flaky white beard. He and Alma were old friends
that missed talk, as small as it may seem; old friends still living in
the same neighborhood. They grew with the trees, always
needing to hold on to each other, passing ships that docked and
swayed on black night waters. It was after ten, but they got the
energy up to surprise each other’s grey hairs, root-grain faces
instilled in World War II times. He wasn’t moving and she
wasn’t even.
“Where you been, Alma? I haven’t heard from you in a
while.” He tilted closer to her face and followed her into the
dining room.
They stood around the white lace table.
“I been home. . . . Just gone back to work.” She leaned
on a chair and picked a curler back, knowing she looked like a
sick mule.
“You been sick?”
“More like pissed,” she said, thinking about the slap going
across the woman’s face.
“Huh?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 114

“I was laid off for about a week.”
He asked, “For what?”
“Uh, I had to straighten out Judge Marston’s wife.” She
played with the belt around her robe. “Uppity white people can
get on your nerves sometimes.” She went around the table,
slapping cake crumbs from the cloth. “You just got to let them
know this is ’66, not ’56.” She pushed up another curler and took
him into the living room. “You want a drink?”
He sat down and rested his cane next to him, gazing at the
crystal, large plants, pictures and cold fireplace. “Scotch would
be nice.”
She rubbed her arms. “Scotch coming right up. . . . I got
an old bottle around here somewhere.” She left, but came back
with a bottle and two shot glasses. As she bent down, he tried to
take a peek down her gown.
She caught him. “You still an old dog, Joey. Ha!”
He gave her a wink. “You still looking good, girl.”
“Just pour the drank.” She sat next to him. “I been
holding this around here for almost two years. Uh, for special
company.”
He poured, then handed her a glass. He tapped his glass
against hers. “To buddies of long ago, but never far away.”
They drank, sipping the scotch slowly.
She moved her tongue across her lips. “Huh. Never far
away. If you get too drunk you can just sleep out here on the
couch tonight.” She rested back. “Did you tell your sister you
were coming over here?”
“Yeah, she knows.” He spotted her willowy, tall body
move around in the robe as she took a drink. Her nipples were
pointing through for him to see, just enough of a woman he had
always been in love with.
She told him, “Ain’t no fun drinking good scotch alone.”
She saw in his eyes that he wasn’t that up tonight. “What you
been up to, Joey? Heaven knows I got enough problems.” She
crossed her legs and looked over at the empty unlit fireplace on a
warm summer eve. “Having my daughter on TV in a march can
throw you back. . . . Kind of scares the shit out you.”
“I haven’t been up to nothin’ much — working on my car,
going to the race track, seeing the doc about my biles.”
“What’s wrong, Joey?” She held his hand.
“Nothin’ much. Couple weeks ago I found some blood in
my stool.” He put his glass down and patted her hand. “Doc tells
me it’s a bleeding ulcer, that’s all.”
“You always been a hard headed man. . . . I’m sure you’ll
be okay.” She looked over his face, didn’t see any sadness or

Prue / Mammie Doll 115

complaints, no regrets about the war or losing a limb. “It’ll be
okay.”

He asked her for the thousandth time, “Alma, when you
going to marry me?”

She was quick to answer. “The day you stop moonshining
dem other church women.” She took a taste of her drink. “Ha! I
don’t trust no cripple man.”

“Why, honey?”
She stared at his one-gold tooth grin. “Ya play on a
woman’s sympathy too much.” She winked at him. “Haaaa
haaaa.” She was feeling that warm scotch now. “Um um um.”
He grabbed his chest. “Alma, ohhhh, you hurt my
feelings.”
She slapped at him. “You don’t have any feelings.”
He got serious. “How’s your son-in-law doing?” Sipping,
he asked, “He’s still coaching at that school?”
“Can’t get him away from it.” She let a slipper loose from
her foot. “He loves the hell out of those boys.” She rubbed her
arms together. “They just went to bed, before you got here.
Arguing, too.”
Joey touched the eagle head. “’Bout what?”
“This protest.”
He pulled some chin hairs. “Can’t blame him. I know
he’s worried about her.” He pushed a pillow higher up to his
head. “Pretty thing. Just like her momma. Ha ha.” He slapped
her knee. “I know he don’t want some cop touching his woman.”
Shaking his head, he added, “Damn. You don’t know what’s
going to happen in this world next.”
“No matter what it is, black people going to be right in the
middle of it.” Alma checked his glass. “You want another one?”
He sat up, shocked. “Ah, yeah, I take one more. But this
time, I sip it slow and just look at you.”
“That’s what you been doing all along.”
Joey cracked a smile. “Guess I have.”
“Still a shit talker too. I better watch you.”
He moved his cane further from his leg. “I better watch
you too.” He took a chance on a slap. He gave her a hug.
Pulling back, Alma said, “Let me fix you that drink.” As
she unscrewed the bottle top, she felt his arm go over her
shoulder again. She cut an eye at him and let him smell the
scotch on her breath. She stopped pouring to taste the nectar
from his lips, and didn’t hear her curlers come loose, falling to
the floor.

***
Wednesday’s hours peeled off into one long day.

Prue / Mammie Doll 116

After eleven, but just before lunch, Alma had to mop the
floors, checkered white-black blocks behind the library, just
before you reached the study on the south side. They sparkled a
tired reflection of her face. She dipped and dunked her mop in a
pail of water mixed up with Spic and Span. She balled up and
rolled the rags over stains of tobacco, scuff marks from shoes, his
shoes. Her knees popped and cracked. She looked down the ten
foot long hall ending at the giant oak doors of the judge. She just
kept scrubbing, splashing, digging in, digging in. She worried
about her baby in that protest line. Digging in. Digging.
Digging In. Worried about her baby on that protest line. Her
muscles pulled, pushed, pinched. Her butt poked out at the
goddamn world, to kiss your poor black ass. Poked out to the
hands that wanted to spank and feet that wanted to kick. Sweat
dripped from her face. Splash. Splash. More scuff marks on her
floor. The white man’s floor. Her floor. The white man’s floor.
Splash. Splat. Swish. Splash. Swoosh. Splat. Back ache. Gots
to get that dirt. Gots to get that dirt. My daughter’s on the
protest line. My daughter is on the protest line. Gots to get that
dirt.

Stomach strained, down to her thighs. Water soaked up
her rubber toes. She stretched to get the corners. Scooped dust
from a twenty-thousand dollar vase from Japan, ten thousand
dollar chair from India, fifty-thousand dollar painting from Haiti,
thirty-four-thousand dollar rare edition books from China, fifteen-
thousand dollar fertility statue from the Ivory Coast. Judge
Marston had traveled the world and found black gold in every
little dirty, filthy corner.

Rumblings, stern noise came from the study door.
“I will pay you, Simone. . . . Just leave my house.”
His wife said, “You look so worldly behind that pipe . . .
putting me out.”
“I’m putting a drunk out,” he said. “I’ll get Alma to pack
your things.”
Simone had to scream at him to make him listen. “I don’t
want her near my things!” She paced around with a mink coat
over her shoulder, stamped out her last cigarette as smoke came
through her nose.
He pushed the decanter. “You need another drink?
Here.”
She stopped, stared at him hard and long. “The great
Judge Marston. Your style repulses me.” She swept hair from
her eyes. “What did you ever think you were going to get from a
barmaid?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 117

“I thought I was getting a wife, not a bottle to sleep with
at night.” He puffed, then smelled the rose in his lapel. “You
turned my world into a garden of weeds.”

She went into his face. “You got so much from me,
except you didn’t think I would notice you.”

He felt his face drain of blood and pushed her from his
sight. He laid his pipe down to watch her trip over the expensive
fur and fall to the floor.

She got up hollering, “Bastard!”
He stood inches from her nose. Either a kiss or a slap
would be next, but the question came. “Notice what, Simone?”
She flung her hair back. “You watching her. . . . I was
never too high to notice my husband in love with some nigger.”
As soon as she said it he snatched the coat from her hand
and threw it to the floor. “You nasty bitch! Shut up.” He was
inches from striking her. “I’ll get Mr. Washington for your
things. . . . Just get out.”
“Oh, I’ll get out, but you’re going to pay for this little
secret of ours.” She picked up her coat. “You’re old enough to
be my father and you’re scared.” She went to the door and
stopped. Pausing at the Great Judge Marston, she asked him with
spite in her voice, “You’ve never told her . . . have you?”
He looked at her, turned away.
She went out.
Alma got away from the door just in time. She jumped
back down to her knees. She wasn’t looking up, but she saw
Simone’s feet right in the way of her scrubbing. Splashing water
up, she said, “S’cuse me, ma’am.”
Simone went around, still dragging the coat through the
wet hall, switching her tail down the halls of Marston Estate.
Alma looked up. At the door Judge Marston was staring
at her, not saying a word. He went back into his study, shutting
the door.
Alma wasn’t surprised about the fight. She dipped her rag
in the bucket. She didn’t worry about her job anymore and sure
didn’t worry about a white man loving her. But she did worry
about her Ruby on that protest line.

***
Picket signs touched the blue fabric sky.
Ruby kept barking, stepping in pace. Ham sandwiches,
donuts, coffee kept her going. Hand claps, church songs kissed
the air from the whirlwinds of cops, cars, reporters, shoppers,
store owners, kids and grandmothers waving the American flag.
She couldn’t worry about being tired, although she hadn’t
had much sleep last night. Homer snored to the Lord. Ida was
ready for her two o’clock feeding.

Prue / Mammie Doll 118

Her nights had been filled with sleepless dreams since the
baby came. She now conducted her days peering into black,
white faces, snarling and growling like a hungry dog gnawing on
a piece of meat. Fighting over that freedom bone. War fever.
On the streets with ten women still singing in front of jungle grey
buildings. Strong voices, all rising up from the horizon of
summer morn, fighting over the freedom bone.

The windows of McKay’s shook from the thunderous
blast. She stood behind the blue wall of police shoulders.
“McKAY’s! McKAY’s! GIVE US RESPECT FOR BEING
BLACK! WE AIN’T GOING BACK! McKAY’s! McKAY’s!”

“YOU BETTA GET ON THAT FREEDOM TRAIN.
ALLLLLL ABOOOAARRRDDD. BETTA GET ON THAT
FREEDOM TRAIN!”

Marchers laughed when customers passed the store by.
They pointed fingers, yelling at the white clerks and managers
peeping from third floor windows.

Willa came over. “I see you got your motor running
today.” She patted her on the back. “Keep giving them hell.”

Ruby said, “Screaming at Homer last night gave me
plenty of practice for today.” She waved a neighbor back.
“Charlotte Honeybee, don’t give them crackers your money.”

Willa reminded her, “And days ahead.” She swung her
sign higher, spotted some people going in. “Johnnie Mae Smith,
ain’t you heard? They close to us folks. Dey don’t know how to
treat us right. Boooo! Boooo!”

They got back in line, circling, circling. Traffic kept
jamming up. The cops weren’t smiling. They had brought the
dogs too, in case something got out of hand. Ruby kept on
singing. They weren’t going to stop her. Fighting over that
freedom bone.

Buzzards flew on the edge of victory.
What went by was a week, plus a day. On July 1, 1966 a
white flag stuck out from the doors of McKay’s.
Women of glass, women of stone couldn’t believe the lost
pink faces of the managers. News-making as the shouts lowered
from the skies. Perhaps it was the all-night meetings at the
country club by Mayor Bagatelle. Perhaps it was the campaign
by the women, children and old people standing in the rain
drinking coffee, lemonade, eating peanut butter sandwiches
behind the barricades. Perhaps, most of all, it was the money
being stopped at the doors of Jericho.
It was resolved in hurting feet and tears. Ten women
came around out of nowhere and clutched hands in a ring,
swinging and swaying. Weighed down by a God-praising crowd,

Prue / Mammie Doll 119

they chanted, “Amen. Lord. Amen. Thank you, Jesus! Thank
you!”

Ruby couldn’t see through her tears. But she found Willa
in the mass of crazy, mad, happy people. She jumped up in her
arms. “We did it! We did it!”

Willa slapped the tears from her eyes. “You damn right
we did it.” Hugging her, she rejoiced, “Haaaa ha ha.” She swung
her. “Now maybe we can get some sleep.”

In the midst of this day Pastor Payton went toward the
flag of peace. Cars stopped in front of the man who was willing
to die by the hands of the devil. He stood in front of the men.
“It’s time.”

Mr. Sullivan pulled down the flag and opened the door.
“Yes sir. It’s time.”

Pastor Payton stopped, nodded back to the women and
followed the men back into the store with his Bible under his
arm.

Snickering cops spoke under their breaths to each other.
“These niggers ain’t won nothing. . . . A nigger bitch couldn’t
clean my shoes. . . . Let’s bust this shit up.”

A few of them reached over the barricades and swung at
heads. “We said stay back. Back! Get the fuck on back.”

People started falling, throwing up their arms from the
blows of the madmen. “What are ya cops doing? Stop! Stop!
Ahhhhhh ah!”

Then the cops started kicking and tripping. “Get the fuck
back! Get the hell out of here, we said. Fucking niggers!”

Willa went down hard. Shoes went over her hands and
legs. She saw people going down bleeding from the Billy clubs,
cops kicking and punching women in the face and stomach. “No!
Stop! Stop!” Through running legs on the ground she saw Ruby
was lying still. She had hit her head on the curb.

A cop came over, swinging his club at people on the
ground, pinning arms back and pulling them up by the hair.

Ruby tried to get up, but glanced to see the Billy club
getting ready to come down on her. She threw up her hand to
brace for the blow.

But from the side a cop had stuck his stick between them.
“Goddamit, O’Toole. Get the fuck away from her.” He stood
over Ruby right in the cop’s face. “Come on. Come on.” He
was ready to swing his stick back at him.

O’Toole wiped his hand across his lip. He ran off after
some others. He looked back grinning.

Willa got to her. “Ruby! Come on! Come on!” But she
felt a hand on her shoulder that had her pleading. “No! No, leave
us alone.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 120

“Willa, it’s me. Roger.”
From the sun she saw his sweaty face. “Roger! Thank
God.”
He helped them both up. “Just get out of here. Run!” He
looked to see if any more cops were about to land some hits.
“Just get her home.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 121

CHAPTER TWELVE

Neighbors and friends would be coming over to Ruby’s
house about one o’clock. On the Fourth of July, 1967, Homer
had the grill out, with spareribs, chicken, hamburgers and hotdogs
cooking up smokey flavors in hot barbecue juices, South Carolina
style. Ribs were soaked up in lemon juice and hot peppers
overnight. He swatted some flies and shooed squirrels from the
lawn in the backyard. “You little creatures ain’t gettin’ none of
this. So get back, Jack.”

Alma heard him and poked her head out of the screen
door. “Well, look at the chef. Cook it, chef.”

He looked up. “Hey, Alma, you getting that good tastin’
potato salad ready?”

“I’m getting it ready for ya.” She slapped her hand at
him. “A big man like you going to need plenty.”

“Oh, and tell your daughter, don’t put too much celery
seed in the macaroni salad.” He winked and pointed a finger her
way.

Alma warned him, “Now, don’t you go messing with
Ruby’s famous macaroni salad.” She started to close the door.
“I’m not brave enough to tell her. So you go on back to those
chickens and ribs.”

“Haaaa haaaa.” He swatted the air with the spatula and
went back to his basting and sampling.

Alma went to her daughter stirring up the mayonnaise in
the salad. “You heard your husband out there?”

“Ma, I ain’t paying no attention to that man.” She cut up
some pickles. “He’ll be the first one in my macaroni salad.”

From the kitchen windows looking out over the back yard
beside the glossy white refrigerator, Alma watched splashes of
corn silk sunlight over her daughter’s face — a fragile porcelain
piece of new work. Her work. Just stirring the salad, tongue out,
as pieces of cheese, pickles went around. “Ruby, did you call the
cousins?”

“Uh, yeah, Ma.” She stopped. “I even called Homer’s
mother.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that,” Alma said. “I know you
and her don’t get along. But she’ll come around to you.” She
went over to Ruby. “That lovely little girl you gave her son
makes any mother-in-law put down her guard.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 122

Ruby cut off Saran wrap, covered the bowl and stuck it in
the refrigerator. “Ah, now that’s done.” She washed her hands
off under the faucet and dried them off on her apron.
“Whewwww!”

Alma asked, “What you wearing to the cookout?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I might put on a blouse and shorts.”
Alma winked. “I think your husband got a likin’ for dem
cut-off jeans of yours.”
Ruby hugged her mother. “Ma, I don’t want to make him
jealous.” She peeked out of the window to her man with the
chef’s hat on. “He can get kind of crazy sometimes about me.”
Alma calmed her. “Don’t mind him.” She went to the
window. “He’s not a drinker . . . like your daddy was.” She
unwrapped her apron.
Ruby reminded her, “My daddy. I wish I had known my
daddy. . . . you know that.” She laid her head on her mother’s
shoulder.
“I know that, baby, I know.” Alma slipped an arm around
her and patted her. “Come on,” cheering her, “Let’s get ready for
this cookout.”

***
COOKIN’:
Ruby stepped down some brick steps into the waiting
waters of joy. Laughing couples spoke loudly over the James
Brown music that tore like a buzz saw through the backyard. A
yellow, brown and black face sea of friends, paper plates in
hands, tastin’ good liquor, barbecue, baked beans — don’t forget
the cornbread — on the side. They joked, jived, roamed, cut
eyes, spoke crazy and sang loud and clear for the kids to hear.
Salad in hand, she placed the bowl on the table beside Mr.Hill’s
apple pie, Mrs. Waters’ collard greens, Willa’s fried chicken,
Leona’s sweet candy yams, Valerie’s smoked neck bones and
Dorothy Benson’s deviled eggs. She spotted Homer head-
bopping to the music of James, doing his crazy steps, passing out
hotdogs to the children at the same time. Fathers clapped.
“Pleaaaassseee. Pleeeeaaassseee. Pleaaaassse. Don’t hurt, baby.
Allll right now.” Swinging, they mash-potato stepped to the beat
of Mr. Brown’s brass band. Heads shook, skirts rose above
knees. Her momma was frisky with a beer in her hand.
“Momma. you going to be sore in the morning. You and Mr.
Browner are too old to be doing them steps.”
Alma waved this away. “Homer, come get your wife.”
Homer flipped a burger, threw off his chef’s hat. He
popped over and grabbed her around the waist, spun her out. “Do
the James Brown, baby.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 123

Ruby goose-stepped, mashed her feet from side to side.
Shoulders waving up, around with her hips, she twisted with the
songs of a crazy man. “Get it. Get it now.” She shook her tail at
Homer. “Um huh. I can do it too, baby.”

“Ha ha ha.” Homer popped his fingers, shook and jumped
back. “All right now.” He winked, twisted with her to the
screams and drum beats. As he worked his body closer to hers,
“Do it now. Do it. Ha.”

Easy spirits did a two o’clock jump. But celestial bodies
must come down to burn up, take a beer break from James Brown
trumpet sounds.

Homer kissed Ruby, then got back to the grill. He turned
his corn on the cob over in the aluminum. Ruby hugged and
kissed her cousins. She picked Ida up in her arms from the
stroller as the backyard was getting crowded with people. A
black crooked oak tree kept her mother and the church women
cooled down — that along with cans of beer in their hands.

Willa was still dancing to some of that slick Wicked
Pickett hot sauce music with Roger Corey.

Ruby smiled upon her one-year-old daughter and took her
over to her father. “I thought I’d let you see your daughter now.”

Homer bent down and planted a kiss on the baby’s pudgy
cheek. He poked her belly with a thumb. “How’s my little girl
doing? Ha . You havin’ a good time like your ol’ man here? . . .
As soon as the ribs finish, I’m gonna give you one of them rib
bones.”

Ruby bounced her in the air. “Look Homer. She likes
that.”

Ida cooed. “Dada. Garba. Gar. Dada.”
“You having a good time, baby?” Homer asked.
She stuck her nose up to his. “You know it. I’m glad we
had this cookout . . . with all our friends.”
“I’m glad too.” He shook his head as he stuck another
hotdog in a bun. “Whew. This year we deserve a nice time.”
She rubbed his back. “We sure do, Homer.”
“You and the women at McKay’s deserve it After
finishing ya’ management course.” He kissed her.
“Congratulations again, baby.”
Alma called, “Ruby, bring Ida over to meet her Great-
great Aunt Suzy. You know she hasn’t seen her.”
“Oops. I better go. Coming, Ma.”
She went through the crowd of dancers, spotting more
cousins coming down the stairs — Hattie with her soft tones of
blue shades, Winston with his wife and little boy, Regina was
waiting on Aunt Mae with a couple of plates of chittlins, Sterling
in his thick eyeglass frames dancing with a girl taller than him.

Prue / Mammie Doll 124

Music from the Temps as David Ruffin made you want to
jump in the sky. It even made old folks feel twenty years
younger.

“Ohhhhh. One more time, honnnney. One more time,
babbby. I give my heart to youuuuu. Let me rock you, girlllll.
Rock you, baby. Just one more time.”

Homer tapped a foot, turned a burger. Willa bought
Roger over to him. “Hey, Homer. I see you gettin’ with that hot
sauce.” She gave him a tight hug.

He shook Roger’s hand. “How you doing, Roger?” He
tipped his floppy hat to her. “Baby, I’m just cookin’.” He
slapped some sauce on the ribs. “Glad yaw could make it.”

Roger winked at Willa. “Whew, it was rough. I had to
pay to get off this holiday shift.”

She slapped his arm. “He had betta came.” She kissed his
cheek. “Let me go see that baby of yours. Ummmm. she’s
getting big.” She left them in the smoke and flames of charcoal
broiled meats.

Homer got serious. “Roger, I never had the proper time to
thank you for what you did last year. . . .”

Roger cut him off. “Man, don’t worry about that. . . . I
wasn’t going to stand there and let some white cop beat up on
Willa, Ruby, or anybody else.”

Homer understood this. “You just enjoy yourself. Oh, we
got plenty of alphabets to drink: J and B, E and J, along beside
Mr. Martin, Mr. Walker and some of them Russians too.” He
directed him. “Right on that table over there,” and slapped him
on the shoulder. “Plenty of food to eat.”

Roger got thirsty in this hospitality. He saw people lining
up around the tall bottles, punch bowls, paper cups in their hands.
“I think I’ll just have a beer for now, then work my way to the
alphabets.” He pulled his ear. “But coach, how’s that team of
yours doing?”

Homer got testy. “I see you read the paper.” He pointed
around in the crowd. “Some of my players are here. . . . I had to
check their cups.” He saw Tim McGee on the grass dancing with
his girlfriend. “Two and six last year.”

Roger winked. “You got room for improvement.”
“Ha ha. Yeah, improvement.” Homer drank down some
of his lemonade. “By the way, how you doing at the station?”
“Hangin.”
“Hangin?” Homer heard the frustration. “Have they hired
anymore of us?” He turned the hot dogs around with a long fork.
“Just a couple. But it’s never enough.”
Homer dabbed his face with his handkerchief. “What,
there’s a shortage of black men in Mileston?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 125

Roger was amused at Homer’s small world of high school
football and family cookouts. “Man, don’t you know there’s a
war going on?”

He stopped poking the pig, feeling a curse coming over
him, “I know, but. . . .”

“But what?” Roger shook his head at this man’s reality.
“There’s going to be a wolf knocking at your door soon.”

“You just talking shit.”
“Naw. I’m talkin’ ’bout something that is real. Dis ain’t
going to be over for a long time.” Roger looked around. “I think
I’ll have that drink now.”
Homer didn’t want to argue. He just wanted to hear
Smokey sing this day. “Help yourself.”
“See ya.” Roger left to get in line with the rest. He didn’t
want to look back at a man who was lost in a world of books and
chalk. He grabbed hold of his Willa and pecked her ear. She
playfully slapped his face.
Homer went back to poking the ribs, setting up plates of
sweet hot meats. Guests flocked by the table, making rib and
chicken sandwiches, drinks in their hands. His world was under
that big finger oak tree — Ruby and Ida — a picture that he
would never forget this summer. He waved a fork at her and the
child. His babies. Smoke lifted him up, arousing him to drift
some and feel the hot summer air, inflaming him, making him
more thirsty for life. A prayer from his lips came. “Lord, oh
Lord, please don’t let them take me from all of this.” He turned
over another hamburger and swatted a fly from his face as he
watched the people dance, have fun, holler and shout. What the
hell was it all about? Damn. Goddamn. Leaving my wife, kid
behind for some fucking jungle. “Please. Lord, oh Lord, don’t let
them take me.”

***
July 22, 1967
Saturday morning they came.
After coffee and a bowl of corn flakes, Homer had the
mail at the dining room table. Ruby was feeding Ida at the other
end. The baby was hungry with an early morning hot sun. He
pick out bills, coupons, invitations for weddings, football games,
letters from parents, from some high schools recruiting for a
coach. This made him happy, and then the letter:
Logo of the eagle. Arrows in one claw, ribbon in another.
“Goddamn!” Homer slammed his fist down.
“Goddamn!”
“Homer, what’s wrong?” Ruby reached out, spoon in
hand. “What you got in your hand?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 126

He crumpled it and flung it down to the end of the table.
He got up from the table, mad and scared to see his wife read,
then question him with the fear of a mad black woman. “No,
baby, this is some joke, right?” She got up and walked to him,
cradling Ida. “Right? Right?”

He teared up, bit down the fear. He uncrossed his arms,
rubbed his chin to think this shit away. “It’ll be okay.”

“They can’t do this. . . . They can’t do this to us.” Ruby
looked into his eyes to make him deny the morning, the
nightmare.

Fumbling, shaken, “Hey, I just do what they want. . . . Go
to Fort Dix for the physical. . . . We’ll just do what they tell us.”
He closed his eyes, then opened them back to see his wife and
baby. “I love you, baby.” He hugged them up in his arms,
feeling the warmth, feeling the sun from a wife and daughter.

Anticipation of losing her man from childhood, Ruby
calmed down from his spiral staircase arms. “We still going to
the park?” She put Ida on the floor to walk some.

He touched her face, a portrait he never wanted to ever
forget again. “Let’s go.” He picked up Ida in his arms and
tickled his nose to hers. “Baby, you want to go to the park?”

Ida responded with the pull of his nose. “Dada. Ahhh.
Dada.”

***
Park benches seemed to float from the clouds. Children
and mothers strolled under trees. Ruby sat with a red balloon in
her hand, watching her husband play with his child on a knoll of
green grass. Distant ball games went on — softball, football —
having a small number of boys trip over the winds.
She tried to brush the war from her eyes with the
evergreen breeze. Split seconds had her sink and lower her eyes
from the play. She rose to breathe up the air of summer. She
choked on the craziness of it all, men unlocking the combination
of life, opening the door to death, telling it to come on in and take
me, take me.
She sat back and soaked up her daughter’s innocence.
Still a heart of peace. Plaits plopped down her shoulders as she
ran away from her father’s hands, giggling and screeching,
burning up with love for her daddy.
But tears still came. She slapped them quickly from her
eyes, not letting him see. Not letting him know that one day
maybe the killing of fathers will stop. Let them be with their
little girls. Deal with it, Ruby. Keep strong for him. Keep
strong for them.
He spun, spun, spun her over the fields, making them both
silly, dizzy, gay. He put her down and watched her dance to

Prue / Mammie Doll 127

some radio music coming from a mother’s stroller. He clapped
with her as her hands flapped to the doo wop beat. “Haaaa haaaa.
Uh, that’s my little girl.”

Ruby couldn’t help herself. She had to get up, run over
with balloon in hand. She tackled both of them to the grass. She
felt the weight of Homer as she tickled, bit, wrestled them with
her head flung back up to the clouds. Laughing, laughing. Until
they all melted over a father’s eyes.

Prue / Mammie Doll 128

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The reality of a nightmare came true. Amidst a flagship
of exhaust fumes from buses you held your nose to say your last
goodbyes.

“Ruby, stop crying.” Homer smoothed a finger under her
eyes. He surrendered himself into her warm folds of a woman.

People poured around men, a chunky, puffy, wet-faced
circle. A world, a place under the flag in the early morning
hours.

Ruby slapped her cheeks. “You got your handkerchiefs,
toothbrush? Homer, you didn’t forget your wallet?”

His head shook this question away. “No, I didn’t forget.”
He looked at his little girl. “Come here, baby.”

Ruby handed him his daughter.
He snuggled his face in her small hands. He felt the soft
life, the tearful testimony to her. He looked around at the other
brown and white faces and felt weird. “One day teaching young
boys health, football, baseball. Now I’m off. . . .” He couldn’t
say it.
Ruby said it for him. “The Army.”
Homer stuck his nose against his Ida’s. “Daddy love
baby.”
She patted his face. “Daaada.”
He gave her back. “I’ll write you.”
“I’ll call you.”
Beside her was Alma. He reached around for a hug.
“Alma, I’m going to miss your pancakes.”
She patted his back. “I’m gonna miss a son-in-law.”
“You take care, hear?”
“I will.”
And his mother was standing there. A woman who never
agreed on the choices he made in this world, but was there to say
she loved him all the time and that’s all he needed from any
woman.
Edna Price came up to him. She kissed and pulled his ear.
“Here, I made you a couple of chicken sandwiches.”
He took the greasy bag from her. “Still your little boy,
huh, Ma?” He felt his ears sting, and shied back and gazed upon
her powdered face, white straw hat and white gloves.

Prue / Mammie Doll 129

She said, “I know you like my chocolate chip cookies, so
I’ll send you some.” A gloved hand wiped her eyes. She sniffed
and blew her nose.

“I love you, Ma.”
Nonchalantly, she wiped this away with her tears. “You
just make sure you come back home. . . . Bye.”
He nodded, then went back to his wife and child.
A man with a wide brimmed ranger hat hollered, “Allll
right, you gents! Time to get on this bus.”
Homer hugged Ruby. “See you in three months.” He
rubbed his nose against the baby’s. “Bye, sugar.” He tickled his
daughter’s chin.
Ruby touched his collar and dragged his chin to hers for a
kiss.
He pulled back. “Ummmm.” He opened his eyes,
winked, ran to get on the bus with the rest. He hopped into his
seat, felt the motor warming up and waved as it slowly pulled
away from the curb.
Ruby tugged on the baby’s white collar with her head
down, not wanting to see his face, just wanting to keep his smiles
close to her day and night.
Alma came up and patted her. “He’ll see you soon.” She
looked over her shoulder to see Edna waving, waving, waving at
her son.

***
Reluctance and adjustment. A month had came upon her
in this tar pit of time. Family dinners washed down with jars of
baby food and nobody ever wanted more potatoes. Ruby and
Alma became oiled machines grinding out Sunday American
commercials. Sitting in the living room in front of a new black
and white TV. Knee high to a programmatic listlessness in reruns
as Ed Sullivan gave them his finest dog act.
Relief was in a laugh. “The dog is smarter than the man.
Ha ah. Ha ha haaaa..” Alma wiped tears from the corner of her
left eye.
“The man looked like the dog,” Ruby said, ingesting
giggles down with sips of iced tea. She peeked down at her Ida
falling off to sleep in her arms. She gently laid her down on the
couch beside her. She looked up to find the dog refusing to roll
over. “Ohhhh, ha ha. Ma, this is ridiculous.”
The comedian directed, “Corky. Corky. Corky.” He stuck
a finger in his sorry, sad bloodhound’s face. “Come on, boy.
Come on.” He got on his knees, pleading with hand slaps on the
stage, butt poking out at the audience across the country. “Over.
Over.” He picked up its long ears, but they flapped back to the
floor.

Prue / Mammie Doll 130

The dog didn’t roll, but rather sulked drunkenly down
deeper, eyes sad and lifeless, not paying attention to its owner.

When the man barked dog talk — “Ruffff . . . Rufff . . .
Rufffffff” — his face swooned up in the air. “Grrrrrr. Rufff.
Rufff. Howllllllllll.”

“Oh lordy, lordy, lordy.” Alma shook her head in disgust
at this. “He’s a fool. Ummmm ahhhhh ha.” She rubbed her face.

“He’s just another silly white man making millions.”
Ruby sat back to watch the face of the dog, motionless as stone.

Alma disagreed, laughing in protest. “Ha ha, yeah, but
he’s funny. OOOOOh boy, ummmm.”

The performer stood, hands on his hips. “Ruff. Ruff.”
Then got down on his knees. “Corky. Howllllll. Corky.
Howlllll. Howlllll.” He slapped the stage several times,
scratched his head at the sleepy dog.

The dog yawned and slapped both his paws over his eyes.
“Oh, haaaaa haaaaa, lordy.” Alma slapped her knee, then
slapped more tears from her eyes. “Oh God, the dog is smarter
than him.”
Ruby wanted to laugh, but she put on the Gary Cooper act
of being serious with the world and the dog in it. “Ha.” She
shook her head, rolled her eyes at her mother breaking up.
“Good. It’s ending.”
The show’s credits were rolling with Ed waving off the
man and the dog. The hunched, mummy of a man sank behind
the curtain screens.
The show ended. But the lamb knocked at their front
door.
“Baaammmm. Bammmmm. Bam. Bam.”
Alma jumped up. “Who the hell is that?” Puzzled she
picked a curler from her face and stuck her toes into a slipper.
This worried Ruby. “I’ll get it, Ma.”
Alma tightened her robe. More noise. “Dammit, I’m
coming.” When she opened the door up cussing under her breath,
her anger seemed to slip away in the night. In front of her was a
face of cuts, blood trickling from eyes. “Inez.” She pulled her
and her little boy in. “What the hell?” She rushed them through
the hall.
Inez dragged her son. But he was screaming,
“Maaaaaamaa, Mama, Awwww Huhu.” Alma picked him up.
“Ruby, Ruby, come here.”
Ruby rushed to the hall and flipped the light on to see her
mother’s coworker hunched over, sobbing in pain. “Come on.”
She huddled over Inez, pulling them all in the kitchen. “We put
some cold water on them cuts.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 131

Her son kept holding tight to her coat. “Maaaaamaaaaaa.
Uh uh.”

Alma bent down and looked into his large brown eyes that
had seen too damn much. “Ruby, you gotta take him upstairs. ”
Looking up at her, she added, “He’s seen too much already.”

Inez hunched lower. “Peter, go with the lady . Shhhh.”
She hugged him, but pain zipped through her chest. “Uhhhh.”

The boy sniffled, and tears dripped around his mouth.
“Uh uh uh, ooookay.”

He was just a small feather of a little boy. Ruby picked
him up. “Come on, let me get you to bed.” She asked, “You like
hot chocolate?”

He rubbed his eyes and nodded yes.
They left. Ruby stopped in the living room to get Ida,
who was still sleeping through this mess. She was thankful for
this as she carried both of them up.
Alma took the trench coat from Inez and reached under
the sink for some clean wash towels. She turned on the faucet
and dipped, washing blood from her nose, eyes, mouth and ears.
She grabbed Inez’s cheek and stared her over to see the right eye
bruised, the left one almost closed up. She used more water and
heard more warnings of pain coming from her friend. “Who did
this, Inez?”
Inez hardly wanted to talk, hardly wanted to tell. Cold
water made her surrender the answer. “My . . . my husband.” It
hurt. It hurt so bad as a memory faded with the pains. Punches,
bites, stings from her man. Love, love, love. Desperate,
desperate man in love with just his pain. Our pain, our love to
tear, eat apart. She sang out with tears the question: “Why?
Why? Why, Almmmmmaaaa?” She stuck her matted head of
hair under the water, drowning for an answer, her blood oozing
down the sink hole.
Alma pulled her and dabbed away the water and blood.
“Inez, we going to have to call the ambulance.”
Inez wasn’t stupid. She knew that once the men from the
hospital saw her, police would be right behind. She didn’t need
her man Marcus looking for her and her baby once they let him
out. “No! No, Alma.” She snatched the towel from her eyes,
piss-scared.
“You worried about that man, Inez, I know. But you can
hardly stand up. . . . You might have a couple of cracked ribs.”
Alma smiled, trying to calm the broken friend. “We have friends
on the police force. . . . I make sure they look out for you.” She
hugged her gently. “Now you let me and my daughter take care
of things.” She nodded her head.
Inez nodded back. “Okay, okay, Alma.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 132

Alma left the kitchen and went to the steps. “Ruby.”
Ruby came in a hurry. “Yeah, Ma.”
“Call the ambulance and that Officer Corey.”
Less than fifteen minutes later the ambulance arrived.
Officer Corey came a few minutes after. A crowd had formed
around the iron gatehouse. It was a warm night with just a few
stars out. Alma had Inez wrapped up in a blanket sitting in the
living room. The men went over her cuts with slow moving
hands, checking eyes, nose, back and ribs.
Ruby stood with Peter beside Roger at the sofa.
He peeked at the little boy. “You okay, Peter?” He
smiled with concern at Ruby and shook the boy’s little fingers.
Peter whispered, “Yes.”
“Don’t you worry, your ma will be just fine.” He went to
talk to one of the medics, then turned to Inez and touched her
hand. He wrote in his pad her husband’s whereabouts and came
back to Ruby. “You okay?”
“Since you here now.” She looked up at the silver badge
on his cap as she bounced the little boy up in her arm.
“What made you call me?”
“We needed a friend.” She was warming up to him,
forgetting about the horror of a wife being beaten almost to death.
He knew her man was gone. He knew she was afraid.
“You hear from Homer?” He pushed his cap back some.
“Every week . . . a letter from me, a letter from him.” She
let the child go to his mother. “There you go.”
They squashed each other until she just folded him up into
her blanket.
Roger said, “It’s good to have somebody to write to . . .
when you’re far away.” He sniffed and pinched his nose when he
saw her face question this.
“Far away? You going somewhere too?”
“I am.”
She leaned away from the door. “They drafted you?”
He tugged on his pocket pens. “No, I drafted them.” He
sort of got closer. He had always wanted to smell that long neck
of hers.
“And Willa?”
He rested a hand on his revolver. “Huh, I don’t think
she’s the writing type.” He looked away, back to the medics.
“We going to have to take her in,” the medic said.
“Ma’am, we think your lung needs patching up.” He patted her
hand and pulled the child from the folds of her arm. “You a cute
little boy. Don’t you worry none here.”
Alma took him and picked him up. “Your momma going
to go with me and the nice man. She be right back.” She poked

Prue / Mammie Doll 133

his stomach. “We got plenty of chocolate cookies for you around
here. Ha ha ha.”

The child reached out, but the medics started to lay her
down on a soft sheeted stretcher. Peter begged, “Maaama,
Maaaama, Maaaaamaaaaaa.”

Alma tried her best to relieve his fears. “Now, now Peter.
Peter, Mama is coming back. . . . Mama is coming back.” She
bounced him to her daughter. “I’ll go with her to the hospital.”
She found a blue sweater of Ruby’s on the dining room chair.
She left the men behind and jumped in front to hold the door for
them.

He kept it up. “Maaaaamaaaa. Maaaamaaaa. Maaaaa.”
Ruby rubbed his back and felt him kick. “It’s all right.
It’s all right, Peter. Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.” She wiped the tears
from his eyes. “Shhhhhh. Want cookie? Want cookie?”
Roger froze, gazing upon the woman and boy. Any man
would want this patient woman who gave time to children and
defenseless women of the night. He came to her. “See you
around, Ruby.”
Ruby kissed the child’s cheeks. “You take care, Roger.”
“I will.” He went out the door and pushed through the
crowd. “Alma. Alma. Wait. . . . I’ll take you to the hospital.”
He caught up and took her arm to his car.
Ruby closed the door. “Peter, Peter, ummm.” He was
going to sleep in her arms. She launched him up on her shoulder
and took him upstairs to her mother’s bed.

Prue / Mammie Doll 134

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Touch the raindrops.
Black faces melted down sewer drains. Slick, wet
pavement, bare footprints of one selfish, unforgiven man. A
crazed, proud, scary, madman who slowly pimped, hunched,
dodged the police.
Hollow tree, twig man, Marcus Cinque Moses. Alcoholic,
reefer man who committed the ultimate sin — beating his wife.
He promised her the world while he kicked her in the ribs. Such
a rich, tasteful night, falling under flashlight street lamps. Steam
rose, floated from the gutters that led to soul food restaurants. He
was hungry for some collards and corn bread, passing one or two
bars on his way to nowhere.
He felt headaches, chills, the cold season coming up on
him. No job, and a war didn’t even want him. He lit up a
cigarette stub as he overlooked street tribal scenes, watching out
for other Mumbo-Bu-ga-loo blue men coming out of jail. Just
like him. Sirens screaminminmin. Screammmmmm. He ducked
into a doorway to the world, turned his face from the red lights
until the screammmmms went away. Chucking, clucking, some
women searched for apartment keys to a fifth floor walkup while
holding packages and babies. He should stick them up. A dog
barked. He didn’t want to bait the Boogey-man. A fever had him
sweating bad. Inside his head he heard Fats playing, rolling them
keys. Over and over. He kept stepping, bumped past others.
Threw up his fist, pulled out his blade.
“Come on, mutherfucker.”
The other ran off, pledging, “Allllrighttt, mutherfucker,
I’m gonna get my shit too.” He ran off, away from death.
He spit blood. Her blood inside of him. She wouldn’t
listen to his pain. His Bu-ga-loo Blues, man. She didn’t help
him, just got in his way. He stared down, warned others, “Get
out my way, mutherfucker,” and kept his blade cuffed in his fist.
Three young Huck-a-Bucks debated him on the street at
Tenth and Adams Place across from the Y.M.C.A. “Man, you
fucked up.”
“Fuck you, youngun’.”
“What you doing out here, nigger? You gonna get killed.”
“You going to do it? Huh? Huh?”
“Hey, mista, you better watch yourself.” One of them
pointed a finger in his face.

Prue / Mammie Doll 135

“Fuck you, young boy.”
“Man, what’s your problem?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“Blood, we in this shit together.”
“Man, fuck you.”
“Mannnn, what’s your problem?”
“I was born, motherfucker.”
“Your mama should have killed your black ass when you
came out.”
He wiped sweat from his nose. “Ha ha haaaaaa.”
“We oughtta kick your ass. What’s your name, nigger?”
“Marcus Cinque.”
One of the cats circled him. “What are you, man, some
crazy Freedom Fighter?”
“Haaaa ha. Naw, I’m just a nigger.” He pushed one of
them. “Punk, get out my face.”
A couple of them backed off. “Come on, man. That
mutherfucker gonna get himself killed.”
They left. One of them threw a bottle at him.
He ducked and started to run after them but stopped at a
light, fast speeding cars at the corner. He blinked and slapped his
chin from the rain.
A green light spoke of trouble ahead. He stepped off,
cursing at shot-gun Cadillac cars, pointing at the goddamn world.
“I’m going to get that bitch.”

***
They got back from the hospital about midnight. A tight
gauze brace squeezed her ribs in place. Inez took each step
holding on to the wooden railing to Alma’s bedroom. Short,
warm breaths came out her mouth. Her head floated, spun. She
muttered incoherent syllables meaning nothing. Pain pills took
her by the hand.
Alma got her in the bed next to her sound-asleep son.
“Inez, I’m right in Ruby’s room if you need me. She slapped her
hair back off her eyebrows and nodded down to see her friend
drift away.
Ruby stood waiting at the door. “What the doctors say?”
Alma stuck a finger up, “Shhhh,” and left the room.
“Couple of bruised ribs. . . . She’ll be here for about a week.”
She slipped into her daughter’s room, stretched into a full yawn.
“OOOOHHHHH.” She took off the sweater and kicked off her
slippers, shook curlers from her hair. She spotted the black-faced
Mammie Doll sitting right on the dresser by the powder puff with
its clean red, white checkerboard dress, head tie of yellow-gold.

Prue / Mammie Doll 136

She bent and touched the frilly hem. Shadow dance memories
came up in her of parties, a sister with a nasty mouth, her
wedding, Sonny’s outlaw ways. She couldn’t hide when she saw
this doll again. Such, such pains of love, family. To watch a
father or mother die, waste away in a bed. The weed-covered
grave of her husband, messed over by the cold winds of New
York. His just desserts for trying to be a strong black man. She
was sick and tired of the long days of scrubbing to raise a child
without a father and barely a mother. Chipping, chipping away at
each of the cracks in the women. The doll was holding up fine.
Just fine. The black face smile was still there. Alma slapped
some tears from her face to carry away the pain, carry away the
hurt.

She took a pink gown from Ruby, checked it out. “Isn’t
this mines?”

Ruby didn’t want to fight over a piece of gown. “Ma, go
to sleep.”

“You know how I am about my things, Ruby.”
Ruby reflected in the mirror. Her mother’s rules. “I
know, Ma. I know.” She stuck some curlers in her hair.
The bedroom light made orange circles on the wall. “You
know your father wasn’t like that,” Alma told her. “He was good
to me.”
Ruby pushed back perfume bottles. “I know that, Ma.”
She knew her mother was worried about Inez. “He loved you,
didn’t he?”
Alma saw his face laughing at her fall in the snow.
“Yeah, yeah, he did.” She slipped the gown over her head. “We
both could have had something worse.” Alma finished, wrapped
a net over her perm. “Um, I’m tired.”
“Just too much tonight.” Alma rubbed her eyes.
“Ahhhh.” She smacked her lips. “On a Sunday, too.”
“Too much any night, a man beating his wife like that,”
Ruby said. She waited to let her mother move over in the bed. “I
feel so sorry for her.”
Alma lay down. “Me too. Thank God we were here for
her.”
Ruby slipped under the covers. “I just hope they catch
that fool.” She twisted a curler behind her ear. “Ahhhhhh.” She
turned off the lamp light.
Shadows shifted in the dark room. “Night, baby.”
Ruby turned her back away. “Night, Ma.”

***
The tragic life of a clown held strong to a night.
Marcus fingered the golden door knob. He ended his
search by the mouth of a rat who pushed drink. “Nickles, the

Prue / Mammie Doll 137

Jeffersons, everybody know them around here. . . . Live up on
Bryant.”

After two o’clock. Time to wake her up.
Banging. “Alll right! Wake up in there. Inez, this is
Marcus your husband.”
“Bammm. Bammmm. Bam.”
“Inez! Commmme onnn! Open up! I want you out of
there right now. Inez! Inez! You hear me? Bitch!” He left the
door and walked around right under the window. Lights came on.
“Alllright, Inez. I know you in there.” Breaking down, “Inez!
Inez, I’m sorry, baby. Baby, I’m sorry. I . . . I just lost my head.
Bring my son out. Bring Petey out so I can see him. . . .”
Across the street, next door, neighbors peeked through
window shades to see a man hollering up at the window, “Inez!
Inez, I said I’m sorry, baby.”
He went back to the outside door, both fists balled up, the
anger of a cat coming out his throat. “Inez! Inezzzzzz!” He
punched the door in a boxer’s stance. Bam. Bam. Bam. “Inez!
Open up! Let me see my son, bitch. Open up. Inez! Inez!
Inez!” He stuck his foot up. “Bam Bam! Bam!” He kicked
again. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! “Bitch, open this door!”
Sirens sounded from a distance, whining, slipping over
cars, stop lights. The grey foggy night rolled over misty heads.
Shadows slunk away.
From the dark hall, the door popped open. A gun was
stuck in his face. A tall, slinky woman. Ruby warned him, “Get
away from my door.”
His eyes opened at the tip of the nozzle. He tripped the
button on his blade and backed down the three short stairs.
“Bitch! I just want my wife.” He held the blade up to her face.
Police cars drove up.
Officer Corey sprang from his car, aiming at his back. He
saw Ruby with a gun in the man’s face. “Ruby, you get on back
in the house now.”
She pulled back, slammed the door. She closed her eyes
and rested back in the coolness of the vestibule. She slipped the
thumb off the hammer of the gun. She heard the gun shots:
“Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!” Her heart stopped as she ran upstairs to
her mother’s room to find Alma clutching Inez’s head on her
shoulders and Peter crying at their slip hems, all in a circle.
She went to the front window. Down below, spread out,
was Marcus’s body, arms, chest, eyes open, still looking up at
their window.

***

DIARY PAGES: MAY 5, 1968

Prue / Mammie Doll 138

I took my Ida to the beach yesterday. Her toes sunk in the
white, wet sands. We fed the pelicans and seagulls Saltine
crackers. It was warm, with a chilly sun. I bundled her up in my
sweater. I just hugged and kissed her round rabbit face warm. I
had to take her, try to explain to her about the angels, God’s
angels.

That they come down and take people away with them to
live with Him sometimes.

I told her that they have taken her father to visit God. I
didn’t cry, but kept a happy face for her. I didn’t want her to
hurt. Not yet, not ever.

This time of year, Homer and me would walk Mileston
Beach. Holding hands, making lots and lots of plans. He would
tell me about his dreams of being a big-time college coach.
Maybe working for some pro football team one day.

He would say, “Ruby, there’s nothing like winning.
Nothing like it.” He wanted to be like his coach in college.
Coach Witherspoon or another coach name Lombardi. He
wanted to be a winner. Win. Win. Win all the time. To be the
number one guy. The number one coach in the country.

He would just walk, talk, laugh, sing, pray and dream,
dream, dream on this beach.

Oh. yeah, my Homer. He was the coach who made me
want to win right along with him. I can still feel his kisses over
my cheeks. His hands roaming over my thighs. His teeth biting
my neck.

My world shattered when he was hit by a bullet, bomb or
grenade. My world crashed this day. His face is everywhere.
Numbness, I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my fingers. I’m so
cold. I’m so cold.

My husband was in love with God, football and family.
He took on a lot for a big man. He helped boys go to college and
get jobs after high school. He helped when he could, but most of
all he loved the hell out of me and his baby girl. I’ll miss you
Homer. Say hello to God and the angels for me and Ida.

Prue / Mammie Doll 139

PART THREE
PROPHETS AND DAUGHTERS

Prue / Mammie Doll 140

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ceiling fans sprinkled cool air over the hot blinking lights

of the scoreboard.

FALCONS BULLDOGS

72 69

Ruby hollered down into the crowd. “Ma! Ma, there’s

Ida.” Her daughter was the point guard for the girls’ basketball

team, Mileston Falcons.

Ida bounced the ball as she looked over the defense. She

passed off to Cheryl Fruit Loop Cisco, then backed up from the

play. The shot went up with the cheers, then blocked back into

her face. Cheryl ducked.

Stray ball.

Ida went for it. She stretched out her five-nine legs and

arms and slapped it over her shoulder. The ball hit the floor. Ida

didn’t know where it was going, just prayed it got to her team.

It didn’t. A Bulldog got it off the dribble after slamming

into two other Falcons. She dribbled towards the net, shot the

jumper. You just heard net. “Swwwwwiiiissshhhhh.”

Ref called time. Bulldog side.

The girls ran back to their benches. Ida stood, sweating.

She slapped her face with the towel, threw it down and stared up

in the stands for her mother and grandmother. She waved,

hunched up at them. One of her teammates was beside her,

Carmen Boom Boom Pagan. “They playing double zone.”

Carmen stared at the score. “Ida, you got to break through.”

Ida sat down, thinking, focusing on their guard Toni

Turner. She was winning the battle so far. She rested, fumbled

with her knee brace.

Coach Giotto kneeled in front of her and the others, her

pencil and pad stenciling in the play. “Ida, they double-zoning

us. . . . You got to break that. . . . Right?”

“Right, coach.” She looked up at her college teammates,

sweating, spitting in buckets, sucking up their bra strap guts.

The coach shook Ida’s knee. “Now, when we get the ball

back, I want you to work the weak side. Left.” She pointed a

finger in the air. “Be on the lookout to hit any open lanes for

Joanne or Diane.” She hinted with a nod. “I want everybody to

move towards the basket.”

Ida said, “Going up against a six- two guard that has the

face of Godzilla ain’t a piece of cake.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 141

Encouragement came from the coach. “Ida, just
remember, that’s why you got teammates. You’re not out there
by yourself. . . . You don’t have to do everything. Just relax.”
Coach Giotto got up off the floor. Her knees creaked. “Come on,
girls.” She clapped them out there. “Ida, keep pushing, keep
pushing.” She balled her fist up and punched it in the air. “If you
got the shot, take it. Just relax. Just relax.”

Ida took the ball from the referee at the side line. She
pointed to Carmen, May, Joanne. She dribbled, waiting to hear
the whistle. She popped it out to Carmen into play. They ran,
slid, circled, caught the ball. She dribbled, dribbled, dribbled,
backing up with Godzilla in her face. Double zone, focused,
penetrated. She passed it to Diane. Diane to Carmen, Carmen to
May. The shot clock was winding down. Ida got it back. Arms
slapped at her. She bounced, bounced, circled, circled. No shot.
Spin move. She shot, watched it float up, up, swissssh!

Cheers went up from the wooden rafters. “Go, Falcons,
go! Go, Falcons, go! You! You! You! Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhh!”

Ida pumped her fist in the air after hitting two. But she
hunched into a cat as she saw the Bulldogs coming back.

Godzilla was coming at her, pointing. “Six Master. Six
Master.”

She passed the ball off to the left wing, to a forward with
blonde hair, braces in her mouth that blinded you whenever she
went up for a jump shot. Their white-girl Michael Jordan. But
the ball floated overhead, coming back to Godzilla. She searched
through Ida’s arms for an opening to their center, who was being
doubled-teamed. No one there. Over here? She bounced to her
left, back away. Went to her right, backed up. Faked to pass.
Ida twisted her shoulders. No ball. Godzilla took it by.
Slashing, lashing, through arms, legs. Put a spin move on Ida.
Shot, but the ball missed, just off the backboard.

Ida caught the rebound and ran towards her basket. Hair
and sweat plopping in her face and eyes, on her left she had
Boom Boom. On her right she had May YoYo Patterson. Under
the basket her center, Diane the Dreamweaver Baskins was
fighting for position. Godzilla was in her face, challenging her.

“Come on. You the Hawk. Well, show me. Show me
you the Hawk.” She swiped at the ball. “Bitch.”

Ida heard this, took her jumper.
Noise came down. Eyes went up to follow the trajectory.
A fifteen footer came down right in Godzilla’s face.
“Yeah! Yeahhhh!” Ida hollered.
The buzzer went off. Crowds of people ran down from
their seats, smothering her. Teammates choked her around the
neck.

Prue / Mammie Doll 142

“Ida! Ida! Ida! We did it, girl. We did it!”
Ida held Cheryl Cisco’s hands. “We put a nail in Godzilla
and the Bulldogs’ coffin.” She danced between the many arms of
students and players, her arms out, her head up. “Thank you.
Thank you, Lord.”
Through the sea of arms and legs pushing, Toni Godzilla
Turner came through the crowd to remind Ida, “We’ll see each
other again, right, Hawk?”
Ida looked her up and down, then got braver with her
friends around to back her up. “Just remember, Godzilla. Next
time call your momma a bitch.” She stuck a finger up to her
nose.
Carmen Boom Boom Pagan got between them, crossed
her arms, ready to throw the first punch.
Godzilla had a crazy, off the cuff look of a basketball
monster. She silently pointed Ida’s way, then left off the court
with the rest of her team.
Coach Giotto patted Ida on the rear. “Whew, you almost
gave this old basketball mother a heart attack.” She hugged her
neck. “Nice shot.”
“Thanks, coach.” Ida looked down at her sneakers.
“Sometimes you just got to be pushed to do something.” After
she said this she saw the most important two women in her life.
“S’cuse me.” She ran through the red and white pom poms.
Into her mother’s arms.
They embraced in the middle of all the hollering.
Cameras popped off, reporters from the school paper shouted
questions, the frenzy from a thousand bunch of drunken, don’t
give a damn students, and fight song music from the band
drowned out simple whispers.
Alma gazed around at the wild students, pointing up one
finger. “Ida, you make an old woman’s first game very exciting.”
Ida was so pleased at her beautiful, tall black grandmother
that she gave her a peck on the cheek. “Why, thank you,
Grandma.” She hugged her up with delight. “I’m so glad you
and Ma are here.” But when she looked over to her mother some
tears started rolling from her eyes. “Ah.” She slapped them from
her face.
Ruby put an arm around her daughter. “Momma wanted
to see you play this basketball.” She rolled her eyes over to her
mother.
Alma agreed. “You know, I had to see how good a ball
player my granddaughter is . . . just like Pop Jefferson.”
Ida got kind of shy when she thought about the bumping
and grinding in the game. “Well, I’m all sweaty. . . . I better hit
the showers.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 143

Ruby watched the band marching off. “Uh, you want us
to wait for you, Ida?”

“No, Ma. You and Grandma go on home out of this cold.
I’ll be home later.” She winked at her on a sly.

Ruby knew her daughter wanted to party. “Well, you just
don’t stay out too late,” reminding her that she was still the boss.
“I know this is the eighties now . . . but I still ain’t going to let
my daughter run wild in dem streets. College or no college.”

Ida had heard it all before. “I know, Ma. I know.” She
felt a finger on her back and turned around. “Ah, Hamilton.”
She gave him a big hug.

He kissed her. “That’s for winning.” He acknowledged
her parents. “How you doing, Miss Alma, Mrs. Price?”

“Our girl had a good game today, Hamilton,” Ruby said.
He held her hand. “I see.” He rubbed his brow. “I just
got back in time from the library to see that shot.”
Ida gave him a nudge. “I’ll teach you that one day.” She
tugged at his arm playfully. “Haaaaa ha ha.”
He wasn’t jealous. “You always could play better than
me.”
Ruby watched the two of them tickle each other. “Um,
come on, Ma. We better leave now.” She reminded Ida, “Just
don’t stay out too late.”
Ida gave her grandmother another hug. “Okay, Ma. I’ll
be in about twelve.”
“Uh uh, just make it twelve.”
Ida cut her eyes back to her. “Okay, Ma, twelve.”
Waving, she said “Byeee,” and watched them leave through the
dwindling basketball crowd.
Hamilton asked, “You going to the party?”
She answered her boyfriend’s olive black face. His light
almond eyes made a woman want to stare into them, just sleep
into that strong cut square face. “Only if you go with me.”
He was tired from all the studying. “Okay, we’ll have a
couple of beers. . . . You deserve it.” He clipped her on the chin.
“Champ.”
She started to leave. “Fine. See you in a few.” She ran
between the tuba player and the drummer boy into the locker
room.

***
A Greek Thing:
Alpha Kappa Nu.
Brown, white and yellow women drinking gin stew. Red
night lights gave off couples dancing in a slow-motion hold.
Their tight bodies twisted to the music of Sweet Honey in the
Rock. They got religious after a game. Pledged to the gods from

Prue / Mammie Doll 144

paper cups. To bow as Orpheus sang through incense lit rooms.
Private parties as girls chatted over Mick’s big lips. What can he
do with them? Some licked faces of white, black men. Heads,
legs up in corners. Pop a pill tonight. See the campus doctor in
three days. Puke your guts up over the death of rock and roll.

Ida and Hamilton spotted Janice, Ivy, Tom, Harry and
Debbie doing the punch bowl. All were gods after the game,
lifting up dresses, mooning the fucked up Reagan world.
Screamed out in pain, “Hide your hearts, girls.” Meeting their
maker at the end of a crucifix. “Lord, we all are sick.”

Ida took her man to the back porch. Winters jazz played
live under a Miles Dewey Davis poster. Two cold Heinekens and
a kiss.

Under the back of her sweater she felt his fingers unbutton
her bra strap.

Mist and crowds.
She plucked the latex away, hid it in her purse. She got
on the dance floor, let his tongue flick at her ear. She dug her
nails in his tight butt back pocket. Wallet and ass. Do the rub,
scrub all night with Ray Charles. Celebrate defeat, wins, losses.
Celebrate a second year college girl’s death on a triangle campus,
being a woman in a man’s arms. She was a French major, into
that theology, law, English, black history thing. Stuff your tits in
the face of a professor for that extra effort. grade. Sing to the
goddamn moon the school song:

Ohhh, Mileston yours doors are open to the truth
Ivy walls speak to justice calls
We are your shining stars
Passing the torch
All over the world
All over the world

Sing out loud. You will hear
Through ivy halls.
Our great fathers call
All over the world
All over the world.

The music wound up into a loud thing of funk, funk,
Funkensteins. Friends finger popped, clapped to some of that
Prince high motion-drift, nasty mash potato, get down, gutbucket
sounds that were going around the campus. Ida got off to this.
Jam to that Maestro three-quarter drum time beat coming straight
out of Mother Africa, stolen from James Brown. You got to jam.
Tossing, spinning. She alerted her buddies. “Hide your hearts,

Prue / Mammie Doll 145

girls. Haaaaa haaaaaa ha.” She rolled her hips to doing the
Cabbage Patch-Running Man-Twist. She didn’t mind shaking
her ass in front of Hamilton Bishop. Her man. Come on, baby,
you gots ta jam. She took a puff off a joint that was passed
around in the crowd and kept dancing to that motorcycle revved-
up music, letting Patty Labelle take her to church. This was some
good shit. That gave anybody a heart attack. You gots to jam.
She licked her tongue at him, grinning up in his face. Then shook
her shoulders to some of that Hip Hop, Doo Wop, R and B shit
catching panties on flames. Kool Moe Dee, high class street rap.
Home Boys roamed the dance floor yapping at the honeys. Ain’t
nothin’ by and by. Just a house party. Ain’t nothing, pass the
popcorn. You got to jam. She laughed out, “Get it, girl.
Carmen. Cisco. Diane, take him to the hoop.” Get down and
jam. She let Hamilton do the freak on her, rub his hands over her
body to the drums. Got up a good sweat, enticed the dog in him.
Caught his hands before he got to her tits. Winked a sly eye at
him . Just turning his ass on. Yeah. Jam, baby, jam. Clear
breezy moves made her take a sip off her beer. She swept her
hair back out of her eyes. Red lights blinked over her. Horns
made the room into an earthquake. Yeah. Jam. It ain’t nothin
but a thing. She rubbed up on him, felt his third leg. Flirted her
butt back. “Uh.Uh.” She spun to Prince and his Little Red
Corvette. You gots ta jam.

Prue / Mammie Doll 146

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Office of the College President:

“You got the poor and the rich at Mileston College. . . . If
you cut any more, you’ll cut my fucking throat,” Professor Smith
told them all in a cramped, coffin conference room lined with
coffee cups and Lemon Pledge air.

Other professors and administrators agreed with this
scared man’s warnings. They had all seen the night and the knife
come before in their careers. This time it was coming from the
limp and cane of President Lancaster.

A white bearded man with charming, psychic eyes, who
was safe at home place because of his family, the founders of the
college and a money making dream. His voice had the tinge of a
burp stuck in his chest. A closet homosexual, full of himself.

He pointed his cane out at the pillars of white faces.
“Think of the future of this college. It is deep in tradition. And
deep in private donorship. I have seen many years come and go .
. . many professors also. We are all soldiers dedicated to
providing this country and world with excellent students.” He
looked around at the bleak stares. “But we shall move on in
providing that service to our country. To our fathers and mothers
all the way towards the twenty-first century. That road is racked
with pain . . . and hardship. That road is long, rough . . . wide and
narrow. It is full of robber barons out to steal the hearts, minds
and souls of our children. We cannot turn back. We cannot stop
and give up our hands. To pass over our children to harsh times
coming ahead. We must lead. We must make hard decisions. . . .
These decisions come from leadership.”

The executive committee of deans and professors’ heads
rolled up and down the table, as if they were all waiting for a bus
to run them over. Silence in the room, to hear those wheels
screeching to a halt.

Dean Thigpin asked, “Sir, what departments and programs
will be addressed first with your leadership moves?” She leaned,
curled her red-nailed fingers together. “And establishing a
bottom line figure for survival into the twenty-first century…?”
She uncurled her fingers, waited for the answer and that
Greyhound to run over her.

He tapped his cane. “The bottom line figure is an esoteric
concept at this point in time. I just wanted to meet with you this
morning to throw some ideas out in regards to solving this fiscal

Prue / Mammie Doll 147

problem.” Unhinging his bow tie, he continued, “But I can
foresee that any attempts at cost cutting will come in three
phases.” He limped over to his chair, sat down to finger some
papers. “Classes, mergers, and total elimination.”

Hands fitfully rose.
He pointed. “Dean Grosvenor.” He sipped to clear his
throat for the lynching.
“Sir, will all contracts be honored?”
He gave them all a fatherly look. “Yes, they will.” He
smiled out towards the snow covered windows. “Uh, in a world
of litigating giants and pygmies . . . you can be sure that all
contracts will be honored.” He sat back, sipped and looked over
the scared, grey faces. “We must remember that we are all
prophets predicting doom and gloom in this vast, but small
academic world of ours. We have to admit to ourselves that life
is more challenging, shaky, not knowing where your next meal
will come from. We all hunger for knowledge, peace,
opportunity and to find it missing from all our plates.”
“That’s fine, sir. We can all deal with food missing from
our plates, but what about the opposition?” Professor Smith
asked him.
He rested back in his wingback, played with the eraser on
his number two pencil. “Opposition?” He fingered his chin
hairs. “As Darwin once said, ‘The strongest shall survive.’” He
looked at the perplexed faces and turned his chair back at the
window to a lost, cold sparrow on the barren tree limb. It was
about to crack, and he was about to fly away.

***
Drowsy stone buildings.
Geometric, triangle grass land shaped from white pines,
bushes covered with leftover winter snow. A valley of hills,
sprung from ocean sea cliffs lined with lion statue paths. A ten
foot tall steel gate jutted above sleepy, coffee drinking students.
A handful of African-American women, grouped, crushed
into thirty degree snow cones, walked to class. Covered in thick
duck feather parkas and long denim coats, they were joined at
birth, yet separated by just hints of different interests. They
treated the world like it was just five years old and they were way
ahead of it.
Poor to middle class Maoist young women, the first
generation to go to college in their families. All honey-boned,
goddamn chocolate pretty, Afro-cropped, slicked down, wavy,
straight, black, brown, yellow streaked, frizzy hairdos. Doing the
do. Sure nuff. Jet magazine centerfolds, tight jeans on a black
woman from eighteen to twenty-two.