MammieDoll-PDF

Prue / Mammie Doll 48

were out to kill him. He was out to kill them. Simple, basic
facts. Living today, maybe dying tomorrow. When he wasn’t in
a foxhole he sometimes found a village to sleep in. Captain
Savage kept lookouts at the end of town. They radioed if German
soldiers were about to come in. Warm, dry places. A house, a
cellar. Even a bunker-type squad hut pulled from the roots of fir
trees gave him an hour or two of peace. Once or twice he had
gone on a forty-eight hour pass to the rear. Heard a USO show.
Colored girls singing Lena’s song, “Stormy Weather,” along with
coffee and donuts. A time to pass before more mortar and
artillery rounds came in.

German patrols were everywhere in the woods. Hell,
some of them could have been sleeping right beside you, all
dressed up in American uniforms. He crawled on his belly most
of the time, looking out for land mines. He had to live, and in
order to do that he became a wild animal, hard as those trees he
hid behind. Unfeeling, cold, dry-mouthed man. It got to a
dangerous point — that he had fun killing, taking out pillboxes of
German soldiers. Outdone by colored men’s blood. His war
would never be in the history books. No one wanted to talk about
Negro men killing white men, legally. His war would never be in
the history books. But the fighting would stay in his mind when
his division took out the “Village of Savenig,” the “Village of
Lutzkampen,” or crossing the West Bank at night across the “Our
River” to take out an SS column.

He was a part of the Ninth Cavalry. Men you would never
hear about in your life. Names, faces slid into his daily chores.
Men under fire of burp gun rounds showed their fear. Soared
above the hell of racism, a near fatal round. Hand, arm signals to
converge. Baker Company, Charlie Company taking the left
flank of a ridge, ran up the sides of a grassy ridge right into the
fire of death as bullets whooshed past their heads, death winds
jerking them back down into the mud. They rolled over, cursed,
got back up searching for cover. Screaming out their buddies’
names as they went down into the black arms of death: Big John!
Ralph! Arnie! Joe Buck! Will! Lenny! Medic! Medic!
Medic! Al! Howie! Grace! Grace! Gracie! Medic! Goddamit!
Medic! Christ Sakes! Medic! Coop! Kelly! Shortie! Wick,
you okay? Wick, you okay? Rabbit! Ty! Robinson! Doggett!
Fine, Joe Fine! McTeague! Shit, man, get down! Medic!
Medic, over here! Over here! Pine! Blue! Bell! Dancer!
Essex! Wilson! Hodge! Dawkins! Gordon! Brown! Smith!
Reed! Scott Reed! Medic! Medic! Medic! Markie! Markie!

Shock Companies approaching crossroads. Killed four,
the rest surrendered. Panzer Lehr Division from the Ardennes
offensive. Don’t want to put down their arms to Negro troops.

Prue / Mammie Doll 49

Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Sam White! Sands! Price! Stay down!
They coming from the rear! Stay down! God damn it! Terrain,
syringe of morphine. More plasma. over here! Over here!
Medic! Medic! Medic! Shell shock, bug out men. Grab him
before he runs in the woods. Grab him before he screams out our
position. In this fucking snow. Grab him before he kills himself.
Jackson! Doll! Charles! Van Braun! Nichols! Warfield!
Warfield, pass me a Pall Mall.

The dawn broke. Chrome bayonets dug in. Hand
fighting. Sonny’s weapon was trained across a snow-covered
field on a trail below. He pulled over a buddy. Burp gun took off
Roger’s head. He was bone tired. Tears drifted, drifted.

Melting with the tears into the bloody snow. He turned
back to the road underneath him. Steam slipped from his mouth.
His face was still close to a soldier’s body. He waited.

SS troops drove up in jeeps. Downslope. Rotten aromas
coming from the body. He held his breath. Not moving, he sank
lower on his belly. He became part of the black and green
canvas, not daring to move. Soaking up the roads, trees, ground,
he mumbled a prayer under the tree-covered skies. His cathedral.
His monastery. His coffin. Earth-angel man fighting from town
to town, village to village, house to house, road to road, tree to
tree, rock to rock. Dodging, slow dancing with death.

His left ankle was sprained, but not enough to call for a
medic. Not enough to go home, to see a wife and a little girl.
No, he couldn’t think of them. Not now. Not now. Maybe not
ever.

Winds chilled him.
Maybe the NAACP would come by with one of its
reporters. Stick a mike in his face and ask him if Uncle Sam’s
Army was treating him okay. He smiled up at the grey sky.
Snow drifts. Transport trucks came along. He spotted his
captain waving, circling his arm.
Sonny started firing.
Whistling mortars sang over his head. Artillery forces
started shelling.
Did he have enough ammo for his .45? He kept his head
low. Eyes darted across the roadside as he kept firing into the
bodies of the German soldiers.

***
War and Worlds of 1945:
Seasons never stopped, summers always would. Church,
chicken and Sundays. Alma was with her parents and sister, off
to the shores to take baby Ruby to her first Oyster Festival.
Under a noon yellow sun, from the ends of earth a golden beach
line spread. Crooked highways. Floating blue sky without a

Prue / Mammie Doll 50

cloud. Without signs of rain’s dark cloak this spring day.
Seagulls took flight. Nineteen-forty green and white Chevy took
them over unfinished roads. The sun’s golden rays warmed the
family up. Precious, precious days of sisters long gone, when
Alma and Barbara used to fight each other in the back of their
father’s car over stupid games: Balls and Jacks, Jump rope,
Hopscotch, baked sugar cookies, lost shoes and dresses. Pigtails
were pulled. Until their mother hollered back at them for being
fools. Spirit of sisters, sweeping away the past. Flew with the
seagulls toward the future under a cloud of lost husbands, lovers
and car rides. Alma hugged Ruby, prayed of having her daughter
meet the father. Prayed the father would hold his daughter
beyond this day, beyond this time of war.

Daisy asked, “Clay, how come you didn’t shave today?”
He scratched his chin. “Huh.” Rubbed his jaw. “Oh, I
guess I just forgot.”
She was pissed. “I ought to make you turn this car back
around, march you right up to the bathroom and shave you my-
self.” She rocked. “Going around my church friends looking like
some bear. Um.” She rolled her eyes away from him.
Alma and Barbara nudged each other. They couldn’t hold
back their giggling.
He checked back in his mirror. “What you two laughing
at? We all know your mother by now. Ha ha ha.”
Alma winked. She pulled the bonnet lower over the
child’s forehead and wiped some of the spit from her lips.
“Momma love baby. Yes she do.”
Barbara said, “Every year we go to this festival. Every
year Daddy forgets to shave.” She looked at both of them. “Um
um, you and Ma.” She took the baby off Alma’s lap and kissed
her cheeks. “Ummmmm. Good, sweet.”
Passing a car, “There’s Bob and Jackie Mayweather,
Daisy.” He honked, sped by them.
Daisy waved back. “Clay, has their son came back yet?”
“Uhhh, Rick. Yeah, baby, he’s home.”
Alma sat up. “In one piece?”
He shook his head. “No, Alma. He’s missing an arm.”
Barbara hugged the baby. “Damage report.”
Daisy turned around. “Now, Alma, don’t you start
worrying. Our Sonny’s going to be just fine, baby. Okay?” She
reached back over the seat to pat her hand.
“Okay, Ma.” Alma touched the baby’s fingers. Soft as
petals. She looked out the window. She heard waters splashing
up on the beach. She just tried to remember his smile.
“Baby, did you bring the beer?”
“I brought the beer, but you ain’t getting none.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 51

“Daisy, you know I need beer with my oysters.”
“Clayton, will you go on and drive this car? We late.”
Numerous giant tents poured over acres of grass and sand.
Open pit flames blazed, loaded with barbeque ribs, chicken,
oysters, crabs smoking up the air. A gathering of rainbows with
crazy rumblings of big bands playing Dixieland, New Orleans
Basin Street blues. There were hip cats playing some of that
bebop music from New York.
Picnic tables circled the grounds. People hugged,
laughed, drank and kissed. In the back by the willow trees a
baseball game was going on — old men against the young. They
were all getting loud and having fun.
When the colored troops came marching in from overseas,
mothers and fathers cried out to the skies, praising the Lord and
saluting the American flag at the same time.
“We home! We home! Hallelujah! We home!”
Some kissed the ground. Threw their caps in the air, ran
into the arms of their wives and mothers. Some of them had their
asses bandaged up, as their medals shined in the sun. Legs, arms
missing. Wheelchair bound. Tattered pieces of the American
fabric. They came back to sing, drink, make love to their
flowered-hair chocolate women. Sweeter than the five-cent
candy bar.
Barbara waltzed off on the arms of two soldiers. She
finger popped towards the hot music from the dance tents.
Daisy hollered after her, “Barbara, Barbara, don’t be
fresh.” She gave her a stern look, but the baby in her lap kept her
quiet.
Clayton reminded his wife, “I don’t want to have to send
her ass back to D.C.”
Alma fixed him up a plate. “Daddy, don’t worry.” She
handed him a beer and scooped out some potato salad. “I’m
gonna go to the stand to get you and Ma some oysters. I’ll be
right back.” She started to leave towards the crowd.
Her mother called, “Alma, don’t forget. Your father like
his raw.” She waved a fly from her nose, bounced the child on
her knee.
“Okay, Ma, I won’t forget.”
Alma waved, spoke to her neighbors. Her girlfriends were
eyeing the men in their uniforms. Lena Lawrence was talking to
a Navy hero with a hot dog and Coke in her hand. Sandra
Campbell was with her boyfriend. A patch over his left eye, she
fed him some french fries under a huge oak tree. Valerie
Whitmore’s husband was back. They had their little boy on each
arm. Her husband was limping when he walked. Her friend
Dorothy Benson had three soldiers following her to the dance

Prue / Mammie Doll 52

tent. Alma heard the men whistling behind her back. But they
knew she was Sonny’s wife. And he wasn’t back yet. People in
towns talk and she wasn’t gonna give them room for that. She
got in the line and picked up two paper plates. She had the balled
up money in her hand, enough to get a dozen. She didn’t like
oysters, but her ma and dad just ate the little suckers down with
their beer. Her dad would be back in line for at least three more
plates as the day went on. Balloons floated from the fingers of
little children. Some cried, screamed for rides on a tired old
horse named Old Thunder. She used to ride him when she was a
little girl.

She stood behind Mrs. Jordan and was in front of Mr.
Jenkins, two church folks who weighed almost three hundred
pounds apiece. They didn’t need to eat another oyster. People
were dancing all around. She spotted from the corner of her eye a
soldier in a wheelchair.

It was Joey Browner.
He spotted her. Wishing he could jump from this chair,
instead he just waved. She was still tall and caramel coated with
short cropped raven banged hair with waves. Eyes of fire and a
face that danced to Ellington beats. She had on a beige cashmere
sweater covering a pink strapless, frilly-flowered dress. She
moved with the willow trees. That same childish smile for all to
see.
He rolled her way.
She hugged him. “Joey, you been on my mind.” She
straightened up. “I missed you.” She held his hand.
“Mrs. Nickles, you been on my mind too.” He rolled the
wheels some as she moved up in line.
“I’m glad you home. You here with your family?”
“I am too.” He rubbed his knee. “My mom and sister
over there.” He pointed to his left, between a crowd of people.
“You should have wrote me. . . . I been so worried about
you. Sometimes I see your sister or your mom at church and they
would tell me that you was okay. You was in the Pacific, right?”
“Yeah, that’s where I was at . . . a place called
Mindanao.” He checked her legs out. “You still looking good,
Alma.”
“Oh, hush, Joey,” she said. “You going to get some
oysters?”
He looked away, then back. “No, I had enough seafood to
last me the rest of my life. No more fish for me. Hell, the fish
almost had me for dinner. Ha ha ha.”
“Ahhhh. Oh, Joey, I’m glad you home with us.” She
moved up and ordered from a woman with a wart on her nose, a
rolled up apron in her hand. “Just a dozen . . . . half raw.” She

Prue / Mammie Doll 53

looked at him. “You still handsome, Joey Browner from Kings
Avenue.” She paid the money, took the plates.

He stuck out his hand. “I’m glad we got to see each other
again, Alma.”

“I’m not shaking your hand. Come on and go over to the
picnic table to see my little girl.”

“Okay.” He rolled the wheels.
She carried the two plates, slapped some flies from her
face. She tried not to stare. She didn’t want him to see the pity
in her eyes. He didn’t need that. She just tried to remember him
playing baseball and football. She just tried to remember him
slow dancing with her in the school basement at her first sock
hop. His medal flapped around his neck — the Purple Heart. His
face was mellow, not a bitter man at all. He was just skinnier.
He asked, “When is Sonny coming home?”
“Next month. . . . I’m praying every day till he gets here.”
“Prayers, that’s what a soldier needs.”
When they came up on the table. Alma saw her Aunt
Suzy, Aunt Mae, Aunt Mary and her Uncle Ted holding the child
in his lap. Her mother got up, ran to Joey, kissed him over his
freckled yellow face. “Babbbbbby, it’s so good to see you
home.”
“It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Jefferson. It’s good to see
all of yaw.” He rolled towards the baby. “So, Alma, this is
Ruby.” He took the child, gave her a hug and a kiss on the nose.
“She looks just like you . . . coconut head and all.”
They all laughed.
Alma took the baby from his lap. “Ma, where did Daddy
go?”
“Child, he couldn’t wait. He went to play some baseball.”
She reached for the hot sauce. “Joey, we got some gooood.
chicken here.”
“Uh, no thanks, Mrs. Jefferson. . . . I betta have room for
my mom’s fried chicken when I get back.”
Uncle Ted stuck his hand in a bucket of ice. “How ’bout a
beer, son?”
“That be just fine.” He winked up at Alma, took the
bottle. Slurped it down. “Ahhhhh.”
Alma was surprised. “Joey, I see you were thirsty.” She
sat on the bench with the child.
“Baby, if you had sand up your ass for almost two years,
you be thirsty too.”
Uncle Ted steadied himself on his cane. “So, what were
you doing in that army, Joey?”
“Nothing much, sir. Us colored boys just got a bunch of
shit duty . . . along with a lot of killing.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 54

“Um, I know how that is,” Uncle Ted said, scratching
behind his ear. “Ain’t nothing changed.”

“That’s right, sir, ain’t nothing changed.” He drank up.
Slapped his hand across his mouth. “Ahhhhh.” Over his
shoulder he heard his mother and sister.

She hugged his neck. “Me and Clara figured you were
over here with the Jeffersons. Hi. How’s everybody doing?”
She looked at Alma and the pretty child dressed in pink. “How
you doing, Alma?” She gave her a hug.

“Fine. Just good to see Joey again.”
“It sure is good to have my son back. We better get
going. That chicken is getting cold. Bye, everybody.” She took
the handle of the wheelchair.
“Okay, Ma.” He finished off the beer. “Bye, Alma. I be
seeing you around town.”
Alma got up, kissed him on the cheek. “I be seeing you,
Joey. . . I’ll call you.”
Joey kissed Ruby. “Bye, little Alma, ha.”
His mother and sister swung the wheelchair around and
rolled him back across the grass and sand through the crowd.
Alma watched him go away. She slapped some tears from
her face. She sat down with Ruby on her lap. Mashed up some
potatoes for the baby, picked some meat off the chicken leg for
her. She hollered up to her Uncle Ted, “Uncle, don’t you eat all
that chicken your fat self!”
He laughed. “You go to hell, girl. Haaaa haaaa.” He
waved a big chicken leg at her.
Barbara came back, one soldier on her arm, a grin that
would put a cat to shame. Gay sunflower gal. Good dancer too.
She held onto the soldier’s arm. “Hey, Aunt Suzy, Mae, Mary
and Uncle Ted. . . . I want yawl to meet my dance partner,
Private First Class Jimmy Jordan.”
Barbara pulled him up to her sister. “This here is my
pretty sister, Alma. She got a man, so don’t even try to look her
way. Ha. All you soldier boys are hungry dogs. Ha.ha She saw
her mother shake her head at her antics. “Ma, no kiddin’. We
going to enter the dance contest in a few minutes. . . . Jimmy
here can do a meannnn. Lindy Hop.” She pulled on his chin,
smacked a kiss on him.
He tipped his cap back from this. “Barbara, you cut a
pretty mean rug in there too.” He straightened his tie. “Come on.
They getting ready to start.” He swung her around.
“Okay, Jimmy, I’m coming.” She pulled away. “Alma,
you coming to see me dance in the contest?”
Alma took the spoon from Ruby’s lips. “First I want to
eat a crabcake sandwich.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 55

She pulled her arm. “Come onnnn, bring your sandwich
with you.” She did a dance step with her hips.

“And Ruby?”
Barbara pleaded, “Ma, take Ruby, will ya?”
Daisy stood, her arms out. “Alma, give me my
granddaughter. Go on and have a nice time.”
“Okay, Ma.” She handed the child to her and picked up a
crabcake. She slipped it between two slices of bread, then took
off after Barbara. “Wait, I’m coming.”
Sounds of brass horns blasted through the air.
Hopping, jumping people kicked up dust on the wondrous
wings of the big band. Finger-popping guys and gals swung,
slung each other in the air, hip hopping, bopping to the screaming
horns with no care. Hipped, flipped, jumped and ran over and
through each others’ arms, legs, and shoulders. Melodies
skipped. No squares allowed.
Alma stood in the crowd urging on her frisky sister and
Jimmy Jordan. She clapped and tapped her foot to the righteous
sounds.
Drums beat them back to the Congo, becoming unchained
from the rhythms. They lost their minds to the frenzy. The baton
of the leader jumped with his shaking shoulders on the stage.
Sharp dressing men played that crazy, jive stuff. Musical
treasures, jungle beats lay down on them real thick. Made them
want to holler. Made them want to scream.
Children peeked under their mothers’ skirts. Sweat
popped, flew, dripped from the dancers’ faces. Some of the
Airmen stepped up to Alma, asking her to join them. She turned
with a ghostly smile, telling them all no. Women screamed and
jiggled their dresses up to their thighs. There wasn’t a sad God
around there, just some swinging angel blowing his horn. Music
from the cotton fields swept them on a coaster ride. Dancers
Lindy hopped and squeezed each other on the sawdust ride.
Some people hollered, “Play that music, boy! Play that
music, man! Don’t give me no stuff. Yeahhhhh, that’s it. That’s
it. Come on, baby. Swing dem hips. I know you from Georgia,
gal. All right now. Yeah. Baby sure looking good. Man, they
playin’ real nice now.” It was a time to laugh, sing, love. Have
more babies. Life, music. New. New music.
Barbara and Jimmy kept on dancing till the judges said
stop. They slid across the floor, hugging, bumping, kicking, and
stomping. Music so sweet and hot. They had to throw water on
the trumpet player to stop him from playing.
Alma felt someone tug on her arm. “No, I’m not
dancing.” She turned. It was Uncle Ted. “Oh, it’s you. Haaaa
haaa.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 56

“Alma, come with me.”
“What’s wrong?” She followed him through the crowd.
Stopped right behind him. “Uncle Ted, what’s wrong?”
He said, “Alma, it’s your father. . . . There’s been an
accident.”
Trembling, she searched his face. Over his shoulder she
saw some men carrying her father to a car. She just ran. “Daddy!
Daddy! Ohhhh noooo! Daddy!”
He had cracked his skull with a baseball.
A hospital bed, twenty miles too far away, but for colored
people only. Clayton Jefferson breathed out deep, slow prayers.
Patients slept while doctors and nurses walked up pale
blue halls. Crisscrossing in rooms, just for the living.
Daisy sat by his bed. Appreciating the years. Up keep of
love. Digressing with an occasional drunk or slap. Alma and
Barbara stood at the foot of the bed crying into each other.
Tortured despair of a father. Just lying there.
Watching as his arms, hands, eyes, lips drained into stain
black spilled ink. His head rolled. Bowels became loose as his
breathing stopped.
Daisy dragged her face across his. “Clay, Clay!”
Alma went to him. “Daddy, you was always there for
me.” She placed his hands together.
Barbara bent to his ear. “Father, I love you.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 57

CHAPTER SIX

Seven o’clock morning.
Sunlight, shade and shingles emanated from the bedroom
of Alma and Sonny Nickles.
She woke before him, tired of the night shakes and sweat,
of ghosts arriving at their bedroom door. She touched his chest.
Not a stir. Not a sound.
He had come back with a mustache. Healed cuts. Bruises
over his face and back. She fingered the stitches over his right
eye.
Chamber music from birds. She laid her head on his
shoulder, calming down with the morning, drifting away from the
horrible nights. She rubbed him down with cold ice water over
his face and chest as he mumbled out commands and other men’s
names. It was hard to get him out of his uniform when he had
first arrived three weeks before.
But he loved his Ruby. He held her in his arms most of
the day, sitting with her in the living room, staring out the
window, letting the sun warm his face. She kissed his shoulder.
She was thankful he came back to her, not in a wheelchair or
hanging on a cane. She would just have to deal with the rest.
She pulled the sheet up to his chest.
She kept Ruby in her mother’s bedroom until the
nightmares went away. God damn. God damn this war. She
wished it would roll up and leave her man alone. She reached for
the towel and dabbed his cheeks. She was afraid for him, but in
love again. She listened to his breathing. Lord, what have they
done? What have they done?
She slipped from the covers, from a husband who tried to
sleep, from a man who had changed into a cold winter tree.
Alma tiptoed to her mother’s room. From under covers
her daughter peeped up cooing, drooling, leaning on her
grandmother’s hips. Alma bent, kissed both of them.
Her mother awoke. “Oh, Alma, it’s you. For a minute
there I thought it was your father.” She yawned. “I always
dream about him.”
“I know, Ma. I dream about Daddy too.”
She checked on Ruby. “She’s okay?” She rubbed the
child’s backside, gave her a hug and a kiss. “Mornin’, baby.”
Alma took her. “This girl, she’s just fine. . . . I better
feed her though.” She nodded. “You get your rest, Ma.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 58

Her mother rested back comfortably on her pillows. “I
will. Is Sonny sleeping?”

“Yeah, Ma, he’s finally getting some sleep.”
She looked up into her daughter’s face with purple rings
under her eyes. She knew Alma had to take care of two people
now.
“Alma, after you feed Ruby . . . you give her back. You
need your sleep too.”
She pulled the child closer. “Okay, Ma, I will.” She took
the child out of the room, downstairs to the kitchen. “Oh,
Barbara, I didn’t know you was up this early.”
Barbara puffed on a cigarette. A cup of black coffee was
going cold right in front of her at the kitchen table. “Uh,
mornin’, sis. . . . I had a nightmare.” She reached for the child.
“Hi, Ruby. Time for your bottle.” Tickled her. “Um, she’s
getting big. Almost two now.”
Ruby’s arms went out. “Bar Bar.”
Alma said, “Here, go to your aunt while I fix your bottle.”
She handed her the child. “Thanks, sis.”
Barbara put her cigarette out in the coffee. “There you go.
Your bottle is coming right up.” She playfully bounced her on
her knee.
Alma got a baby bottle from the ice box, pulled a pan
from the dish rack. She filled it up with cold water, set it on the
stove and turned it on. “So, uh, what was your nightmare about?”
Barbara rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Uh, a bunch of dogs
were chasing me down the alley right behind our house. Scared
the shit out of me.”
Alma said, “Ma always said if you said your prayers at
night, you wouldn’t have no nightmares.”
Barbara looked over her shoulder at her. “Now that’s the
difference between me and you . . . I don’t believe in old wives’
tales.” She was sleepy and not in the mood to hear preaching.
She rocked Ruby some.
“You give me my child,” Alma said. “You too damn
smart. Sitting down here with your ass on your shoulder and
partying all night.”
Barbara gave her Ruby. “You go back upstairs to that
crazy husband of yours.” She stood, tightened her robe belt.
“And mind your business.”
Alma patted Ruby on the back. “Daddy’s gone now, but
his one wish was for you to settle down and marry a good man.”
“Ha. Good man. Alma, you betta get your head out of the
sand. There ain’t no good men. Just good fucks.”
“You watch your mouth around my child.” Alma moved
closer to her. “Shut up before Ma wakes up.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 59

“It’s going to take a lot more than your mouth to keep me
straight.” She left, switching her ass out of the kitchen.

Alma mumbled, “Bitch.”
***

Crazy man days. War peeled off Sonny’s back like dead
skin from a baby’s skull cap. His sleeping got better. He even
got his taste back for Alma’s homemade apple pie. Destined to
dance with her again, he had to go back to see if his life was
intact or just pieces of a puzzle left in that fucking forest.
Soldiers were forgotten. Veterans were all just moth-eaten coats
aligned with U.S. gold buttons. He had to filter out his life, just
slow walk it down. Yeah, that’s right — just slow walk it down.

In the haunted pool hall, time out for buddies scarcely
there. Cut glass faces melted back to sand. No cussin’ and no
fussin’ in this place. In fact, just a few knew who he was: Walt,
Gus, Bennie, Jackie Z from round First and P, Little Tommy and
Buddy Lee. Many had died, even committed suicide. He was
just a skinny shell of a pool hustler himself. He messed around,
took a cigarette off of Walt at the bar. In smoke rings he asked,
“All right, Walt, bring me back from the grave. Is Baby T still
alive?”

“Man, they blew his ass away the first day he hit
Normandy Beach.” Walt tipped his cap back. “Shit, Sonny, I’m
gonna run it down to you.” He marked off his fingers one at a
time. “Charlie’s gone. Black Bob. Too-Tight Willie McGee.
You know Dee, Mabel’s husband? Well. he’s in a wheelchair.
Smokey, he met his maker in Georgia by the MP Klan. . . . Riley,
he’s in jail for killing some cracker in Kansas.” He dug in his left
ear. “Uh, Maxie, Doris Mayberry’s boy, he’s gone. Let me see,
uh, Tiny. Lou. Jackson, and you know Joey. He’s in a
wheelchair too. I got some pieces of a grenade in my back and
knee. That’s why I got this cane here with me.” He looked him
over. “So, Sonny, just count your blessings. Let me buy you a
beer.” He opened his wallet. “Too-Tight Willie owed me some
money, man.” He pointed up. “I’m gonna get you, you cheap
mutherfucker. Ha ha ha.”

Sonny said, “Keep that up and he’ll drop your money to
you from heaven.”

“More like from hell. Ha.” He moved his arm when the
bartender sat two bottles of beers in front of them.

Sonny sipped. “I owe you.”
“Sonny, you was a all right cat with me before we went in
the war.” He waved the bottle under his lips. “So you going to
work for Stuart’s helicopter plant?”
Sonny was shocked. “Whaaaaat? They hiring us
Negroes?” He grinned back at him. “To clean toilets?”

Prue / Mammie Doll 60

“Some training program for us colored veterans, uh, weld-
ing.” He sipped, peeked up. “Am I right, Buddy Lee?”

Buddy Lee was ready to make a shot. “Guess so, Walt. I
don’t trust dem cracker boys.”

Gus rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Shit, when I was in
France them white boys called me more nigger dis, nigger dat
than I ever heard.” He picked up his stick. “But I’m still gonna
fill out a application.” He winked over at Sonny.

Sonny drank down his beer, patted his thumb on the bar
top. A glob of spit came up in his throat. He swallowed it, let it
ease down the hot pain in his stomach. This relaxed him. His
best friend Baby T was at rest now. His friends were greyer,
cloudier. Second time around. Jokes from a war. White women
faded into the background. Dust, spider webs clung to the past.
A future arrived. Puzzled, uncertain men fought for a chance to
be men one more time. Another day, another war in the land of
Uncle Sam. Cobwebs, unforgiving enemies. A town grew with
his life becoming settled again. He checked his watch; almost
dinner time. His wife and little girl were down the street, around
the corner.

“Sonny, you going?”
“Walt, I don’t know.”
“You just remember, us Negroes had to spill blood to get
this shot.”
“I know, Walt,” Sonny said. “I see you around.” He
slapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe at the factory.”
“See you around, Sonny.”
Sonny lifted up his jacket collar as he went between the
pool tables. He opened the door and noticed across the street a
short fellow with hairy arms was pushing a cart selling hot dogs.
Smells stalked him back to the streets. Hot mustard, onions, soft
buns for a New York foot-long.

***
“Alma, pass me the pork chops.”
She lifted up the plate, forked off two chops to him.
“There you go. How was your day, baby?” She handed him a
napkin.
“All right. The walk did me some good.” He shook some
salt on his greens. “Just a bunch of bad news going around.”
Barbara said, “Sure is. This place is full of crooked old
men. Um, it’s hard to even find a young one nowadays. Ha.”
Daisy reached across and slapped her in the mouth. “Shut
your mouth. I don’t want none of that kind of talk at my table.”
Barbara angrily looked at her. “Ma, I wasn’t
disrepecting.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.
“I’m sorry if I was, Ma.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 61

Alma didn’t let this slap distract her from her husband’s
face. She reassured him that work would come for both of them.
“We all got lots of healing to do around here. ” She picked at her
earring. “You want more lemonade?”

”No thanks, honey.” He buttered some bread. “But there
was some good news drifting around.” He looked over to
Barbara, touched his wife’s hand.

Alma asked, “What’s that, Sonny?” She crossed her
hands over her plate.

“Stuart Helicopter Factory I hear is going to hire us
colored war veterans.”

Barbara cut her eyes at him. “To do what? Clean
toilets?”

“Yeah, that’s just what I said too. But it’s suppose to be
some sort of welding training.” He looked at his wife.

Her eyes told him of her support, but that she was still not
quite sure. She looked over to her mother, then back at him.
“Sonny, that’s good news. But Ma wants to talk to you about all
of this.”

Dropping his fork, he asked, “This what?”
Daisy reached under the chair. “This.” She handed him
two ledgers and some keys. “The bizness.”
His eyes danced over the pages. He rubbed his chin.
“The ice and fish business.” He felt a smile stick to his face. He
drank some lemonade.
Alma said, “That’s right, baby. Daddy liked you, and
since he didn’t have any sons. . . . he wanted you to come back
here with no worries on your mind.”
Daisy’s voice stumbled. “Clay saw a lot of good in you,
Sonny . . . so, so, uh, before he passed. . . .” Tears came up in her
eyes.
Barbara reached out to her mother. “Ma, it’s okay.”
Sonny got up, went around the table and gave her a
smooch on the cheek. He nodded over to Alma. “You Jefferson
women know how to keep a man happy.” He bent and hugged
Daisy around the neck.

***
MELANCHOLY REFRAIN:
Nights concerto.
Alma and Sonny, four weeks after the day.
Slow hands poured over each like slow rain. The oak-
thick arms of her man all over her. Early morning shadows
danced. Love tender junctions. Arms twisted from bed post
corners of the room.
Whispers came from their lips; fingers over fingertips.
She swooped above him. Her tongue kissed his ears. Her arms

Prue / Mammie Doll 62

stretched outward to the sea, in love again. Sleepy, dark eyes
met. Lemon smells bordered on the insane. She took him under
her, keeping her screams in her throat.

Sonny pushed himself up. “You was hungry.”
Her hand went through her hair. “Just in love with you,
Sonny, that’s all.” She rested back on her pillow.
“We’re hopeless.” He rolled closer.
“In love,” she said. “I missed you.”
He kissed her face. “I missed you too.” He shuffled the
covers up over them. “Whewwww!” He wrapped a leg over her.
“I love your mother too.” He nibbled her ear.
She moved away. “That was nice . . . what she did for
us.” She let him suck her fingers. “Ummmm, that’s good.”
Love’s soft music restored the quiet between them,
rebuilding costs, rewinding. Hesitant, but anxious, he gently
cradled his head on her stomach. They visited each other,
tongues against each other. Puppy dog romps to make up for
years spent, wasted, lost. A kiss, a witness from God’s eyes. A
wife melted, flowed. A lady from the radio sang. A father
witnessed. A man cried. Stares from a silly man. Grinned and
just held hands to announce a reunion. Released from his body,
she floated, just floated.
Sonny said, “We have a lovely daughter.”
She covered herself and turned away. Stuck to him, she
slapped tears from her face. “She’s daddy’s baby.”
He roamed her waist and legs. “She’s such a show off.”
He moved hair from the nape of her neck. Bit.
She turned back. “What are you thinking?” She rested on
his chest and waited for the answer with his heartbeats.
“Snow.”
She lifted her head. “Snow?”
“Many days in it. Just thinking that it would be my
grave.” He kissed her brow. “Just soft white snow.”
She tied her leg through his. “Every day tears . . . when I
didn’t receive a letter or postcard. Not a phone to hear your
voice. We were both in a grave.”
He swiped tears from her cheek. “Stop crying.” A red
bulb had her dangling in his arms. Dangling for life on a string.
“It’s all right. It’s all right.”
Trumpets and tears.
Setting free a wisp of tulle. Hats made from crumpled
newspapers, cross snapped shoes, nylon briefs and bras on the
floor, under the bed. Three o’clock memories, spoken tenderly
true. Attached to loose articles of T-shirts, belts, ties, wool
cardigan sweaters, calf high brogues. Three o’clock memories
under a bed of lost souls. Exiles of a cigarette burning out.

Prue / Mammie Doll 63

“Sonny, Sonny, don’t go to sleep,” Alma erupted. “Wake
up, talk to me.” She searched for his face under the open
window.

A drowsy slur, “Baby go to sleep.” He pulled her down,
closer to him. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t you ever leave me again.”
He peeped from one eye. “Go to sleep, woman.” He
squeezed her. “I’m right here.”
“Are you? Are you?” She kissed his chest and felt herself
up on his stomach, arms and shoulders. She scratched his face.
“Are you?”
“Go to sleep, woman.” He kissed her palms. “I’m here.”
She reminded him, “The difference between me and my
sister is I just need one man. One man. Just you.” She licked
his neck.
Sonny sighed. “She needs a platoon.” He rubbed her
arm. “An audience of dogs sniffing after her.”
“A platoon, huh?” She curled up on him. “Go to sleep.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good night.”
She twisted. “Good night.” She poked, nudged, nuzzled
against her warm tree man.

Prue / Mammie Doll 64

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sweet Sundays, early Mondays. A morning sun
surrendered with its rays up over its head. Suspicious storm
clouds closed in, drifting over crooked finger trees. Visitors on
Fathers’ Day, on June 21, 1946. Statues of angels, iron gates in
Johnson’s Cemetery. Gestures to closed grave robbers, pinching
flowers from mothers, children, grandchildren. Kneeling over the
grass with flowers in hand. Tears open past dreams over the
coming storm. Sunshine lilies and sweetheart dahlias sprinkled
loosely over the green acres of the dead.

Reverend Cleophus Jones’s whistle was getting dry. The
sweaty preacher man, choked up in his collar, resembled the
hangman. He wiped heat and dust from his collar. completing his
prayers in the stone garden. He tripped over a prayer after sizing
up Sister Jackson’s long legs. There would be chicken for him to
eat later on.

Sonny cuddled his Ruby in his arms, took her over to her
grandmother’s gravestone. He put her on the ground where she
chased butterflies instead of tears. He wished he was three like
her, dismissing tears, just remembering a gingerbread man. He
rubbed the headstone.

Mother Jefferson, Alma and Barbara sat on blankets over
their father’s gravesite, nails digging in the grass and dirt for the
Sweet Williams bush.

Daisy held a jar of water. “Clay loved these flowers.”
She poured at the base of the stone. “There you go, honey.” She
patted the dirt. “You girls help me up. . . . I’m finished now.”

Barbara pulled her up. “There you go, Momma.”
Daisy slapped her hands off. “Thank ya, daughter.”
Calmly she spoke to the grave. “Clay, darlin’, that’s gonna be
some nice shade for you when that bush grows.” She grabbed
hold of Barbara’s hand.
Alma reached out to her mother and sister. In a circle of
flowers and wind they all hugged over a father’s grave, a father’s
life circle.
Daisy broke away. “You girls stop it. Your father
wouldn’t want to see us cry on his day. No, it’s a time to laugh,
have a drink and tell some dirty tales about our neighbors.”
Barbara slapped tears from her face. “Oh, Ma, uhhh.”
Alma said, “Let me go check on Sonny and Ruby.” She
took her hankie from her purse and blew her nose. “Uhhh. . . .

Prue / Mammie Doll 65

She crossed over to some uncut bushes dripping with dew,
hugged Sonny and gave him a kiss.

He asked, “Ya all right over there?”
She ran after Ruby. “Yeah, Sonny, we okay. Come here,
Ruby. Stop chasing those butterflies.” Alma took her daughter
by the hand and wiped a gloved hand down her soft pink, frilly
dress. “Don’t get dirty, baby. We be leaving soon.”
They huddled near the graves, flowers and headstones.
Cottage cheese skies shrunk, consumed them with family friends.
Boring, quiet faces pushed up false smiles. More roses, yellow
carnations went around loved ones.
Alma looked back towards her mother and sister. “They
were both good people . . . not out to do bad.”
“My mother, your father, both loved to dance.”
Alma reminded him. “And sing.” She held his hand. “I
would sneak downstairs when I was about nine or ten. They
would have parties at the house and I would catch them dancing
to some of dem hot blues records by Fats Waller and Jelly Roll. .
. . Ma would shake her big butt at Daddy. Haha.ahhh. . . . Those
two. . . .”
Sonny caressed his little girl’s pigtails. She smiled up,
pushed his hand away. “My mother would just sit at that kitchen
table with a bottle of vodka and ice cubes in front of her, sipping
from a cool glass listening to records. Her voice was so, so sweet
and gentle. It made you freeze in your tracks, flirting with some
sad ass blues over some dead ass man. . . . She could have been a
singer herself.”
Alma took his hand. “Come on, honey, let’s go. Ruby,
take your father’s hand.”
Sonny’s fingers went out. “Come on, Ruby, let’s go back
home now.” He turned to his wife. “Your ma got a special
dinner for Daddy today.” He winked at her with the whiskers of
a fox.
Alma said, “Yeah, baby. I got your favorite. . . . pig feet
and potato salad.”
Barbara hollered, “Come on, Alma and Sonny. Ma’s
ready to get back home now.”
Winds stirred up the flowers. The cemetery crowd
smelled the drifting shower coming their way. One drop here,
another drop there. Car doors opened up, engines revved up, the
angels said goodbye.

***
Morning summer sun washed down a man’s thirst real
hard. Sonny gulped down a big jar of iced tea beside him in the
truck as he was making his deliveries of chipped ice to the
neighbors in the colored section of Mileston. The houses were

Prue / Mammie Doll 66

made of tight, uneven bricks. White folks wanted to crunch
Negroes to death — make ’em suffocate. Cockroaches lived
better in the streets than the families on Sonny’s route.

He just carried on the traditions of Clay Jefferson, Ice and
Fish man. Colored people didn’t have the time for a bunch of Ku
Klux Klan hatred in their hearts. They had just time enough
tending to their children, putting on their bes’ dress for Sunday’s
sermons, dancing to hot New York music and just trying to keep
the cold, hellish hands of winter off their backs. So he cleared his
throat in the warm summer sun, spit out a wad of tobacco from
his cheeks and just started out singing the “Ice Song” from street
to street:

“Ice! Ice! I got coool cooool coooool ice.
So cool, make you act like a fooool.
Icieeee. Icieeee. Here! Come and get it!
Ice! Ice! I got chips. I got blocks.
I got cubes. Icieeeee! Icieeeee! Here!

Icyyyyy! Icyyyy! You ladies come and get
Icyyyyy.

Ain’t gonna cost ya muchhhh. A quarter a block.
Keeps the devil off your back. Come and get your
Icyyy! Icyyyy! Icyyyy! Here! Come git your Icy.
So cooool, make you act likes a fooool.
You chittlins, tell your momma. Ice Man here. Icy.
You chittlins, tell your daddy. Ice Man here. Icy. Icy.
I got blocks. I got cubes. Don’t be no fool. Come get it.
I got plenty. Plenty. Yes ma’am. Icy! Icy! Here! Icy
here.
Boy, go tell your momma, Ice Man here. Ice Man here.

Here, come and get your Ice! Ice! Ice!”
***

HANEY AVENUE:
Women in aprons with children hanging from their sides
waved his way and barked back cutely at his smoke puffing truck.
He hit his brakes and popped out of the cab. Tipped his
cap. “How you do, Mrs. Taylor? Sally-Anne, Mrs. Brown,
where is Mr. Brown?”
They gathered round the truck holding their coins out.
Mrs. Brown was a great fat woman, yellow gal from Georgia with
eight kids. “You know, Sonny, Mr. Brown still working for
Jones Lumber Yard. How ’bouts selling me a bucket of crush ice
today?”
“Got it right here, Mrs. Brown. Right here.” He stuck a
block in a churning machine, pulled down a lever, letting the ice

Prue / Mammie Doll 67

crunch, crush up in fine pieces. He hit a green button. “You got
you bucket?”

She stuck a pail up in his face. “Right here, Sonny.”
He took it and opened up the top. Pulling a silver scoop
from the side of the truck, he dug in and filled her pail full of ice.
“That be fifty cents, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sonny.” She stuck the money in his hands.
“Tell Alma and Mrs. Jefferson I said hi.”
“I will, Mrs. Brown. I will. All right, who’s next?”
“Right here, Sonny.”
“Hi, Mrs. Taylor. . . . How you doing today?”
“Oh, I guess I’m okay, Sonny. . . . Arthritis acting up a
bit.” She pulled some coins out from her sweater. “A bucket of
crush.”
Sonny said, “You know, Mrs. Taylor, whenever your
arthritis starts to act up I usually hit the number for today.” He
threw in a block, let the machine churn up. “There you go.”
She took the pail. “You mean you making money off my
pain, Mr. Nickles?” She paid him.
Like a bad boy he said, “Yes ma’am, I am.” He stuck the
money in his pants.
“Well, I better play them horses too.” She winked and
walked off back across the street to her house.
“Ha, she’s something else.” Sonny shook his head.
“Yeah, Sally Anne, what you need?”
“Half a block, Sonny.” She rested back on the truck and
rolled her eyes over him. As he hopped up in the back of the
truck she slapped her hankie over her neck.
Cold ice froze through his long gloves. He used a long
pair of iron scissors to pull the ice block from the two, then
smashed it in half with a rubber mallet. He jumped down, pulled
the block toward himself and grabbed it up in his arms, tight up in
his chest. After rolling some newspaper around it, he followed
her to her house.
She opened the porch door for him and pointed. “Just lay
it in the kitchen, all the way in the back. You’ll find a tub in the
middle of the floor, Sonny.”
He dragged it into the kitchen and dropped it in the tub.
“There you go, Sally Anne,” he said as he wiped the wet cold
from his overalls.
She dug down in her bra. “And, uh, when you finish with
your wife tonight . . . you come back here and have a scotch on
the rocks with me.”
He gazed warmly at her V-neck sweater that was cut just
enough to get a dead man in trouble. “Thank ya, Sally-Anne, but
I ain’t ready for a divorce today.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 68

She fingered her chin and gave him a valentine pout. “I’m
just playin’, Sonny.”

He slipped the money in his wallet. “I’m just playin’
too.” He tipped his cap. “Sally Anne, you have a nice day.” He
walked past her and hopped back up in his truck. Alma’s panties
were enough for him right now. He started the truck up and
drove off to the next street.

***
SUGAR HILL ROAD:
Two o’clock p.m. Pieces of shit — a rock collection of
clubs and restaurants, with blueberry pancake faces of pimps
slipping in and out of doorways. Here were lower priced women
for sale, in a shallow sea of businesses and people drifting down a
waterfall of trash. It was the aftermath of a war turning money
over three times seven under the quagmire of paper trash lives
talking in the sun. For Sonny, it was a place to feel comfortable
singing his Ice Man song.
In front of stores and at corner lights colored folks knew
him or had heard of him. They would holler to him: “There go
the Iceman!”
“Howie Long!” Sonny honked. “Stop buying that
pussy!”
“Hey, Sonny.”
“All right, Dixie Bell. I didn’t mean you.”
“I know you didn’t, nigger. Go onnnnn here.”
“Hey, Nickles.”
“Bennnnny. Bennnnnny.” He waved out of the window.
“See you later, man.”
“Sonny . . . Sonny Nickles!”
He slowed down. “Maxie! How much you lose so far?”
Max threw out his arm. “Mannnnn, fuck you.”
“Iceman! Iceman!”
“Mabel, I ain’t got no free ice today.”
She patted her ass at him. “Fuck you, Sonny Nickles.”
“Bitch! Fuck you.” He stuck his head out.
“Hey! Sonny Nickles.”
It was skinny Jack Zane. “Jackie, play my number, man.
I got the money.”
“Okay, Sonny.” Jack chewed on a toothpick. “See you
round the back in about ten minutes.”
“Okay, Jackie.”
In front of Pop’s Barbershop two drunks were cussing out
each other in the hundred degree heat over a woman, money or a
drink — it didn’t matter. Blades flashed. Arms and feet twisted
and hit flesh. Soap dishes of blood spilled on the concrete.
Children hid behind their fathers as a cheering crowd came alive

Prue / Mammie Doll 69

and put money down on the winner. None were for the loser.
Flies circled and drank blood from the wounds of the men’s faces
and chests. Mother Minnie screamed out for the men to stop.

The men jumped back, pranced and circled. They hooked
up into each other, throwing a left jab or a right hook just missing
the heart.

One fell. The other ran.
Sonny started the truck back up, cruising, whistling,
passing the hot spots on Sugar Hill. You could lose your money
on a woman, a new suit, a Lena Horn movie or just good drinking
and gambling.
He drove by, honking and singing, waving and hollering.
He tipped his cap, selling off his ice to Murray’s Bar and Grille,
Lily’s Lounge, Chin Lee’s Cleaners and Restaurant, Bobby’s Bar,
Willow Mae’s Boutique, the Zebra Club, the Four-Twenty Club,
Dirty Aces Club, Brownie’s Music Hall, Bailey’s Restaurant,
Charmaine’s Restaurant, Mr. Joe’s Barber Shop, Ribs-To-Go,
Mileston’s Bakery, Small’s Clothier, Raleigh’s Place, the Lemon-
Tree Lounge, Mr. Twigs, Greenblatt’s Five and Dime, Dave’s
Den and the Jeffersonian Theater. He wheeled the truck up in an
alley and parked it down behind some bootlegger joint folks on
the street called Charlotte’s Hideout. It was a house for hookers,
whores and has-beens. Some men came out zipping up their
pants. He took Charlotte at least two blocks of ice a week and a
half on Saturday morning. Dried up husbands were real thirsty
for their rum and Coke when they were buying love from this
place. Charlotte even had some fine women too from just this
side of the Mississippi. White cops, crooks and even lawyers
wanted a taste of some of Charlotte’s girls.
He hopped out of the cab and jumped up on the back of
the truck. Grabbing his giant scissors, he snatched up a block and
pulled up another one for later. He hopped down and hustled it to
the back door, kicked twice. They knew it was him, the
“Iceman.”
The door opened. “Come on in.”
Sonny puffed, “Thanks, Lew.” He walked right into the
kitchen. After Lew opened up a huge icebox, Sonny slipped it
right in.
Lew opened up his purse. “There you go, Sonny.”
“Thanks, Lew,” Sonny said. “See you Saturday.”
“All right, Sonny, drive careful.” He closed the door and
clicked the lock back.
Back in the alley stench, Sonny winced when he heard a
woman’s voice barking and cussing out somebody. He peeked
around the truck up the alley.
“Go on, Mike. Leave me alone now, dammit!”

Prue / Mammie Doll 70

Sonny saw the woman pull her arms away. But the man
had hit her on the left side of her head.

“Bitch!” He grabbed her collar. “You going back to D.C.
with me, you hear? You hear?”

The cries were familiar. He got closer. It was Barbara.
He ran up on the fella, snuck up from the back and snatched him
by his collar. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Sonny pushed
him. “That’s my sister-in-law.” He hit him with a right jab,
knocking him back. “Barbara, you all right?”

She had gone down, her legs and mouth split open. One
eye was closing up. She reached out. “Sonny.”

He went to her.
The fat man came up with a gun.
Sonny backed up. “Son of a bitch.”
“That’s right! I’m a son of a bitch. He fired two shots —
one into Sonny, the other into Barbara.

Prue / Mammie Doll 71

PART TWO
THE RUBY STONE

Prue / Mammie Doll 72

CHAPTER EIGHT

We become eaters of flesh, wasting off our youth amongst
the tiny towns and grey cities throughout Mileston and America.
In a tight-fist of houses and apartments, lights shut down from the
skies, enemies and friends try to sleep — resting for the next
wave of killings and muggings over a place at the table. But
families keep surviving among jungle beats from the
Temptations’ and Beatles’ music. But it’s hard to sleep at night
when your dreams of smoke, fire and hell become a reality.

Homer and Ruby Price tried to get some sleep. But even
their newborn baby could keep a mother and father spinning in a
world of bottles, diapers, strollers, formula, lotions, teddy-bears,
doll babies, booties, duck feather blankets, pink dresses, rattlers,
and pacifiers. They prayed in the blue-starry night about her
future and the killing off of her poor black soul.

Homer said, “I got to take a piss.”
“Go to the bathroom then,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of the dark.” He pounded his pillow and
hugged her tighter, kissed her neck.
Nudging him away, she said, “Get off of me.” She
slipped deeper under the covers. “Go to the bathroom.” As he
rose, she added, “Don’t wake up Ma and the baby,” and curled
back up.
He left her.
Tip-toeing quietly, he closed the bathroom door and
flipped on the sixty-watt switch. He stood, searching, spread
eagle over the toilet. He aimed and released the one o’clock
fluids of beer and orange juice from his stomach. He flushed and
put down the seat, remembering a thousand and two times Ruby’s
cable-wire voice: “Let down the seat. Let down the seat. Let
down the seat.” A medicine-cabinet man, he searched for a
quick-fix pill. His truck-stop face in the mirror prowled over
cleat marks and his broken nose, his gold-tooth grin. He dialed
backward in his mind’s time to the first day he met his Ruby.
Chalked-up green grass, acres of fences, cheerleaders and
goal posts. The ecstasy of hitting the shit out of the quarterback
on a bottom-out cold day. Spit was flying, cats were puking,
coach was kicking Jim Bishop’s ass for missing the pass. He was

Prue / Mammie Doll 73

sweating, scratching his ass when he saw her leaning on the fence
right behind the quarterback.

He missed the call and snap of the ball. His big dumb ass
was rocked backwards by the two hundred and twenty pound
guard, Kevin Jenkins, a big eared, red-freckle-faced fool who like
to brag. He really bragged that day about running over the all-
star middle linebacker.

Homer just brushed his face off. He got back up and
searched for her face behind the chain link fence. She had pig-
tails, a purple and gold sweater, bangs and pretty long legs. She
was gone. He didn’t miss the second block or the quarterback on
the next. It was just practice, but he would be in love forever
with this winsome, tall Egyptian-looking girl from Lincoln High.

He tiptoed back to bed, searched in the dark for her butt-
hump. He crept back into bed, having lost his right to hug a
sleeping wife.

On the flip side: 7:15 a.m.
“BRRRIIINNNNGGGGGGG.
BBBBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGG.”
Oh, shut up.” Alma clawed herself out from under her
pillows. She searched, then slapped the alarm clock. Yawned,
dug in with butt poking up. Kicked, rattled, kicked, shifted onto
her back. Foggy dreams, foggy dreams. She pulled out sleep
from the dark corners of her eyes. It was Friday and she didn’t
want to get up. She never wanted to get up out of her warm,
manless bed. Not another wedding for the Marstons. This made
their second so far. First the son, now their daughter. Sighs
relieved her emptiness. Her freshness had her inflamed in
familiar walls from her mother’s room. The master’s room. Pink
sunshine tried to sneak a peek into her world. She wanted to
scream, or kill somebody if they came to that bedroom door. No
husband. No Sonny. Just friends. A lover, a friend. Just her in
bed for so long. But there wasn’t anything wrong with a little dab
every now and again, a man’s trembling hand roaming over her
tits and stomach every now and again. The Lord knew of these
things. She spoke to him in the silence. In the darkness,
trembling, cold darkness she spoke to him every now and again.
His praying hands gave her that love every now and again.
Whenever he could, he did his best. God was a man and she was
the widow-maker.
She curled up her toes and let the morning breeze give her
strength. She heard crying, a baby’s coos. She rubbed her belly.
She wasn’t pregnant with child. But she did have a baby — a
granddaughter in the next room. She was in love again. It was
something to wake up for.

Prue / Mammie Doll 74

“Yooooo hooooo! Ruby, you bring my Ida here.” She
scratched her itching scalp. “I want to see my grandchild before I
go to work.” She picked herself up, stuck the pillows behind her
back. She sat up and waited for her bundle of African violets.

“Morning, Ma.” Ruby came into the sun-isolated front
bedroom. She was cuddling the baby to an unbuttoned slit in her
pink cotton bath robe. She sat on the bed, freeing the child to her
mother’s open arms. “Go to Grandma.”

Alma couldn’t believe this sight of the two flowers
coming to her. It was a vision of a flowing, sugar-sleepy,
passionate daughter and child. It returned to her a life’s applause
sustained only by the flames of work. The playful dark shadows
of her past, the deaths of a husband, sister and mother, faded and
her rivers ran wild and deep in her home as she held her darling
grandchild. The cosmic eyes of the little girl ate her up and
worked in her soul. She became lost in the plump cheeks, the
toothless smile of the baby. She tickled a head of dark, fluffy
hair as a choir sang in her from seeing her twenty-one-year-old
daughter bring her a bundle of life-everlasting. Hunched over,
giggling, she smelled the soft, powder flesh of the child’s neck.
“Ummmm, she smells so good, Ruby.” She handed the baby
back.

Ruby kissed the baby’s forehead. “Ma, you want me to
fix your breakfast?” She watched the baby go to sleep. “Before
you go to work?”

Alma yawned this off. “Uh uh. You just tend to Ida. . . .
I’ll just fix me some toast and coffee.” She touched the little
hand. “Has Homer gone to school?”

“Yeah, Ma, the coach is gone,” she said. “Ma, you look
tired. Let those white people cook and clean their own house
today.”

Alma stretched out her arms. “Oh hush, child. I’m okay.”
She flung the sheet off her and sat up. “We got a big wedding
this weekend.” She got up, stuck her toes in her slippers.
“Ummmmm. I had a good sleep last night.” She peeked at her
face in the mirror and started to comb the strands of grey back.
“Them white people got us through some tough times.”

Ruby said, “Ma, tough times ain’t never over.” She shook
the baby in her arms, rocked her. She went to her mother
standing over the dresser full of perfumes, powder puffs, a glass
brush and comb.

Alma kept brushing, but stared at her directly in the
mirror. She stopped, shook the brush in the air. She looked at
her defiant daughter of the times. “We ain’t gonna let that evil
coming out your mouth destroy this family, are we?” She waited,
then put the brush down.

Prue / Mammie Doll 75

“No, we ain’t, Ma, but white people gotta . . . start
listening.”

Alma searched for a bra in her drawer. “Ruby, I just want
you to remember . . . everybody ain’t bad.”

“Yeah, but I hate seeing you come home barely able to
stand up on your two feet . . . after working for the Marstons all
day. You need a vacation, Ma.” She smiled down at the child.

Alma unbuttoned her bra hooks. “Baby, I’ll get my rest,
but you just remember, hard work ain’t never hurt nobody. If I’m
working in the kitchen or if I’m sitting on my fat ass all day . . .
you betta believe I’m gonna be working.” She touched Ruby’s
face. “Make room in your heart for others.” She slipped her
gown off. “Here — snap me up.”

“Okay. Let me go put the baby in her crib.” Ruby left the
room. “Be right back, Ma.” She was pissed, frustrated and
scared for her mother. She didn’t want to get a phone call from
somebody saying her mother had died in some white person’s
kitchen.

Alma stuck her hair with bobby pins, giving it a frayed up,
cushiony look. She rubbed some cold cream on her face, blinked,
swiped it off with some Kleenex. “Ruby, hurry up. I got to get to
work.”

***
Bus Stop Girls:
Four pecan, chocolate-stain-faced maids were engrossed
in affairs of the morning. They stood or sat around waiting by a
green painted bench, pulling up their cream-colored stockings,
slapping down their white collared uniforms, feet pinched in thick
rubber, white-soled shoes. They shared bits of lemon crumb
cake, birthdays, pictures of grandchildren and back-yard high
society gossip. But the rains haven’t come. They took care of
the rich adult children up on Peppermill Road, Peachtree Avenue,
Honeycomb Lane, Williamsmill Street and Chamomile Terrace.
They became impatient in the middle of shitty traffic, left-wing,
long-haired teenagers, afros, black berets, smooth-talking men
with hot grease hairdos and snot-wiping kids running with balls
and books under their arms. They were miraculous, proud
women who could handle the slick talkers, the processed,
pointed-toe men from the south and white chalk-dust people too
scared or sacred to clean up their kitchens, bedrooms, living
rooms, dining rooms, babies, clothes, shoes, or even drive
themselves to the toilet. But the rains haven’t come. Neither has
the Two-Ten Jackson Heights bus that carried them off to a fairy
tale land of castles, dungeons, moats, dragons, witches, white
knights, black knights, unicorns, golden-haired maidens with
milk-white skin, bishops, pawns, court jesters, kings, queens,

Prue / Mammie Doll 76

soothsayers, saints and the Lord. Their Lord. A quiet Lord,
unspeaking, silent behind a screen, listening, consoling,
whispering in undertones his judgments, harsh and dangerous.
He was unfair, almighty, a white blinding light, a man with a
beard, praying hands, blonde hair, blue eyes, who called out,
kneeling by a rock, praying to the skies — dark skies. Their God
was secretive. He made them slaves to the mighty. They spoke
of him in homes with chapel ceilings and halls while they
scrubbed the floors at his feet. But the rains haven’t come.

Alma saw her friends around the bus stop as shields — a
blockade against the bad hands of love, against having a
sometimes lover, a straw man with weak knees or none at all.
They were a shield against the deadened blue eyes of white folks.
They were her maiden shields against the slurs, name calling and
sexual enticements from soft white men offering her the
diamonds in hell to sleep with her for just one night. The
women’s shoulders were long, grey, jagged rocks sticking up
from the bottom seas. They kept her afloat, breathing slowly on
top of the water. They were voices to talk to, voices that sounded
like her, like the deep ocean floors of the Atlantic, rocking and
waving. They were growing old bones with thick permed and
nappy hair all braided up. Their Rocky Mountain age ranged
from sixty to forty. They had lotioned-down legs and knees that
started to creak on hardwood floors. Their arms lifted laundry
loads of the Butterfields, Marstons, Allens, Schlessingers,
Girabaldis and Hoppers. And from this they had enough magical
strength in the late evenings to listen to records and dance to a
mean Billy Eckstein tune in a hot summer June. There they all
stood—sleepy, restless for that goddamn bus.

Celine Briggs, a high yellow gal from Kentucky, had a
dirty mouth, played the white boys for all they had. Just kept ’em
begging and paying at the same time. She had six kids, three
dead husbands. They died for her and she loved the hell out of
them.

Selma Wright, a short woman from Nachez, favored
Alma’s mother some. She had a big chest, mostly quiet. Her
husband was a preacher. He was never home. He loved to eat
chicken on Sunday a little too much.

Now Martha Thomas had a nice smile. In her fifties, she
didn’t take no stuff off of no man. She loved her husband Luther,
but would whip his ass if he didn’t bring his check home. Nice
old gal, still pretty too.
“That King fella a brave man down there in Alabama,” Selma
said. She slapped a fly from her face.

Celine waved the fly back. “Ha! He s just another dead
nigger! Dem crackers ain’t gonna listen to nobody.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 77

Martha asked, “Hey, I hear one of them Marston kids
gettin married dis here weekend, Alma?”

“Yep! Another big-money wedding at the mansion,”
Alma said. “The daughter this time, Gayla.”

Celine winked at her. “More money in your pocket, hey,
Alma?” “More money and burning corns.” She rubbed her
shoes together.

Selma showed motherly concern. “Well, you just soak
’em overnight.”

“Girrrl! I know what you mean!” Alma looked up from
her shoes.

Martha said, “That Mrs.Butterfield coughing like
everything around the place.”

“You stay away from her,” Selma said. “You don t know
what those white people got.”

“But they blame us for everything,” Alma said.
“You damn right they do,” Selma agreed.
Celine just started laughing. “Ha ha! Mr. Hopper got
caught bringing in one of his secretaries from the office last
night! Ha!”
“What happened?” Martha asked.
“Now he thought his wife was asleep, but she had been
popping these funny colored orange pills lately. They keeps her
wide awake while she writes some book on the art of basket
weaving. Well, she heard some noise in the study, because the
bitch was screaming to the Lord as old man Hopper started laying
it to her. Mrs. Hopper walks right in on them.”
Selma got excited for the dirt. “What she do? What she
do?”
“This old ass broad fidgets and ask him to keep the noise
down. I’ll be damn. Ha! Hell, if it was me, I would have killed
his old ass.”
“Well, you know she can’t do it no more. Her stuff got
cobwebs. Ha ha ha.” Selma had to wipe tears from her eyes.
Martha’s head rolled from side to side. “Ummm ummm.”
“So, uh, Selma, has the Allens thrown out any nice
furniture lately?” Alma asked. “Be on the lookout for me.”
Selma scratched her neck. “I think they gettin’ rid of a
rocking chair soon.” She asked, “You want that?”
“Sure. My Ruby could use something to sit in and rock
the baby to sleep while her butt heals. Ha.”
“Okay, I get it for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Martha, what’s going on in the Schlessingers’ house?”
Celine asked. “I thought I saw a police car drive up to the gate

Prue / Mammie Doll 78

one day last week.” She looked down the street for the bus.
Nothing yet.

“Same old shit. Their son Jeffrey. Cops picked him up in
Harlem. Caught him buying that dope.”

“Whaaat?” Selma was surprised.
“He’s home now, stinking up the place. His father need to
pull him by that dog shag of his and throw his ass in the bath
tub.” She cracked a grin. “He walked around all day giving the
peace sign . . . high as shit.”
“How’s the judge’s health holding up, Alma?” Selma
asked.
“Oh, he’s holding up fine. You know, he’s got that bad
heart and a young wife to go with it.”
Celine interrupted. “You know, I hear she’s a wild one.”
“She can be wild all she wants, just as long as she don’t
get in the way of my cleaning,” Alma said. “But she mostly sits
around the pool, smoking that weed stuff.” She scrunched her
face, imagining the pungent aroma. “Uhhhh.”
Martha looked at the clouds. “I thought the weatherman
said it was going to rain today.”
Celine said, “We sure need it.”
“Weatherman, who needs ’em? Put it in God’s hand,”
Selma said. “All you have to do is stick your head out the
window and smell the air. . . . God knows.”
Martha was skeptical. “But don’t forget your umbrella.”
Alma spotted a silver streak. “Here comes the bus.” She
got up off the bench, straightened her dress, took her pocketbook,
holding it tight under her arm, watching out for them pickpockets.
She slipped in line behind Celine.
They all bunched up on the corner with other passengers.
People coughed, burped, pouted and yawned as the bus pulled up.
Some grumbled, pissed, praying to get to their destinations on
time. The four women paid their twenty-five-cent fare. They
were hunched, with sore feet, not wanting to go, not wanting to
clean another woman’s house, not wanting to see the emerald
valley — a richness long ago stolen from others, built upon the
rock shoulders of another man, an Indian, a slave, a servant.
Some took a peek out the bus windows as it left. But only to
notice the rains hadn’t come.
Alma got off the bus. They all dragged their big hips up
an unchartered dust path to the grassy knolls of Camelot
mansions. The four maids said their goodbyes at the ends of the
gravel pit road. Some of them had to duck as pine cones fell
from the trees.
Alma went towards seven-foot-tall iron gates rising in
front of a white domed, red brick mansion. Corniced laced white

Prue / Mammie Doll 79

beams held up strong across the front entrance. A tar black
driveway led her through a gauntlet of white and red roses to the
back entrance, a screen door for the maids, butlers and
manservants bringing in wedding presents for the darling maiden
Gayla.

Alma waved to her other coworkers of many years. She
gave Mr. Sakura a tap on the shoulder as he pruned his shrub
bush and winked at the jolly French cook, Guy Francois. She met
up with the other maid coming up another path. Inez Moses was
just a young thing in her twenties, just arrived in New York from
Little Rock a year ago. Her boyfriend left her on Forty-second
Street.

Alma had to guide Inez, who mostly got on Judge
Marston’s nerves with her squeaky mouse voice. Alma had to
keep Minnie Mouse in the kitchen and away from this studious
man who longed for a dead wife and smelled up every room with
his pipe of West Virginia apple tobacco.

She had just hung her jacket up in the closet when Mr.
Washington, the butler, came for her. A large, bottle-neck man
the color of Coca Cola, he seemed to be in his thirties, but could
have been older. He was gentle, but direct, not the Uncle Ben
type on the rice box.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Nickles . . . Mr. Marston would like to
see you in the study.”

Alma nodded. “Uh, immediately.”
Inez tied up Alma’s apron in the back.
Alma stuck her maid’s cap on in the middle of her hair,
then followed Mr. Washington with her head up, marching like
that Martin Luther King. If a preacher man and others could go
to the white man and not know what’s coming to them, well, she
could too. Some things changed since all that marching was
going on. But Alma knew each person had to fight their own
battles when it got right down to it.
She didn’t know what the judge wanted. All she wanted
was to cater the wedding reception. Money was her freedom, just
like it was the white man’s. She had been with this family for
twenty years and never knew what was going on behind those
coffin blue eyes of his. Lawyers were lifeless and judges were
dead old bones decaying into ashes. She had helped cater Gary’s
wedding reception and got paid some damn good overtime
money. She could use that for her newborn grandbaby too.
Mr. Washington opened up the giant oak doors with gold
flake, fleur-de-lis trimming around the door knobs. She entered
to find the judge with his new wife Simone and his daughter
Gayla. She placed her hands straight down at her sides.

Prue / Mammie Doll 80

His wife was in a pink mini. Long blonde hair gave her a
kennel-bred look. She had dark makeup over her eyelids. She
was sipping a glass of scotch.

Gayla came to her with a hug of island warmth. She had
the eyes of her father — small, vulnerable to the world and her
father. She had a Beatle-cut hairdo and was wearing a flower-
white dress that reached below her knees. But she wasn’t a
virgin. She had had two abortions before she was eighteen. She
was a clinger, and Alma was still her nursemaid.

“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Marston.”
Mr. Marston’s voice had the sound of a long dusty trail.
When you listened to him, it was like riding on a snow covered
path, slow and clean. “Alma, we didn’t ask you here to find out
about breakfast.”
Gayla assured her, “No, Alma. I want to talk to you about
my wedding tomorrow.”
Alma worried, “Uh, I will be able to work the wedding . . .
won’t I?”
Mr. Marston slid the pipe from his lip. “No, Alma you
won’t be able to help cater the wedding tomorrow.”
“Why, Mr. Marston?”
Gayla said, “Because of this .” She handed her a small
envelope.
Alma opened it. Gazed. “A invitation?”
Gayla nodded. “It’s yours, Alma.”
“Oh, come here child.” She hugged her around the neck.
“It’s a nice surprise.”
Mr. Marston flung a match. “And here’s something else.”
He pulled an envelope from under his lapel. “Just a little
something for that new grandchild.” He gave it to her.
“Something for the future.” He puffed.
“A check.” It was for five hundred dollars. Her heart did
a flip-flop. “Wow!”
They all laughed.
He waved away some smoke. “You just come to the
wedding.”
She slapped a cheek of tears. “I will, Mr. Marston.” She
took Gayla’s hand. “Thanks.”
Gayla held her and whispered, “Thank you, Alma.”
They both wiped tears from their faces.
Simone turned and poured another morning glass of
scotch. She tapped her foot, meaning: get this sentimental
charade over with.
Mr. Marston lit his pipe again. “Now, where’s that break-
fast?” He looked over to his wife. “Simone, I think you need
some eggs in you.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 81

Alma choked back the crowd clapping in her stomach.
“It’s coming right up, Mr. Marston.” She backed up, winked to
Gayla, then left the study. She wanted to sing, Hallelujah. She
couldn’t straighten the grin from her face. She went past a giant
armored man with the tunic of chain mail in the hall. She kissed
it right on top of its purple plumage. She sneezed from the
feathers. “Ha ha ha ah.” She switched her butt back to the
kitchen. Maybe that Martin Luther King preacher was bringing
them just a little closer together.

***
A Saturday morning, nine-thirty.
Ruby was in her mother’s room of morning yellow sun,
with its gold curtains and a vanity of perfumes, pearls, earrings of
blue rocks. Ruby had to button, clip, zip, tighten, swoop, swear,
comb, plait, fasten, and even slip a fire-hot comb through a row
of salt and pepper bangs.
“Hold still, Ma.” She was getting to the small blue
buttons around the sleeve of a white chiffon blouse. “You got
your gloves?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Your purse?”
“Yes.”
“Your handkerchiefs?”
Alma snatched her arm. “Will you stop it? Damn, you
sound more and more like me.” She finished the button, put her
lipstick on and rubbed her lips together. “There.”
Ruby asked again, “What time is Mr. Washington going to
pick you up?” She flipped a small comb through the bangs.
“There.”
Alma looked at her watch. “In a few minutes. The
wedding’s at eleven.” She lifted up the lid to her hope chest at
the foot of the bed, scrounged around for the hat box. It was
under her panties.
Ruby used a brush to wipe down the cotton blue suit.
Alma took out the small white hat with a veil and walked
to the mirror. She shifted it steady on her head, then straightened
it.
“Ma, when did you get that?” Ruby admired the hat.
“Can I borrow it sometimes?” She knew what she was going to
say.
“Hell no.” Alma winked, touched up her bangs in the
mirror. “I’m still a cute ol’ gal.”
Ruby laughed proudly. “Huh, you just watch them old
white men’s hands.” She looked her over. “You lookin’ good.”
“Thank you, dear.” Alma slipped on her gloves.

Prue / Mammie Doll 82

Ruby picked up her pearl-studded purse from the bed.
“Ma, don’t forget to tell Mr. Marston me and Homer said thanks
for the gift for Ida.”

Alma took the purse. “I will.” She pointed. “I need you
to check to see if they have a vacant apartment down the street.”

“For who, Ma?”
“A coworker of mines.” She checked her stockings.
“Inez Moses. . . . She’s new around here. She got to find a
bigger place for her and her little boy Billy.”
The car pulled up.
“HONNNKKK. HOONNNKKKK.”
Ruby went to the window. “Ma, it’s Mr. Washington.”
Alma checked her face in the mirror. “Okay, let’s go.”
They went downstairs.
Ruby gave her a kiss. “You have a nice time . . . not too
much champagne.” She opened the door for her.
“Bye.” Alma went down the stairs to the car.
Ruby waved to Mr. Washington opening the car door for
her mother. “Have a nice time. Byeeeeeee.”
They drove away.
Closing the door, Ruby ran upstairs to Ida’s room. Was
she still asleep? She peeked in, looked at her in the crib, sleeping
with the angels.
She left, went to her room and lifted up the mattress to her
bed. She stuck her fingers in to find her diary. She flopped on
the bed and opened it up to a blank page and wrote.

Diary Pages: June 20, 1966
Homer and I received a gift for Ida yesterday. Money
from the Marstons. This means a lot to us. But I will never be
ashamed to be suspicious of white people in general. My
momma had to scrub floors for that money. Plus kiss their ass.
It’s the only thing my momma can do. Maybe even wants to do?
She always say she got to keep busy. Maybe this granddaughter
will keep her busy too. A baby girl that brought joy to those tired
brown eyes of hers. . She’s my momma. The woman who gave
me the Mammie Doll when I married Homer. This doll now sits
on top of my dresser. The small dinner bell still sounds clear
underneath the flowing checkerboard dress. This doll is my
reward. This baby is our reward. This money will help our Ida
go to college. If she wants to. But I do pray that his child will
hopefully not fight as hard as my mother and I.

Oh God, is there justice for a little baby girl?
She stopped writing and closed the journal.
“Ringgg!”

Prue / Mammie Doll 83

She picked up the phone on Homer’s side of the bed.
“Hello.”

“Ruby, this is Willa . . . Willa Blue.”
“Willa! How you doing?” She scratched the nape of her
neck. “How’s everything coming along at McKay’s?”
“Still shitty as ever.” Willa asked, “How’s the baby?”
“Ida’s doing fine. She’s taking her morning nap right
now.”
“And your mother?”
“Girllll! She’s gone to a wedding.”
“Ah, that’s nice.”
“Yeah. Willa, her boss’s daughter is getting married
today . . . and they invited her!”
“Well, she needs to get out and have some fun. ” Willa’s
spirits rise listening to her friend from work. “I was just calling
to see if I could come over to see you and the baby.”
“Why, sure. Homer’s not here anyway. He has football
practice with the kids this morning. . . . I could stand some
company around here.”
“Okay, I’ll be right over.”
“Good.”
Willa hung up.
Ruby put down the phone, stood and stretched out the
sleep in her bones. She wasn’t in a hurry to sweep the rugs. In
another month she had to get back to McKay’s. Willa was
supposed to be working today. Ruby guessed she was tired of the
crap of serving under white women who wanted to spit on you for
just doing your job. Ruby knew she had to find a babysitter and
become a target of hateful blue eyes all over again.
The life of a stock girl was one of no promotions and a
bunch of name calling from white people if she didn’t move fast
enough. “Stupid, dumb, lazy nigger gal,” was all she heard.
They hardly gave her a break for lunch. She was even followed
to the bathroom by her boss, Mrs. Cotter. Just to take a shit.
A fly bothered her, wiping those thoughts away for right
now. She remembered to make the call to the Saint Hyde
Apartment Buildings down the street. She knew the manager,
Teddy, an old fag who used the place to bootleg whiskey,
cigarettes and even play the numbers for her mother sometimes.
There were no complaints, because he kept the place up and noise
level down.
She dialed.
A light, sleepy voice answered, “Saint Hyde Apartments.”
She asked, “May I speak to Teddy?”
“Right here.”
“Teddy, this is Ruby Price.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 84

“Mornin’, Ruby. When you going to bring that baby by
here to see me?” He patted his stocking cap down. “Ruby, you
kicking Homer out?” He flirted with her. “’Cause, honey, I’ll
sure take him off your hands.”

“No, I’m not kicking my husband out.” She stuck a hand
on a hip. “I’m calling for my momma . . . to see if you had a two
bedroom vacant for a friend of hers?”

He flicked his wrist. “Man or woman?”
“A woman with a little boy.”
He was disappointed. “Tell her to come by next week.”
“I’ll tell her and I bring the baby by soon. Bye, Teddy.”
“See ya’, Ruby.” He hung up, patting his bangs down.
She hung up, exhausted with her day already.

***
Willa Blue had the face of black sunshine, eyes of a deer,
a nose wide and tilted down over white teeth that made you think
she would tell a joke any second. She was life at the crossroads
of twenty-nine. She read a lot, but wasn’t assertive. She was a
brown-sugar sweet pushover, a butter woman from Buffalo, New
York.
She had on Lee jeans this day with a sleeveless thin red
blouse that was draped low to hide her big butt. She had just a
dimple on her left cheek and her hair was cut short, Afro-bush
style. She was like Ruby, couldn’t grow much hair anyway, a
woman more comfortable in sandals than high heels.
Ruby breast-fed Ida and took her friend into the living
room with its tiny crystal ornaments — ducks, chickens, cats,
cows, people — and praying hands of Jesus Christ on the mantle.
Oriental rug patterns swirled in gold and blue. The large round
mirror over the fireplace gave the room a twilight reflection from
the sun, spraying its rays over a sofa of gold, a couch of blue. A
puffy high chair mixed soft brown patterns of diamonds and
pearls. From under the mirror, pictures of her aunt, grandfather,
grandmother, mother and father; Sonny Nickles were lined up.
Her father she had just heard tall tales about in his Army uniform.
The room was closed off, quietly buried in summer-yellow
wallpaper. Old sheet music was laid out on the chipped piano by
the wall, and the silver tea set on the coffee table waited for a fill-
up while giant elephant ear plants in pots near the window dried
up, one on each side.
It was a living room to look out on the streets. Seasons
spread wild down brick streets with dead oak trees. It was a place
to watch the brown, yellow and blue-black faces of children
laughing and crying, with teenagers singing under the lampost,
“Blue Moon.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 85

Stray dogs barked after cars. People across from the
house, next door, some doors down, sized up, wondered and lied
about each other on this archaic block. They tried to keep up
with the commercials — new cars, TVs, new fences or gates for
their houses, new clothes to go with the bad ones. They were
poor people trying to be a game show commercial. Mr. Dan
messed around with Mrs. Tyler, Mr. White came in drunk at the
fit of night, Miss Sharpe shook down young boys for love and
money, and one last drink to sleep. Mr. Connie had to get the ice
cream truck back to the warehouse, Mrs. Baker was going to die
in a few days over in Green Acres. She was spitting up blood
awfully bad. Joe-Joe Thomas was picked up by the police for the
third and last time. They killed him in the paddy wagon. Mrs.
Betsy was a homely school teacher. She wore the same shoes and
only had three dresses since her husband left her in nineteen
sixty-two.

Picture window serenades. Growing up in a neighborhood
for over twenty years was a movie in itself. This old house had
seen a lot through its draperies, a lot of cussing, whippings,
muggings, fuckings, parties, killings and shootings under that big
old tree right in front of the house. House music from the south,
music from the north, music from the east, music from the west,
with little girls shaking it, till they knew the best.

Neighbors gossiped about the whole goddamn world.
This living room wasn’t a casket. It was life with a big red
ribbon tied around it. Whenever you entered it, you sacrificed
yourself to the elegance of a parade.

Willa sat on the couch. “How many times you feed her a
day, Ruby?” She was uncomfortable from the sucking.

“Every three or four hours.” Ruby kissed Ida’s nose.
“Why? You want one?” She nestled the child tighter as she sat
at the front window.

“I’m not ready yet.” Willa reached out and touched the
baby’s curly head of hair. “She’s so pretty.” She moved closer.
“She looks just like Homer.”

Ruby said, “Here. Hold her.”
Willa took the baby. “How you doing there?” and tickled
her nose with her nose. “Ohhh, yeah, yeah.” She giggled. “How
you doing there? . . . Ruby, she’s laughing at me. She’s
laughing at me.” She kissed Ida on top of her soft spot. “She’s a
little darlin’. Yes you are. Yes you are. ” She hugged her.
“Ummm.” She wanted to break out of there to make a baby fast.
“Here, Ruby, take her back before I steal her.”
Ruby got her, unbuttoned her gown again and slipped a tit
in the baby’s mouth. “Girl, you are hungry.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 86

“Huh, looked who’s talking. Ruby, I never seen you turn
down a extra scoop of ice cream. She’s just like you . . . greedy.”

Ruby flung the back pillow at her. “Ha.” She grinned at
her friend. “Shut up. What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t
you suppose to be at work today?”

Willa sat the pillow on her lap. “Ruby, I couldn’t stomach
those white people this morning.” She leaned forward. “They
wear you out with their shit.”

Ruby rocked Ida. “I know. I hate having to go back there
to that racist ass, Mrs. Cotter.” She pulled her tit back. “And the
rest of them are full of shit too. Always grinning in your face.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes I just wish they’d fire me.” She
rocked and kissed the child. “Like that Beatrice Potter, Doris
Graves, Phyllis Bush, and that fat white piece of pork meat,
Barbara Canada.”

Willa had to laugh. “Haaa, Ruby, you crazy.”
Ruby’s eyes widened. “Naw, I ain’t crazy. They just a
bunch of white women doing the same thing white men been
doing to Negroes for hundreds of years.”
Willa dug in her ear. “Ruby, if they could lynch us up
here, they would.” She reminded her, “White women are in the
Klan too.”
“They sure would.” She got up. “Let me put Ida in her
crib.” Then Ruby asked, “Uh, you want something to drink?”
“What you got?”
“Coffee, tea, juice or breast milk.”
Willa shook her head. “Ha, ha. I’ll take coffee. Black, no
sugar.” She flipped the pillow away.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Ruby left and went upstairs
with the baby.
Willa got up and peeked out under the window shades.
Cars passed while sparrows hunted for food in the yard. Across
the street the houses were red brick with iron gates. Two old
women were talking over their fences in slippers, hair wrapped in
scarves. Mellow black women laughed and screamed with bush
clippers in their hands. The grass yards were small, not much to
garden, just sunflowers standing strong and white roses hiding in
corners.
About ten minutes later Ruby came in with two cups of
coffee and a plate of oatmeal cookies. Willa got her cup.
“Thanks.” She sniffed the plate. “Did you make the cookies?”
Ruby put the plate down. “Yep. Since I’ve been home . . .
I had time to work on my baking. Try one.”
Willa picked one up and bit. “Ummm, gooood.” She
drank her coffee. “I was watching your neighbors out the
window.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 87

Ruby sat back at the window. “Miss Thomas and Mrs.
Curtis. That’s our grapevine around here.” She blew on her cup.

“I’m watching them just talking up a storm.”
“Willa, that’s all they do. Miss Thomas is a retired school
teacher and Mrs. Curtis just stays home while her husband goes
to work. . . . He’s messing with Lily around the corner, but you
won’t hear her talk about that.” She nodded her head towards the
window of sun shadows. “Anything you want to know, you just
go and ask them two.”
Willa said, “I see they both old as the hills.”
“Just two old farts in everyone’s business around here.”
Ruby chewed a cookie. “Um. Willa, how’s things going for you
in the love department?”
Willa had to roll her eyes when she thought about it.
“Ruby, ain’t nothing going on in that department for me.”
“You still seeing that policeman, Roger Corey?”
“He’s still around, when he’s around.” She could count
on her fingers how many times she saw him last week or last
month. “He’s a cop, just busy most of the time.” She didn’t want
to talk about how cold her bed was at night.
Ruby saw the whirlwinds of love die down in her friend’s
eyes. “You think I could get you two to come to our Fourth of
July picnic in the back yard?”
Willa shook her foot. “It would be nice, but I don’t know.
. . . I would have to check with Roger. He might have duty or
something.”
She didn’t want to see Willa drown. “Look, if he can’t
make it. . . I got some good looking cousins who could keep you
dancing the Fourth away.”
“Okay. I’ll remember that. ” Willa took another cookie.
“You still sewing, Ruby?”
“Un huh.” She added, “It’s the only thing that keeps me
half relaxed. All this shit going on out here in the streets.” She
turned a hungry eye on the plate of cookies. “They are good.”
Willa warned, “You just had a baby. You betta watch
yourself.”
“Look who’s talking,” Ruby needled. “Your ass is bigger
than mines.” She gazed around the room as if an audience was
watching.
“Go to hell, Ruby.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” She shook her head at her. “Besides,
Homer likes my ass big.”
“You know, I don’t get the paper anymore,” Willa said.
“Nothing but a bunch of bad news anyway.” She reached for
another cookie.

Prue / Mammie Doll 88

Ruby popped her hand. “Gottcha.” She smiled her way.
“They just report news of another black person dead or going to
jail.”

Willa took a cookie anyway. “They don’t even give you a
break. . . . The day they shot Malcolm X was the day I stopped
looking at white faces on the TV set. I just had enough of it.”

“Well, they wanted that nigger dead anyway.” Ruby
started sweating some. She rested back. “This Vietnam war
thing ain’t helping my nerves none. Plus, this hell we going
through at work. . . . I’m just glad I had this baby. She keeps my
mind at ease.” She swatted at a fly. “I made Homer give me this
baby too.”

Willa protested, disbelieving her, “Ruby, how you do
that?”

“A deal.”
“A deal?”
“That’s right.” She hunched her shoulders. “When we
got married and he went down south to college . . . I promised
him that I wouldn’t mess up on him. I wouldn’t get pregnant.
But he had to finish and when he did, he would come back to
Mileston. And if everything was right, we would have a baby.”
She gave Willa a winning look and gazed off with a mother-lion
pride over her newborn.
Willa had to ask, “He went along with this?”
“Yeah.” She said this with confidence.
“Woman, what you got?”
“We been knowing each other since grade school. He use
to chase me, pull my pigtails. He even poured a carton of milk on
me in the third grade.” Ruby pointed her finger. “But most of all
. . . I got some good stuff.” She waved the bottom of her pink
gown. “Honey, this pussy keeps his nose wide open.”
Willa threw the pillow. “Ruby, you. . . . ” She rolled her
eyes away. “I’m turning blue and you one lucky lady.”
Ruby winked at her. “I know.”
Willa rested, sipped her coffee. “I went back home last
weekend.”
“To Buffalo?” Ruby asked. “How’s your family doing?”
She stuck the pillow behind her back. “Ummm.”
“Mom’s okay, but the doctor had to amputate my dad’s
leg off.” Just thinking about it again made her tired and scared.
“His left leg.”
Ruby grabbed her hand. “Willa, nooo.”
Willa scratched her scalp. “He got diabetes . . . but he’s
holding up.” She teared up, squared her shoulders. “But Ruby,
when I was with my mother, she told me her church had picketed
a department store. Same old thing — they won’t let us in.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 89

“So, what happened?” Ruby’s throat was getting dry and
she was getting meaner just hearing about it.

Willa’s cheeks glowed with glory. “They were marching
and singing, ‘We Shall Overcome’.”

Ruby’s voice was nervous, shaking. “Did they put the
dogs on ’em?” She wrung her hands together, contemplating the
worst.

“No, Ma told me it was peaceful.”
Ruby was relieved. “Whew.” She curled up in the
wingback. “’Cause, honey, the white man is something else.”
“You know, Ruby, I know it’s rough out here. People got
homes, children and need their jobs.” She frowned for even
thinking it. “I’m a single woman.” She pointed to herself. “I can
stick my ass out on a limb and get it chopped off. Plus, I can
always go back to Buffalo. ”She picked at a blackhead in her ear.
“I was wondering . . . maybe we could do the same thing here?”
She didn’t look at Ruby, just held her breath.
Ruby looked at her like she was from Jupiter. “At
McKay’s?” She unfolded her legs from under her butt.
Willa got bold. “That’s right. Ain’t many of us there and
they in a black neighborhood anyway.”
Ruby got out of her chair and paced the floor. “Like you
said, Willa, just your mouth to feed. But if, if the church backs
us . . . I think we could get out of that stockroom.” She paced
some more. She hadn’t ever marched for anything in her life.
Pictures of water hoses and billy clubs came at her. Ten black
women on the six o’clock news.
Willa asked, “You want to try it, Ruby?”
Ruby burst out, saying, “You damn right.”
It shocked the hell out of Willa, so much that she had to
swing her friend around the coffee table dancing. “We gonna,
‘We Shall Overcome’ them to death. Haaaa, ahhhh, haaaa.”
A stern voice resounded. “What you ladies doing in here?
Up to no good, I see.”
Was it God?
Jewish, Christian, Moslem?
Nope. It was Homer standing in sweat pants, Chuck
Taylor sneakers, short sleeve blue cotton shirt. The school logo
of a small yellow M in the middle of his chest with a whistle on a
string around his neck.
“Shit, Homer you scared me,” Ruby hollered. “When you
get here?”
He went to her. “Just a couple of minutes ago.” He gave
her that innocent baby look. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” He
squeezed her in his arms and threw a sly grin Willa’s way.

Prue / Mammie Doll 90

She looked up into his eyes. “You hungry? Let me fix
you a sandwich.”

“I’m hungry and tired.” He slapped the sweat from his.
“How you doing, Willa?”

“Fine, Homer.” She got out of the way of love. “Ruby,
I’m gonna go now, but I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” Ruby hugged her.
Willa looked around. “I forgot this.” She picked up a
cookie.
Ruby said, “Get out of here.”
“Bye.” Willa left the living room and went out through
the front door. The sun hit her harder. She went down the street,
passing some girls jumping Double-Dutch.
Homer took Ruby’s hand. “What were you two gabbing
about when I got in here?” He tried to sense his wife’s secrets
through her large brown eyes.
But she didn’t give. “I tell you about it later. Now, you
want ham, turkey, bologna?” She checked off the sandwich list
on her fingers.
He wanted to eat her instead. “How ’bout you?” He took
her to the dining room. The radio was by the window and he
flipped it on to WKMP-1340. Nat King Cole started them off
into a soft ballad, “Answer Me, My Love.” This nice man was
going to take a husband and wife into a dream.
Homer cradled Ruby in his arms, not crushing her petals.
He swept her around the tablecloth of white linen with its bowl of
bananas, apples and plums off center and juicy. Against the wall
stood a china cabinet of chipped ceramic memories. Yellow
painted pictures of the farm life splashed the sun around eight tall
chairs, suspending them in the twelve o’clock day. A turn, a step,
double dip. He inspected her face caught up in a playful trip, de-
claring with song.
They danced in the noon day as their daughter napped.
Silence and a man’s song, rhythm and words, silence and her
man’s strong grip tore at her heart.
She said, “Homer, you still surprising me.”
“Ruby, you know dancing relaxes me after football
practice.” He turned her with two fingers.
She came back. “Football and teenagers.”
His voice portrayed some frustration. “A lot of the kids
don’t have fathers around.” He kissed her neck. “Taste good.”
She smiled away from him. “Did I hear Ida?”
He listened. “No.” He pulled her back. “Listen to Nat.”
He kissed her shoulder. “Listen to Nat.”
She rubbed his back, “I hope Ma is having a nice time.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 91

“I’m sure she is.” Homer closed his eyes. “I’m sure she
is.” He cuddled and twisted, searching over her back to find the
buttons. He unhooked her.

Nat’s voice took them into the sun.
***

Champagne filtered down from sculptured Henri Moore
statues. From this grand garden glasses tilted under peacocks,
swans and a Cupid’s bow. People strolled into the wedding
reception slowly, waiting for Gayla Marston and her husband,
Robert Lloyd III. Queenly women in chiffon dresses from Paris
admired the gardens while tuxedoed men with noses pulled up to
the sky kept their minds in the clouds. Earth didn’t matter to
them. Guests dipped their beaks over the trays of Russian caviar,
truffles and dozens of wild pheasants. A twenty-piece orchestra
tooted out “Stardust” under Japanese lanterns, with Episcopalian
men moving wooden hips to a Harvard, Yale, Princeton two-step
— half-ass moves that would put the dead to shame.

Alma danced with Mr. Washington to this music that
wanted to put her to sleep. It wasn’t a wedding, it was a funeral
for the living. The bride and her husband entered the garden
under a roof of applause.

Prim, proper people gathered around to watch the bride
and groom pose for the cameras, for the society page, page B1.
The circle was a jester’s joke. Love was nowhere to be found.
Vows from this couple meant nothing, nothing at all. In the
purity of whiteness, she wasn’t a virgin. This short man with a
Hitler mustache had to keep his family’s name up in the heavenly
towers of New York City. Bulbs popped. “Everybody smile,
please.”

Old men of money believed in their eternity. Amen.
Money- stealing families from different states — Haverfords of
New Hampshire, Cranes of Rhode Island, Smiths from
Connecticut, Sheratons from Philadelphia, Peels from Virginia,
Mooneys from Boston and the Branfords of Maine — all were
soap opera families who fought and died over money, not love.
They would kill their mothers and fathers for the coins of gold.
They were church folks who you would never hear whisper
God’s name.

She had waited on these families diligently and with
honor. But when they spotted her there, not one smile came her
way, just astonished porcelain stares from the storms of hate.
They wanted her to be a servant, not come as a guest. Their eyes
had smiles only for a black face maid.

Now mind you, Alma Nickles wasn’t one to wilt from the
steel blue eyes coming her way. Mr. Washington kept his head
down. And she never let them hurt her. But if she had to shit on

Prue / Mammie Doll 92

their plates at any time, she would in a goddamn minute. Her
proudness came from the brother and sister she helped raise
around there. She took over for his sickly wife, laid up with the
pains of the world at her bedside, coughing, whizzing, puking up
blood, babbling in a fit of morphine dreams. The ravishing, dark
haired mother in her thirties had the hands of cancer at her throat,
an enemy that didn’t care what color you were or how many
millions you had. You just had to hope the good Lord was with
you when you left this world.

She posed at the reception with Gayla and Gary, snapshots
for her album back home. She heard the whispers. Judge
Marston surprised her and gave her a hug and a kiss. “Don’t you
worry about them.”

She didn’t let them stop her fun because she was strong as
a blizzard and hotter than the sun. She even danced with the
judge, drank two glasses of champagne and ate some of them fish
eggs too.

“You ain’t got to speak to her, just get out of her way.”
She cussed Judge Marston out too. He wasn’t doing right. He
had to be told when to take a bath and a shave. He kept his mind
in law books, not people. Gayla listened and wasn’t afraid by the
power of blackness.

But all and all, Gayla had to tolerate this baby bride step-
mother, Simone Meadows. Hippie, made-up society girl from the
south side of Hoboken, New Jersey. Gayla knew her father, like
any other man feeling the grave around his shoulders, was turned
upside down by a dog-face cute blonde looking for the world to
love her back. Her father, looking for a martini and a big-eyed
blonde Bambi in the late evening, reveled in his fresh release
from the cobwebbed halls of justice.

Gayla watched her, then went up to her father with
caution and a tender word to watch his wife. “Daddy, has
Simone had too many champagne cocktails this evening?” She
hugged his waist and kept smiling at the guests.

Judge Marston turned to see his wife dancing the samba
with the busboy. He touched his daughter’s arm. “I’ll see to her,
honey.”

“Okay, Daddy.” Gayla went to her husband. He was
talking to his mother and father by the statue of David.

Judge Marston didn’t need this from her. He went to her,
stepped in between the busboy and his wife. “Simone, it’s
getting late. I think you danced enough tonight.” He took her
hand, slowed her steps down. She was over the top with the
drinking. She just needed some help down the mountain. “Come
on, Simone. . . . I don’t want you to slip.”

Prue / Mammie Doll 93

Her honey-white face was milky. Her body was loose,
arms slipping from pearl gown straps. She pouted. “Ah, noooo.
Just one more, honey. Just one more dance.” She grabbed his
waist tight. “Judgey-poo. Let’s cuddle up.” Her head and face
slipped from his shoulders. “Ohhhh, I almost came out of my
shoes.”

He picked her up and gave a false grin to the crowd. He
tried to lift her from the waist. “Come on, let me get you to bed.”
He flipped her hair from her eyes and spat some from his mouth.
He spotted Mr. Washington and Alma. “Oh, Mr. Washington.”

Mr. Washington came over with Alma. “Sir, what you
need?” He looked at the drooping woman.

Blushing and sweating, the judge replied, “Whew, take
her back to the house.”

But Simone rose from his shoulder screaming, “Keep that
bitch away from me.” She pointed right at Alma. “Ken, you hear
me.” She pointed. “Keep her away from me before I kill her.”
She dropped her head back down. Mumbling, she tried to walk
some.

Alma couldn’t believe this, at least she didn’t want to.
She smiled and rolled her eyes, trying to play this woman off.
“Aw, Simone, let them take you in the house so you can get some
sleep.” Alma was sipping on her third glass of champagne
herself and she was feeling good too. But she wasn’t about to
hear that “bitch” word out of this drunk’s mouth again. “Come
on, let me help you, Simone.”

From under her strand of blonde hair over her face,
Simone snarled, “Nigger bitch, trying to steal my husband. Get
away from me.”

Alma stopped, looked around at the shock on Gayla and
the judge’s face. She saw white, then red. She raised her hand
and slapped Simone right in the mouth.

Mr. Washington stopped the second slap from coming,
just before it reached Simone’s face. “No, Alma, no.”

Simone was in a fit. “Ahhhh! Ahhhh! She hit me! She
hit me!”

The judge dragged her off with the help of some others.
People opened up the circle. Laughing, they ran to the phones.
So the Mileston Gazette could have a say on the “slap” for page
B-1, the society column.

Mr. Washington asked, “You ready to go, Alma?”
She stared back at the misguided and misjudged white
people hanging around.
Up the slope, Gayla and Gary trailed behind their father
and the hippie drunk. The groom was apologizing for nothing.

Prue / Mammie Doll 94

Alma looked at the champagne glass in her hand. Not a
drop had been spilled. She drank it down. “Ummm. that’s some
good stuff.” She licked her lips, then she threw the empty glass
over their heads.

She straightened her hat veil.
She was tight, but not drunk. She took Mr. Washington
by the hand and let him aim her through a path of tuxedos and
gowns. Alma looked back at the emerald grounds of statues and
flowers. An evening chill was arriving. She left, feeling no pain
and more woman than Simone was right now.

Prue / Mammie Doll 95

CHAPTER NINE

“Ruby, you be the stone that the Lord can rest on. The
rock that he can throw into the waters. Spreading out waves of
justice and love for our people.”

Pastor Thomas Payton rested his hand on her ring finger.
He was a brown, liquid man spewing words of God in the
basement of the church where Bible school books and pictures of
lambs and baby Jesus lined the brick walls. Under wooden
crucifixes ten women held pocketbooks, fans on their laps,
squeamish and nervous after the Sunday morning sermon.

“I want y’all to remember now, that black folks are all try-
ing hard to keep their dignity. You women are no different than
the mothers in Birmingham, than Watts, than Harlem, and ya’
ain’t no betta off than the mothers in South Africa.”

Bible in hand, he went back to the stage. “We all scared.
Scared as the devil, if he came through that door right now. But
we gots to remember that you got the right to get up . . . walk out
that door and go home to your families. Where you all be safe
and sound.” He moved back down from the stage. “I want y’all
to know that God is a revolutionary.” He clasped his hands and
gazed up to the rafters. “You women,” he pointed around to the
faces, “gots to believe. Just believe that things in this world can
change.”

The pepper-dark faces of women wanting to have better,
women who said silent prayers in their sleep at night but woke up
to screams, were aware of the fight, the possible loss of so much.
They faced jail — maybe beatings — with spit from the faces of
white cops coming at them.

They were married women, single women. A hurricane
name with Civil Rights swooping them up. Ruby, Willa, Wanda,
Sheila, Elthel, Denise, Andrea, Billie, Yvonne, and Josephine.
Crazy, wild winds, using them as a safe landing for all. They sat
in silence, shaking their open-toe high heels in this black storm.
The raging, religious fool sadly rambled on. It was going to rain
on them, strand them alone on some island, maybe without a job,
with the loss of their homes or apartments. Their white fear of
floodwaters broke over the rocks, drowning them. They couldn’t
see, just moan in the prayers, afraid for their families, broken,
injured with no help. It would be, maybe, like being stuck on a
ledge with a three-hundred foot drop. Could they all climb back

Prue / Mammie Doll 96

up? He pointed again to the door. Instead they looked around at
each other to find that strength.

An uneasy, dead-bolt door closed in on Ruby.
She thought of the dead members in her family, the closed
graves. What did they die for? Was it worth living, the hereafter
their only release? . . . She saw a dinner sea-cruise of loved ones
leaving the table, excusing themselves to drop into the ocean.
The dry, cracked lips of her father, the cardboard face of her
grandfather, bruises over her aunt’s eyes, a grandmother’s half-
moon smile. An uncle or three’s faces closed with rope burns
around their necks. All fought for some sense of having better,
doing better. A mountain ledge would always have to be
climbed.
Pastor Payton waved his arms.
He prayed for them to keep warm amongst each other.
They were workers in the storm that would bring on a dark, slow
death. A family died, a child wept, to fall asleep, stuck its
fingers out to be rescued from this white death.
A flood of willowy, jingling songs came from their lips.
They were committed to the swim upstream. He called them to
come up and join him in this revolution with God, to meet him in
the street to do battle with this tornado.
He begged them, “Stay together in these crazy winds.”
They all came around this man of love, this man of hope.
His voice was a drum, traveling in their hearts.
Ten faces of tears flowed. Circling him, they clutched
hands with their heads bowed. United they made the choice to
fight.
It was a little after one when Ruby got home from the
church meeting, heavy with song, happy with dreams of change.
Coming into the house she hollered, “Hi, Ma.” She went straight
back to the kitchen and hugged her mother. “I see you got
Sunday dinner together.” She tipped her head over the pot of
collards.
Alma hugged her back. “Got Homer’s favorite too.” She
stuck a hand on her hip and moved back from the oven.
“Ribs.”
“That’s right.” Alma opened the oven door to show off
the slab of pork cooking up in its juices. Barbecue flavors
popped up in Ruby’s nose.
“He love you, Ma.” She looked around. “Is the baby
asleep? And where is my husband at, anyway?” She slipped off
her white gloves, peeled off her straw-red hat.
“They upstairs in the bedroom. He’s feeding her a bottle
and watching that dumb football game.” Alma looked her over.

Prue / Mammie Doll 97

“Ruby, you been crying?” She wiped her hands down her apron.
“You okay?”

Ruby slapped her cheeks. “I guess so.” She shrugged and
opened up the refrigerator door, then lifted a container of
lemonade out. As she searched for a glass, she slipped her foot
from the door. It closed.

“Here, Ruby.” Alma took a glass from the shelf. “You
been crying?”

“Thanks.” She took the glass and poured. “Pastor Payton
seems to have that sort of effect on a lot of people.”

Alma hunched over. “Especially women.” She tried not
to worry about Ruby too much. She just didn’t want to see her
child hurt by anything. “I hear he’s a man who likes to stir up
things.”

Ruby drank. “Um. That hit the spot.”
“Baby, you gonna tell me what you women were meeting
about after the services were over with?” Alma reminded her, “I
can find out, you know.” She smiled her way and gave Ruby a
nosey wink of the eye.
Ruby stirred her finger in the glass. “Ma, we just talked
about change.” She sipped, then gulped. “Ahhhh, sure is hot out
there.” She held the glass against her forehead.
“Change? Where at, honey?” Alma wasn’t surprised to
hear this word come from her daughter’s lips. She was a baby
who had hardly ever cried, except for a bottle.
“At McKay’s,” Ruby said. She sat down at the table and
slapped some toast crumbs away from her arms. This made her
kind of mad.
Alma scratched her nose. “Uh huh.” She turned the water
on at the sink and washed sauce drippings from her nails. “Today
McKay’s, tomorrow the world, huh, Ruby?”
“Ma, don’t laugh at me.” She banged the table and turned
her way. “Don’t take your shit out on me. Just because you
slapped some white woman and got suspended by dem crackers.”
Alma calmly dried off. “Ruby, I ain’t takin’ nothin’ out
on you.” She stared her down at the table. “I just want you to
know what you in for when dem dogs starts ta snapping at your
ass in some picket line.” She leaned down closer in her face.
“Just making sure I ain’t raised some dummy.”
Defiantly, Ruby told her. “Ma, you ain’t raised no
dummy.”
Alma rose. “Well, good then.” She gave her daughter a
hug around the neck. “And I want you to know, I’m with you all
the way.” She rubbed her nose to Ruby’s. “Don’t you forget,
you still my little girl.”
Ruby patted her arm. “I know, Ma.”