The Day's Heat Read online

  So, instead of talking, she found the jar of petroleum jelly in the medicine cabinet, and sitting on first one side and then the other of the recliner, she rubbed his acid-scarred hands with the thick greasy stuff, going around the back of his chair when she moved so as not to block his view. Because he reamed out pipes with acid and crawled under houses, she could sit home in a white robe and hold her new baby.

  He stretched his fingers. “That feels good,” he said. It was the same tone, practically the same words, he used after eating the supper Willie Mae cooked.

  Toward the end of the week, the women’s visits tapered off. The last two afternoons, Lee and Claire had sat in the living room and Willie Mae stood in the kitchen and waited. Finally, with Cassie and Lill, they drank the tea and ate the sweets by themselves. The next morning, Claire with a disappointed expression on her round face, said, “I don’t reckon I need to fix any desserts today.”

  “You want to give Baby Charlie his bath?” Lee offered, in atonement for the malice she’d once felt toward this woman, who now seemed a child whose party invitations were being ignored.

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to,” Claire said. “Just don’t let me drop him.”

  The older woman’s arms trembled as she and Lee lowered the screaming, oiled infant into the sink. But when he was up to his chest in warm water, he settled, looked up to the two faces above him with wondering eyes. Their four hands supported, lathered, and kept the soap from running down his forehead. The two women’s arms pressed against each other, their faces so close that Lee kissed Claire on the cheek. Then they rinsed and dried and powdered the red, wiggling whippet of flesh between them.

  “He’s exactly like his dad, loves his bath,” Claire cooed, and with a new baby brush, the initials CB engraved in the silver plate, swirled the damp black hair into furrows that ended in curls.

  “I only have your ugly old granddaddy and uncle at home to take care of,” Claire baby-talked through the diapering and dressing of Baby Charlie that she did by herself. “You’ll have to come live with me.”

  Even in this new mood of kindness, Lee could not help but make a mental reply: And grow up like that horrible Brother and Charles. I don’t think so.

  Suddenly, surprising herself, not having thought it through, she told Claire she’d not be taking in sewing any longer. “I’ll finish what I’ve promised to do, and that’s that.”

  “I’m glad,” Claire said. “I never liked you working so hard.” Then in negotiation terms, business-like, fulfilling her end of the contract, she added, “I’ll tell Lon. He can start your allowance on Monday.”

  The morning passed and after lunch, Claire left for her bridge club.

  “I don’t want them to play here,” Lee had said without apology, without explanation, when her mother-in-law suggested the game be brought to Lee’s house. The finality of the words, after their closeness, put Claire off, Lee could tell, and confused her mother-in-law, who left for the day.

  But she understands authority, Lee thought, accepts it from her husband and sons, doles it out herself when she has a chance—to Willie Mae—and she can take it from me, too. “I am like a man, in a way,” Lee said out loud and laughed, realizing the depth of the joke since she was nursing Baby Charlie. He stared up at her sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching into a learning half-smile, not releasing the nipple.

  Lee could hear Willie Mae in the hall, dialing, speaking low. Then the phone was hung up, and she was back in the living room, holding her hands across her great stomach, pressing her lips together in a proud, shy smile. Lee expected some leftover gossip, was looking forward to it. During those days with Claire in the house, there’d been no chance of a good gab with Willie Mae, what they’d had before. But instead, Willie Mae announced, “Miss Algebra Williams will be paying you a call, today, Miss Lee.” And as though frightening herself, she added, “Right now!”

  Lee wanted to say, “Oh, just when I thought all the visits were done with,” but didn’t, for Willie Mae was already in the kitchen, the sounds of coffee-making, dishes being filled, trays being arranged, all accompanied by a low, happy hum.

  Lee realized that this was Willie Mae’s guest, her chance to play hostess. And in less than fifteen minutes, the heavy colored woman had two trays on the coffee table, one with the black and gold cups and saucers, the other with a bakery display of goodies, each held in a shell of white paper, a sample of everything she and Claire had cooked for the last week and one of everything the visiting women had brought.

  “I keeps one back in the freezer,” Willie Mae explained the variety, “sometimes two iffen they’s good. The papers, I bought. It’s the way I likes to serve doo-dads.”

  They sat then, silent, like two little girls waiting for the tea party to begin, except for Willie Mae whispering, “Ask Algebra about that woman what was in labor with you. She’ll know how to find out.”

  Algebra Williams, Father Palmer’s housekeeper, wore three-inch blue high heels, a blue and brown printed turban, and a pale-blue shantung dress that draped from the center in folds, adding width and softness to her tall, lean frame. A dress not many women could wear, Lee thought, while Willie Mae played Claire’s part, showing the now-sleeping Charlie in the bassinet, telling his birth weight, smoothing the arch of his back, pulling the blanket down so Algebra could see his scrunched face.

  Then overly formal, Willie Mae placed napkins on their laps, poured Algebra’s coffee and iced tea for Lee and herself, and then sat at the other end of the couch, having at some time during those rushed preparations taken off her apron and stocking cap, washed her face, and put on lipstick.

  “I hear your son resembles you, Miss Lee,” Algebra said, in something near, but not quite, her Detroit voice. “And I see it’s true.”

  “Yes,” Lee answered, adding silently: And you’ve probably heard everything else too: Father Palmer taking me to the hospital and that mix-up with the colored nursery.

  “Baby Charlie takes after the A-rab side of the family,” Willie Mae said unexpectedly, folding her hands in her lap. It was as though his difference from his sisters, his dark hair and skin, were some special talent on the child’s part.

  They sipped the drinks, nibbled the sweets, but there was an uncomfortable playacting quality to every move.

  Willie Mae, still in her role of hostess, said, “My land, ain’t it hot today,” with Algebra responding, “It’s July in South Georgia, what else can one expect?”

  Sooner than she intended, Lee asked, “Is there any way you can find out about a woman having a baby the same day as Baby Charlie was born—or that night; June 28—when I was in labor? There was another woman down the hall begging for pain medication. Her cries for help are still in my mind, they were so terrible. But that evening there was only one baby in the nursery. Mine”—she didn’t say white or black—“and the next day, too.”

  Here, at last, was something all three women could latch on to.

  Algebra stretched her long column of a neck and deliberated. “Well, I do have several close friends who work at the hospital, one on the maternity floor.” A politician enumerating her constituents.

  Willie Mae held her tea glass with a dainty four fingers, the pinkie finger jutting out. “Having babies in a hospital ain’t a good idea—too much sickness. But my girls won’t have theys at home.”

  “Could you please find out?” Lee asked. “It’s worried me crazy. Now it’s almost like a dream. That poor woman begged and begged. I could hear her even when I was in the delivery room.”

  “Was she black or white?” This time Algebra showed no distaste for the word.

  “I don’t have a clue. Maybe white.”

  “Sometimes you can tell from the voice.” One of Algebra’s slanted eyelids drooped in a quick sly wink that somehow changed the air and made up for her grand appearance. “I’ll look into it for you, but why not ask Father Palmer? My friend told me he was up there looking at your baby all the time.”

  Ther
e’s a rhythm to everything, even drinking tea and afternoon conversation, and Lee was glad for the heartbeat of time that sipping the sweet drink gave her. It was the swallowing that took some doing. The tea had to pass down and around a lump in her throat—she almost strangled.

  “Ach,” she coughed and then said, “He came everyday with Father Kennedy to give me Communion. I suppose he went down and looked at the baby afterwards.” Lee knew she was explaining too much and wanted to stop but couldn’t. “I didn’t ask either priest about the other woman. A person’s not supposed to talk after receiving the Blessed Sacrament, you know.” Lee congratulated herself: If you’re quick enough, everything can be bent to a purpose.

  “Of course, I know. That’s the way it should be,” Algebra responded too agreeably, a convert’s concern for ritual. “But I can obtain the information about the other baby. There’s even someone in accounting I could call. That would be the place to start.”

  “It’s been worrying Miss Lee ever since she come home—so kind-hearted, you know. No real kin here in Strickland, you know. But she makes up for it with friends and the people she sews for. You should have seen the heap of folks what have been in this here room to see the baby.” Willie Mae, stopped, breathless, out of information.

  A small nod of Algebra’s fine turbaned head said that this was something she’d been told before. In unison, they sipped, they tasted.

  Silence again that Lee felt she had to break. “Why haven’t St. Jerome’s people gone to Mass at St. Anthony’s this summer?” Lee asked. “You can see it on Father Palmer’s face every Sunday: he’s looking for them, that he’s disappointed.” If Algebra could bring the priest up, uncomfortable topic, so could Lee.

  Again Algebra gave what sounded deliberated, words with spaces between them. “I knew from the very beginning they wouldn’t come. They’re not going to make a change. I told Father Palmer, ‘You’re destroying St. Jerome’s for no good purpose. What’s taken twenty years to build, starting from a shed.’ They haven’t come to the big church all summer, and closing Queen of Peace School in Lakeland this fall will be a mistake, too. They won’t bring their children to the white school.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Lee stammered. “Where will they go? To a public school, an all”—here she stumbled. Strickland’s public schools were not integrated—“to an all-colored school?”

  “It’s exactly what they had in Queen of Peace, except the nuns were white,” Algebra countered.

  “But the public schools here are so far behind.” It was Lee’s weapon against Charles that kept Cassie in St. Anthony’s school in spite of the expensive tuition. “And the colored schools are supposed to be even worse.” There¸ say it right out, what everyone knew and thought.

  “They are, much, much worse,” Algebra agreed, shaking her head. “Teachers without certification; so the school board can pay them whatever they want; too many children in the classes; old equipment, old books, rundown buildings.”

  “And you’re going to let, your son”—Lee couldn’t think of his name—”attend that school?”

  “Oh no,” Algebra answered quickly. “Jason will be in St. Anthony’s this fall, with your daughter. He’ll be in sixth grade. But I’ll wager he’s the only black child there.”

  “Oh, Algebra.” The picture turned inside out, and Lee could see Cassie, pale, alone, at an all-colored school—a bleached-out leaf on a black tide—the way her daughters were at St. Jerome’s, playing on the steps, only without her watching, her protecting.

  “Yes,” Algebra said. “It won’t be easy.”

  “Then why?”

  “Might as well get him used to it—being with whites—I am. I want the best for my child, the best education, all the opportunities. What my people wanted for me.”

  Lee tried to make it better. “I’m sure some other colored children will be going to St. Anthony’s.”

  But Algebra shook her head. “None that I know of.”

  “I can’t believe those children won’t come in from Lakeland, at least a few. How many grades are there? How many students?”

  “Eight grades, fifty-three students.” Algebra seemed to have the figures memorized. She’d said them before somewhere.

  “None of them will drive up here?”

  “Most of their parents drive from here, from Strickland down to Lakeland. They live in Strickland. St. Anthony’s is really closer, but that won’t make any difference.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at it from their side.” Algebra tapped out the reasons with a narrow dark finger in the light palm of her hand. “They live, they work in Strickland. It’s all right for them to send their children off somewhere—we’ve been doing that for years. I spent all my high-school days in Michigan. We can send our children to Lakeland because it’s just an all-black Catholic school, taught by white nuns. But we can’t do it at St. Anthony’s, in an all-white school, where the families send their own children, even if it is Catholic.”

  “Well, they’re doing it in Atlanta, in the public schools, and the change will come to Strickland, too. Times are different now, Algebra.” It was her argument with Father Kennedy. “Things can change! People can change!” Lee turned to Willie Mae, as if to get her backing, but the other colored woman was silent, had started rocking the bassinet even though Baby Charlie was sound asleep.

  “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” Algebra in her patterned turban and slanted eyes could have been an ebony yogi handing down the precepts of some immutable law.

  “You’ll see. There’ll be other colored children at St. Anthony’s. It’ll just take time.”

  “I hope so. I hope I’m wrong, for Father Palmer’s sake, but more so for Sister Ellen’s, now that she’s gone. It’s what she worked so hard for.” Algebra wavered. “But, I know I’m not. I just wish ….”

  “What?” Lee asked, afraid of the answer, her imagination inventing a “death to all whites” response—what she herself would have been tempted to say in Algebra’s place—as a bad joke.

  “Now that it’s too late, I wish we could slow it down some. Give everybody a chance to adjust. Go to white schools if they want, but keep the black ones open, at least for a while.”

  “No, no. That’s that ‘freedom of choice’ thing,” Lee said. “It wouldn’t bring full integration quick enough. We have to push for integration hard.”

  “So they tell me, Lee, so they tell me.” Algebra sounded in her acceptance incredibly like Father Kennedy. “But people don’t push easy.”

  Willie Mae sat quietly through this discussion, except to turn from side to side, look at the other women’s faces as they talked. Then, she suggested a refill of tea or coffee, offered more sweets, which both women refused. After that, the maid shook the bassinet harder, making its white wicker sides creak.

  It was only when Algebra left, while picking up the littered trays, that Willie Mae spoke again. “Algebra Williams is gonna get herself in a heap of trouble. She’s way too uppity! Talk about pushing; she’s the pushy one. Calling you, Lee. I never heerd such.”

  “I don’t mind, Willie. You can call me Lee, too, if you want.”

  “I’d never—never in my life, Miss Lee.” Willie Mae drew in two of her chins, put her hands on her hips, a dark Wagnerian opera singer ready to deliver an aria, but instead gave forth a list of complaints. “You don’t know it, but they’s people what can take a dislike to Miss Algebra Williams, and do—’specially when she wears all that finery, when she don’t call her betters Miss and Mister—and when she goes to calling us black.”

  “Everyone’s saying black now, Willie, not just Algebra. Father Palmer does it from the pulpit.”

  “He don’t know no better—being a priest and all, I mean. But Algebra do.”

  “She didn’t like that word at first. I could tell.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t do it now. Leastways … I’s just so put out with her.” Willie Mae clicked her tongue and flounced from the room, flaps
of arms and rolls of waist and hips quivering.

  “She’s trying to make things better for everybody,” Lee called after the maid.

  Willie Mae looked out from behind the small partition that marked off the kitchen area. “And she’s done it, too, Miss Lee. Me and my girls are beholden. Coulda never have made it without the ironing. But she’s carrying her Yankee ways way too far. Gonna mess it up for everybody.”

  “I think that’s what she was trying to say, Willie.”

  “Well, then stop it somehow.”

  Lee began rocking the bassinet herself even though Baby Charlie hadn’t moved. She rested her head on the wicker edge and whispered across to the sleeping child, “We can’t put the genie back in the bottle, can we?”

  That evening Charles went frog-gigging with Lon and Brother on Barnes Lake. Without him to hold Baby Charlie, who was always cranky at suppertime, the dishes had to be left on the table, and Cassie and Lill had to bathe and dress themselves for bed with Lee following, nursing, giving orders. She had to admit that it really was easier with her husband there, even though all he did was sit in the recliner and hold his son.

  After the girls had been tucked in and kissed, Algebra phoned to say yes, there had been another baby born that same night as Baby Charlie. “Stillborn at 10:36 p.m., exactly,” Algebra said, as though reading from an official document.

  “Oh, I was afraid of that,” Lee said, and squeezed Baby Charlie hard against her breast, so that for a second his complete face was covered, but he kept sucking.

  “You were right,” Algebra confirmed.

  “Then why did everyone pretend not to know?”

  “The woman—I’m told I can’t give out her name—checked in the afternoon before, at 1:40 p.m. So when you were there, she’d already been in labor a full day.”

  “Oh, how terrible! How did she stand it?”

  “Well, it seems she came through. Afterwards, they put her down on the second floor to be away from the other mothers and their babies. She went home the next day, at 11:25 a.m.”