|
Volume 24, Numbers 3 & 4 (2000) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum JOSEPHINE KATE NACE DAY* The two sisters, Miss Evelyn and Miss Josephine, were sitting out on the stoop. “Paint,” Josephine repeated when she was told. “What part of the house?” Josephine knew Evelyn had educated ideas. Theories. Evelyn was a librarian and that seemed to make her sure about things. Evelyn called herself a gold-toothed woman, said she was pretty as a poet’s dusk. “The house,” Evelyn answered, “the whole entire surface of the house. To leave my mark.” Josephine said nothing. “Like the Ancient Egyptians,” Evelyn went on. “Ancient Egyptians had only two colors–yellow ocher and sepia red. I mean, other than black and white . . .” Evelyn laughed. Always been black and white. “. . . and it was thousands of years before they found blue and green–even later for purple.” “Paint . . . paint?” Josephine repeated. “The Ancient Egyptians, they believed that the soul would be re-united with the body after death. So they painted pictures of the dead on the walls of the tombs. They painted women pale ocher.” “. . . paint a brick house?” There was only one painted house on Tennessee Avenue, down at the end of the block by Lincoln Park. It was a wooden board house painted white with dark green trim like a proper country house. All the others were brick, red brick houses in a row. Miss Josephine thought of them as city houses. Only people she knew painted city houses were the new whites in Northwest, across in Georgetown. This far out on the Hill, people painted the window trim and if you wanted more color, the front door. Miss Ora Porter down the block in 158, she painted her door a fine blue and the old man across from her, even though he was renting, he stripped that front door and painted it shiny black. Never mind about painted old dead people, white ladies in their painted houses, that’s what Josephine was thinking when she stared back at Evelyn. But the words got caught in her throat. The words vanished. Evelyn sat barefoot and wide, smiling. Her face was round, dark as wood, slick with heat. The purples, blues, and black of night flowed over her face and into her eyes and sometimes spilled down her neck, like water over a worn riverbed, light and sweat catching on the thin gold chain at her neck. “Late summer heat touches you different,” Josephine said softly. And that was all she said. Evelyn was almost twenty years younger, the youngest of thirteen. Besides, she owned the house. In Miss Josephine’s eyes, Evelyn was everything that had never been. The Rainbow Painter came by after church with his clipboard and color squares and sat down at the kitchen table with Evelyn. “. . . one of these bright island yellows,” Daryl suggested, passing along one of his squares. “They’re popular–Caribbean, Jamaican, Martinique ladies, I’ve heard, they wear bright yellow kerchiefs over their hair. The shop ladies in Adams-Morgan say it’s a fashion right now.” Josephine was standing by the sink putting out the last of the sour cream muffins and some cups for coffee, sweet cream and sugar. She placed them on the table in front of Evelyn. Never heard of such a thing as fashion colors, popular yellows, she thought, but she stepped back by the window. “No,” Evelyn said fanning the squares. She held them up to the light and seemed to select a few. Some were shiny, some flat and dull. She rubbed them, fingers moving along, like she was reading a book. Sometimes Josephine thought Evelyn read life. Josephine knew a preacher once who said books were bad. They made you less Christ-conscious. Knew another one who said cities were bad. People didn’t have holy visions in the city, he’d say, visions only in the low country. Rats in the city, that was Josephine’s thought. “That’s buttercup yellow . . .” Daryl reached out, tapping one square and naming the color. Josephine looked at the clock. “I’m going . . .” she said, wiping her hands and carefully folding the towel. “No,” she heard Evelyn say, leaning closer to Daryl. “I don’t think I want flowers. I want an older yellow.” Josephine thought of sunflowers, petunias and roses, jonquils, forsythia. Yellow never came to mind when she thought of Evelyn. Evelyn was plum and blackberries, dark chocolate and smoky vanilla beans. “But, buttercup . . . ,” Daryl went on, “it’s a pale sweet yellow.” “I’m going to work my garden,” Josephine interjected. “You two on your own. More strong coffee here and cold sun-tea. You know to get it.” “A sweet yellow . . . ,” Daryl repeated. “Sweet . . . ,” Evelyn repeated. Josephine moved through. Daryl stood and extended his hand. He wore a short sleeve shirt with a collar and pressed pants. “Sweet buttercups,” Josephine muttered to herself as she unlocked the door to the back porch. “Sweet buttercups, sweet Jesus! Prettier yellows in my garden.” Bonaparte Jones came out onto his back porch, yelling. “What kind of trouble’s that?” He was in his undershirt, but he had his glasses on and he was carrying a baseball bat. He stared down the alley toward Independence. There was a deep bend there, about halfway down, trash and rats and pushers doing their business. Earlier that summer, they stabbed a boy from 13th Place and left him there to die. “. . .’s all right,” Bonaparte called down when the alley was quiet. “All right, Miss Josephine. Just a little child running through.” Josephine looked up. The sky was a dead white and the houses stood out dark against it. The striking heat cast zig-zag patterns of shadow and light. “A child running, by himself?” “Uhn, huhn. A regular brown-braided child. He’s got orange shorts. No shirt, no shoes either.” From low down, she could only see the lemon cucumbers and climbing beans on Bonaparte’s back fence. “What kind of child is that,” she said moving over to the porch steps, “running through that filth with no shoes on? Some kind of hippie child?” Bonaparte took off his glasses and lowered himself onto his top step. His shoes and pants were speckled with paint, all colors and some of it so old he looked like a peeling fence. “A pretty child,” Bonaparte answered after he caught his breath. “Pretty for a man-child, maybe. Somehow, he reminds me of those new dance poems–what they’re doing in the theaters these days–poems and plays in black English. Him running like that, turning the alley into a stage!” Josephine pushed herself straight. Her arms were wet, black, glinting in the sun. “Heat’s got to you, old man. Nothing in the alley but trouble and moony thoughts for old folk like you and me. And with the whites letting the crazy people out, they’ll be in the alleys too and we’ll all be seeing things!” “Enough sizzle,” he laughed, “enough heat to float feathers! Like the man in exile say, couldn’t rouse a single fly! Maybe hot enough to bring on apparitions. I ever tell you about Preacher? That story about Preacher and his apparitions? Preacher was a big man. He fell down right there in the middle of the alley. . .” “I’ve sure no time for street songs,” Josephine said, lifting her shoulders as if to go back to her plants, “. . . those old timey stories. I remember when I first came north before I was living-in. I know! I stayed with Aunt Avey, everybody knew my Aunt Avey. At night, she let me listen at the window. I heard those hurdy-gurdy tenement noises. Snowy’s Alley had dance halls and pool rooms and beer saloons.” “Snowy’s Alley, over by Foggy Bottom . . . ?” “I was young but I heard them–black skinned men and chorus girls. I always liked the simple sounds myself, like Avey’s old iron gate banging to.” “If I remember well enough,” Bonaparte continued, “Snowy’s Alley . . . that’s where Preacher fell down on his knees. One day right there in the middle of a bunch of men spitting out chewing tobacco. It must’ve been winter with the gray light but Preacher fell down on his knees and started swaying, telling people he heard the voice of God. He said he felt the sound of God’s voice, said it felt like diamonds and crystals melting in his throat.” “You go on now,” she called over her shoulder as she began to walk away. “Take your moony thoughts on inside. Can’t you smell fish frying? Wafting out of your kitchen, maybe. I got plants to tend. They got their habits, too, their needs–space, light, food, water. Got to shelter the low from the greedy.” “I’m going, I’m going.” Josephine took a quick look back. Bonaparte had put his glasses down. He was running his hands through his thick white hair. “How come you’re still sitting, then? Think some preacher going to come along, wrap your hair in silver thread to keep it soft? Keep your own temples free, that’s the hard truth.” “Well, I guess I’m thinking about your garden, Miss Josephine. It is looking fine!” Josephine was smiling as she made her way between the wire cones of pole beans. Her garden had been such a homely little patch at first, with vegetables in tidy rows and strawberry pots in the middle of the backyard dirt. But Josephine taught it to breathe, watched it spread from the porch steps to the chain link fence and all across the back right into Bonaparte’s yard. Bonaparte was an artist, and he loved Josephine’s garden. Miss Porter said he loved Josephine, too. He’s the one convinced her to plant her vegetables in clusters and shapes, circles and half-moons. He said she didn’t need to stake her tomatoes. “Just leave them to their own devices,” Bonaparte said. So, she left them to sprawl and clamber, rooting down wherever stem touched the soil. She let her pumpkins and squashes do the same. Bonaparte said her garden was a dense green stream for her feet. “Now before I go in,” he went on, “how about you tell me what’s all this talk about crazy people?” Josephine tucked her tools away and picked up her harvest basket. It was filled with all shades of yellow–squashes and beans, golden boy tomatoes and a few short season onions that were so sugary and wet Josephine was sure they’d taste yellow. She hoisted the basket onto her hip and walked slowly back. “What you hiding there?” Bonaparte asked. “A heap of yellows,” she answered as she sat on the low step, “for Evelyn and her color man.” “. . . yellows?” “Haven’t you heard anything, old man? Evelyn’s planning on painting the house, painting this fine old brick house–yellow–and you the artist! Seems everybody’s gone crazy . . . wouldn’t be room enough in those asylums!” “Miss Josephine, slow down. I can’t make sense of what you’re saying.” “That’s right,” she said. “She’s gonna paint the house yellow in time for the crazy folk!” “Crazy folk?” “That’s what I said! I heard it from my Monday-Friday, that lawyer lady I told you about, the one reminds me of a bird, a noisy white bird, always talking . . .” “. . . crazy folk . . .” “That’s what I’m saying to you. My Monday-Friday said her law office is setting people free, said if you’re not mur-der-ous they can’t keep you in. So, they’re setting them free just like they got out of jail. They’re giving them 200 dollars and a bus ride. Now what’s that person to do? I know . . .” “. . . jail, Josephine? They done nothing wrong. They just be different.” “. . . I told her, I’m not hard but I don’t like raggedy folks in the alleys. I told her they shouldn’t be thinking like that.” The back door creaked open. It was Evelyn. “Eo-ho, did somebody call me?” Bonaparte stood and put his glasses back on. “Well, you sure can hear your name, Miss Evelyn.” Evelyn took the shaded corner of the porch across from Bonaparte. She lifted herself onto the railing, pressed straight against the brick wall, stretched out her legs. Josephine looked up and saw Evelyn’s bare feet–soles the color of dust and toes painted lipstick red. “Folk working their feet flat,” she said up to Bonaparte, “hoping life can be proper. Nothing but barefoot heathens.” Evelyn laughed. “Yes, but we heathens is beautiful–pretty as a poem, aren’t we Bonaparte, pretty as a wild flash!” Bonaparte shook his head, laughing. “It sure is hot out here,” he answered. “Heat enough you couldn’t rouse a fly off a mangy dog!” Evelyn laughed. “Did you know that George Washington was a gardener? Daryl said . . .” “Daryl . . .” Bonaparte repeated, tucking in his chin and looking down to Josephine. “Daryl,” Josephine said quietly. “That’s her color man, the one with the yellow I was telling you about.” “Daryl,” Evelyn went on, “he told me that Washington had wonderful gardens at Mount Vernon. Washington believed in dipping pools, cisterns, open places where the water could warm in the sun. He believed mellow water was better for the plants.” Josephine traced her thumb along the whole length of a yellow squash and back. “The way I see it,” Josephine answered slowly, “a garden is a place to look upon yourself and I don’t believe . . .” “. . . and,” Bonaparte added with a clap of his hands, “she don’t believe she need any George Washington pond for that!” “No,” Evelyn laughed sliding off the railing. “But Josephine could take her shoes off and cool her feet.” Bonaparte walked over, closer to where Evelyn was standing by the railing. He was chewing his cheek, sucking on his one scraggly tooth. He was getting ready for something, Josephine was sure. “Evelyn,” Josephine said quickly. “Take this basket I’m passing up. That’s the best I could do for you and the color man! Now, get them on in before those yellows crack . . . and no more talking about my old feet and my crooked over shoes. I can’t get off my feet to save my soul!” It wasn’t long before others joined her. Two regular women from Seventh Street and a man with woven sandals and a trim hat. They stood silent in the dark. The man started looking at his watch, tapping his thigh with his folded newspaper, a scowl growing on his face. “People got to scuffle to live,” he said. “You know it,” the older woman added. “Walking, riding . . .” “You know it. Always be blue Monday.” Josephine nodded. “Uhn–huhn.” Blue Monday was old timey talk for laundry day. Down South, there were always barefoot women on the dusty roads, washerwomen walking back and forth across the homeplace with heavy bundles of wash balanced high on their heads. Mondays, they did their bluing. Up north, there was the laundress. She was respected, independent. Aunt Avey was a laundress. She lived in her own house and worked out–regular work with good families. She was set. Sometimes, Josephine thought of herself that way. Set. “Here it comes,” the younger announced as the lighted bus appeared. Josephine and the others stood closer to the curb. When they boarded, the two women went to the back. Josephine eyed an empty seat by the window. She squared her pocket book on her lap. Tight by her feet, she tucked the bag that held her workclothes. Evelyn got her bags from good, downtown stores. Josephine called them her freedom bag–freedom from living-in, freedom to work in her own clothes. Some women carried a second bag for toting stuff home–stuff the ladies would give away. Josephine didn’t tote. She tried never to carry anything away. On the bus, there were more fragments of overheard talk. Josephine sat straight and still. She let the halting and flowing of the bus–all the groans and coughs of the engine and brakes, the swooshes of the door at each stop–occupy her mind. Through half-closed eyes she watched the sun rise. The gray shadow of the Capitol rolled by and miles of big blocked buildings, downtown offices and government buildings and museums, all washed white with heat. People got off at every stop, descending into the sunlight, walking slowly down sidestreets and into back entrances. Just clean ordinary folk. Nobody too color struck, no whites. Just ordinary people across from Anacostia and out Prince George’s County. People known by working. Josephine was letting herself in, closing the door tight behind. The bolt dropped into place with a metallic click. Josephine turned, touched the back of her neck. The collar of her dress was damp from the walk up the hill. “Phina?” “Uhn, huhn, that’s me!” she called up from the foot of the stairs as she passed on her way to the kitchen. “Josephine!” Her cash money was waiting on the counter, folded up in an envelop with a handwritten note. She patted the note flat–Do this, don’t forget that, and why not the other! She crossed the kitchen, turned the cellar light on and waited. Her skin was hot and the air coming up was cool. “Dayswork,” she muttered. “Some people just like to tell you what to do even when you know yourself.” “Jo-sugar, why don’t you answer?” The white lady was coming into the kitchen. She was tall and thin-boned with shiny pointed shoes and dark hair, cut short and feathery. “Those bumpy sidewalks!” Josephine explained. “By that fancy grocer–the one’s always out watering his vegetable crates–sidewalks getting worse all the time.” The white lady turned, quickly placed her briefcase on the counter. “I was hoping to talk to you . . .” Josephine looked away with a sigh. All she wanted was to sit. Just for a few minutes, she thought, alone by a window. To see the sky, watch a cloud pass, its brief shadow and silver light. “Monday,” Josephine declared, “Got to change into my work clothes, get that bed stripped, gather up those linens–laundry basket, too. I’ll be listening to my iron hiss and spit all day.” “I need to talk with you,” the lady said in a low voice. “About the house . . .” Josephine looked up. “This house?” “. . . yes, I was wondering if you’ve ever heard voices in the house?” “This house?” she repeated, remembering how the low front porch always settled at her feet. “. . . Phina?” “It’s a simple old house,” Josephine began. “Built low. Might be, old houses are like gardens–they got their habits, their needs. This house, sometimes when I polish the floor the old boards might creak or might be the hinges on the old doors seem to speak.” The lady waved her hand. “I wasn’t referring to noises, not the noises the house might make. I meant something different. Voices.” “Voices? You mean haunts? This house talking?” “Well . . .” Josephine could hear the lady breathing. “Miss, I’m sure I never heard this house breathe a word. Haunts, childstealers . . . houses talking! I don’t believe in any such stuff. You got a bad feeling, you should give yourself a big pinch!” Then, Josephine raised her arm and held her elbow out. “A good pinch, that’s what I do. I only believe what I see.” “No, I appreciate that . . . but, I’ve heard of women wandering the countryside–sunken shadowy women. White women were cast out and black women . . .” Josephine stared down to the bottom of the cellar steps. She could see her shelves and one end of the clothesline. Just four pillow cases, she calculated, maybe only one full set of sheets. That would be good. Sheets took time, care to keep the sheets from dragging on the concrete floor. A proper laundry, she knew, was open to the light with lined cupboards and floors painted and shiny with black and white squares. “Phina, aren’t you listening to me?” “Day’s work ahead, Miss.” “. . . but I heard a voice! A woman’s voice calling for help. I half-expected to see someone standing there and when I looked out the window–and it was so hot–but underneath the trees, the air looked cool–and green–as if a breeze had reached in. There was dirt and bits of crumpled papers swirling like leaves. And there was one red shoe, twisted, hanging by its heel on my back fence.” Josephine sighed, dipped her head. “No such thing, Miss. That shoe probably just belong to one of your escapees, those people you’re setting free. No time to be suffering with what you can’t see. No time to be spending the whole morning talking!” “But, Josephine!” “No point you hovering there,” Josephine answered as the worn planks groaned under weight. “A day’s work ahead!” On the third step down, her bag shifted and her right hip brushed against the powdery brick wall and the air filled with smells of soap and mold and lavender. “No place for a laundry,” she muttered. “Dug down so far even the rats don’t know the sun. Everything else, just a whole lot of nothing.” “They’re my great-grands,” Miss Porter called out. “That’s Meli. My grandson named her–said he wanted her to be free, free-er, faster than any sailing ship. And that’s Bulu and Tawayna running after.” “That’s our apparition, Miss Josephine,” Bonaparte added with a laugh, “that one in front, that’s our barefoot-in-the-alley child! Miss Porter says she’s a girl and an African child, too!” Josephine nodded but kept walking. “An African name,” Miss Porter corrected but Bonaparte was already following Josephine down the block. “I mean you can do things to death! I can tell you, Bulu means blue, but I can’t get hold onto Tawayna.” The Rainbow Painting truck was parked out front of Evelyn’s and there was wooden scaffolding stretched all across the house. Josephine stopped and looked up. High almost at the roof’s peak, was Daryl. He wore white painter’s overalls and Josephine could see his dark muscles slide and shine. “Daryl?” Bonaparte asked, leaning in from behind. Josephine could hear him sucking on his scraggly tooth. “Uhn, huhn, that’s the color man!” Evelyn sashayed down the walk to open the gate. “Eo-ho, Josephine,” Evelyn said, then waved up at the scaffolding and Daryl, waved so hard her hips shook. “God’s architecture! A skeleton, a structure–stretching out like a string of lights. A constellation, maybe. Stars stretched across a endless, immortal color. Everlasting color–color for all time to comprehend.” Bonaparte shook his head, but walked up and took a seat on the stoop. There were more color squares laid out and a book. When Daryl climbed down, he wiped his hands and passed the book to Josephine. “That’s for you,” Daryl said. “It’s a book about ornamental gardening, about planting painted lady beans for a hedge, red and white heart flowers, or clumps of pale lilac sweatpeas, a counterpoint, they call it, to your squashes and tomatoes and . . .” “Heavens, son,” Bonaparte interrupted, “can’t you see? Miss Josephine don’t need any book! Miss Evelyn, maybe that book’s better for you!” Evelyn loved the book, ran her dark fingers all over the pages as she took Daryl inside for some more of Miss Josephine’s sun-tea. The children ran by, the barefoot apparition still in the lead. In time, Miss Porter called them to come in and the street fell quiet. “Those children show some turn, don’t they, Bonaparte?” “They do . . . and, that bare-footed heathen child! Now, Miss Josephine–before Miss Evelyn and the sweet boy get back–you tell me, you see any of those crazy folk, today?” Josephine shook her head. “Don’t be laughing at me, old man!” Bonaparte laughed. “That’s right, that’s right. But, I guess I was just thinking about your day, Miss Josephine! Thinking you looked liked you had yourself a day.” “Nothing,” she answered. “Just a whole lot of nothing. Sometimes makes me wonder where’s all this taking us to.” The light was fading. Bonaparte reached out and patted the stoop between them. His hands were daubed with paint. There was just enough light to see the shiny half-moons of his fingertips. “This dark brick sure feels cool, tonight. Cool against the skin, now don’t it Josephine?” Josephine laughed. “Just cool dark brick. That’s you and me, Miss Josephine. And those wonderings, you know, that’s just the way things are. Like that setting sun–all those blues and purples, hot reds and pinks and melon–just shadows of the day. Every dusk yield to the black sky.” * Professor of Law, Suffolk University Law School. To the people who believed in this story–Marie Ashe, James Elkins, Kenneth French, Russell G. Murphy, Michael Richmond, Dean Robert Smith, E. Grant Spradling, MaryAnn Suehle, and Joy Williams–thank you. |
