Celeste's Harlem Renaissance (6 page)

“Did you know a man named Thomas Day? He made furniture, too. We have one of his sideboards in our parlor.”

“I never knew him, but I know his work. Now, he’s what you call a
real
furniture maker. He’s a famous man.”

I tucked the puppet in with Dede where she’d be safe. “I’ll call her Miss Pinetar,” I said.

My stomach growled. Mrs. Smithfield had fixed two thick slices of country ham, buttered yam cubes wrapped in collard green leaves, two boiled eggs, two corn bread squares, two slices of pecan pie, an orange — and six beautiful candy Easter eggs! She hadn’t forgotten me. I ate one piece of ham, a few yam cubes, one piece of corn bread, just half of one slice of pie, and the blue Easter egg. I gave a red Easter egg and the other half of pie to Mr. Smalls, along with a penny postcard with Aunt Valentina’s address. He promised to write. I could share his card with the Butterflies, too — if he wrote.

After that full meal, I fell asleep. When I woke up, Mr. Smalls was gone. Now a young woman with a hundred bags was crunched against me. How did she do that and me not hear her? But what I noticed most was that she had long, straight, thick black hair and smelled like vanilla.

She smiled at me and touched her hair. “Like it?” she asked in a friendly way. I nodded, wishing mine looked like that. “Mine was short like yours, until I began using Madam C. J. Walker products. Then it grew faster than the grass in my momma’s backyard.”

“Who’s Madam C. J. Walker?” I asked, still staring.

“Madam was a businesswoman. She showed Colored women how to take better care of our hair. I’m Almadene Hardy, by the way. I’m a Madam C. J. Walker agent. I sell Walker products and train other women to be agents, too.”

I told her my name. She showed me pictures of Mrs. Walker: one with her hair as short as mine, and one with her hair down her back; she showed me a picture of Mrs. Walker’s business in Indianapolis, Indiana. “And here she is in her Model T Ford. She also had a mansion in Harlem. This Colored lady was a millionaire! She passed on in 1919, and we miss her so, but we keep her company alive. She personally trained me in the Walker hair care method.”

“My momma died in January 1919,” I whispered. “I wish I could get my hair to grow again. Momma said my hair was soft and needed special treatment. She kept it long and sweet-smelling. But she — Then my aunt started washing my hair with lye soap, caking it down with lard, and yanking the comb through my hair. The comb ended up with more of my hair than my head.”

Mrs. Hardy shook her head sympathetically. Then she handed me two small jars. “This shampoo and salve will help. And this sheet teaches you how to care for your hair and scalp.”

“Oh, thank you! Maybe you’ll write and send me more information.” I wrote my name and Aunt Va-lentina’s address on a penny postcard and handed it to her.

She looked at the card. “One Hundred Thirty-sixth Street? That’s the same street as the Walker salon,” Mrs. Hardy said. “Maybe your aunt’ll take you in for treatments now and then.”

My face lit up. “It’s a blessing to have met you,” I told her, “which is what Momma said when she met nice people.”

“Same to you,” Mrs. Hardy replied.

After a while Mr. Smithfield appeared. “Washington, Washington, D.C., coming round the curve. Everybody gets off to make their next connection.” He lowered his voice. “Miss Celeste, you too. I’ll show you to the next train. You sit down on a bench inside close by.”

My heart beat fast and my tummy repeated its pretzel twists. More strangers! I collected my schoolbag, my violin, and my lunch basket. Mr. Smithfield said he’d get my valise. Mrs. Hardy and I followed the other Colored folks down the steps, off the train, and into a bigger wave of people pushing, walking, and hurrying into the station. I felt like that tiny boat in the balloon story, being swept out to sea.

“I’ll wait a bit here with you till the porter comes,” Mrs. Hardy said, and I appreciated that. We sat on the bench, watching for Mr. Smithfield. But after several minutes, when he didn’t show, she stood up. “I’ve got to go, Celeste. Don’t talk to anybody, and keep close watch over your things. Maybe I’ll come see you when I get to New York.”

“Thank you for staying with me, ma’am. I hope to see you again,” I whispered. “I really liked talking to you.” As she turned to leave, I tried to think of something to keep her with me longer. “How often should I wash my hair?”

“At least twice a month. Read the sheets. Good-bye, honey!” She and her bags vanished into the crowd.

Sitting on the bench with my violin and my schoolbag clutched to my chest, my lunch basket hanging heavy on my arm, and my coat smothered around me, I felt like a slab of beef squashed between two thick bread and tomato slices. Seemed like all the people racing to and from the trains stared at me. Like that man in overalls by Gate A. Seemed like he’d been watching me ever since Mrs. Hardy left.

After forever, Mr. Smithfield arrived with my valise. “See that clock on the wall there? Your train is due in ten minutes. I’ll be right back. Then you can go refresh yourself and get ready for the next go-round. All right?”

“Can’t I come with you?”

Mr. Smithfield shook his head. “I got work to do.” He smiled broadly, then removed a large gray metal whistle from his coat pocket. “Anybody try to bother you, blow! People’ll come help.”

I pulled the Walker hair jars from my coat pockets, tucked them into my valise, and dropped the whistle into my coat pocket, sighing. If somebody got after me, I’d be too afraid to blow that thing. Trains rolled in and out of the station with great thuds, roars, and grindings that kept me jumping. Men wheeling food carts yelled out what they had for sale. Everything but the clock’s minute hand moved quickly. Suddenly I was thirsty. I glanced around for a Colored water fountain. When I turned back around, that man in the overalls stood right beside me! I jumped and gasped.

“Lemme carry your bag,” he said, showing his yellow teeth. Brown stubble covered his pale face. He smelled like sour cabbage. He grabbed for my valise, but I clawed at it. He snatched at Dede’s case and broke the strap. Dede crashed to the floor. He seized my schoolbag, but I kicked him in the shin. Swearing, he jerked my valise out of my hands and pulled my lunch basket off my arm, knocking me off the bench onto the floor, and left.

“Help, somebody! Mr. Smithfield!” I shouted, finally finding my voice. I scrambled around on the floor with scratched, stinging knees and an aching shoulder, grabbing my schoolbag and violin case, confused and terrified. My only picture of Momma, me, and Poppa together; my Bible; my clothes; the Walker salves; my food — gone! I finally thought to blow the whistle.

An elderly lady limped over to me. “Girlie, you all right?” she asked.

“That man — he stole everything!” I screamed. I saw Mr. Smithfield rushing to me. “My Bible, my —”

“What happened? What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I saw that low-down scum steal her things,” the woman cried. “Who left this chile out here by herself? Where’s her people? Porter, call the police!”

Mr. Smithfield banged his hands together angrily, then shook his head. “Cece, are you hurt? I’ll take a look at your knees in a minute. That scoundrel’s gone for good. Right now I got to get you onto the next train before it pulls out. I —”

“But my things! He —”

“Come on now, Cece. I know it’s bad, honey, but you got to come on.”

Tears surged down my face. When I wrote my poem about life being a test, I didn’t mean terrible things were supposed to happen to me. I was flunking this test! I stumbled after Mr. Smithfield. I couldn’t wait to leave Washington, D.C.

Chapter
Five

M
r. Smithfield steered me toward the car that would carry me on to New York. “Bad things can’t be stopped sometimes,” he said. “That ole devil waits around every bush to steal our joy. Just be glad you didn’t get hurt worse than you did. Look, I’ll round you up something more to eat right quick.”

“But can’t you keep looking? Maybe that robber threw away Poppa’s bag when he didn’t find money in it.”

“I’ll scout around but I don’t expect to find it. If he threw it down, probably somebody else picked it up. Now you sit tight and I’ll be right back.”

“What if another robber comes and pesters me? Can’t you please stay with me?”

“I can’t go look and stay at the same time,” he said. “Use that whistle.”

I sat down until he left the car, then I stood back up with the whistle in my mouth, trembling. The cold wind whipped around my legs like it thought it was still outside. What if that awful devil was hiding in here, waiting to steal the little bit I had left? Or a hobo slipped on and grabbed my schoolbag and Dede?
Dear Lord and Dear Momma, watch over me. Pray for angels and watch out for devils. Robbers, stay away!

In a few minutes a woman got on, then a few more people. Several smiled at me. I sat down, but kept the whistle clenched between my teeth until I felt too silly, and took it out. Mr. Smithfield brought me a chunk of cheese, a fork, a can of sardines, half an apple, and water in a tin cup. He said he checked some trash buckets but didn’t see any of my things. “Stay warm. It’ll keep getting colder. You’re goin’ north, baby! You might even see snow.”

Snow? I had only seen snow in Raleigh a few times. When I had walked in it, my feet had nearly frozen, even though I’d stuffed rags into my shoes. As I munched on the sardines, and shivered, I thought about my other pairs of heavy stockings and my old gray woolen bonnet in the valise. I wished I had put on the stockings and the bonnet, but it was too late now. What would Aunt Valentina think when she saw me with only the clothes I was wearing, bad breath, and messy hair? Wouldn’t a fancy entertainer like her be scandalized to be seen with raggedy, smelly me?

I didn’t have a brush or comb, talcum powder, or even salt to rinse my mouth. I hadn’t packed any herbs in my schoolbag for sour breath. My scratched knees burned under my torn stockings, and my shoulder hurt. Poppa would say I was a case! My eyes teared up, thinking of him. He’d be so upset when he heard. At least I still had my schoolbag and Dede. If that stinky scoundrel had stolen my writing things and Dede, I think I’d have had to give up the ghost and die right there in the train.

Well, I knew one thing. I wasn’t going to leave my seat again until I reached New York. I didn’t care what Mr. Smithfield said. Nobody’d steal anything else from me, either. I’d stab them with the fork first.

Like little mousey me could stab someone! That made me laugh.

The train finally rumbled off for Baltimore. We stopped at several stations but I didn’t move. I finally warmed up enough to doze off a little. I don’t remember where the train stopped next, but I woke up with a change of mind about leaving my seat. I signaled Mr. Smithfield and he motioned to a woman sitting a few seats ahead of me to take me to the outhouse.

When I got back, I asked Mr. Smithfield how big Harlem was. “Big, honey, big. So big Harlem could swallow up Raleigh and still be starving,” he told me. “But you got to step lively so hooligans won’t steal from you like that man did. Most are fine people. So enjoy the music, walk fast, and eat lots of down-home Harlem food.”

I nodded at his words and warnings. Sounded like I’d be looking for the
Brownies’ Book
office a long time. I thought of Aunt Society’s predictions about factory sweatshops and hog slop, too. Besides open manholes, now I’d have to watch for thieves. The old bat had warned me about staying away from strangers, even in Raleigh. I’d been trying to do that all along, but what if these crazy people up here wouldn’t stay away from
me
?
Pray for the best, Miss Celeste,
I told myself. The closer we chugged toward New York, the harder I prayed.

We stopped somewhere when the train broke down, and stayed there several hours. Finally we headed out again. We stopped
again
and stayed put for several more hours. My neck was about to break trying to hold up my head. Next thing I knew, Mr. Smithfield was shaking my shoulder to wake me up. New York! Harlem station! On wobbly legs I followed Mr. Smithfield down the train steps. The cold wind slapped me in the face. “I don’t see your aunt,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You see her? Maybe she got caught up in traffic.” He stopped a pretty lady in a fur coat and pointed to me. She shook her head. He stopped some other women, too, but none of them were Aunt Valentina. He told me to sit down on a nearby bench, and against my better judgment, I did. Cold again, I watched for ugly men in overalls who smelled like cabbage.

Where was she? Had she changed her mind? What if she didn’t show up at all? I felt like sinking into the platform floor, but that was too much like falling into a manhole, so I sat up straight.

Mr. Smithfield returned this time with a bent-over woman in an expensive-looking red wool coat with a white lambs’ hair collar, and a matching large red hat. The woman gazed at me, then enveloped me into her coat in a tight hug. She smelled like her familiar lemonade and cherries. Yes, here was Aunt Valentina! But why was she so crooked? “My beautiful Celeste!”

“You’re here! I —”

“Oh, good, you brought your violin,” she went on in her soft, sweet voice that was always so comforting. “We’ll make good music together.” When she turned me loose and stared into my face, I gasped. For an instant I thought I saw my mother. “Where’s your other bags?”

Before I could explain how a robber stole my things when Mr. Smithfield left me on a bench, Mr. Smithfield told his version about how he had had to take care of his passengers and couldn’t stay with me, when the thief attacked. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Aunt Valentina said as she hooked her arm through Mr. Smithfield’s, and took me by the hand. “But we’ll take care of everything. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.”

“He hurt my shoulder, and when —”

“I imagine you’ll have to get back to work now, Alton,” Aunt Valentina broke in. “Or are you free for a while?”

Mr. Smithfield peered down at my aunt with a toothy smile on his face. “Well, I do have some free time before I head on,” he said.

She handed him a small piece of paper. “Please contact me next time you’re in town,” she said. By now we had reached the station entrance. “As much as I’d love to invite you to my, uh, home, Cece and I have some pressing engagements to attend to.”