The Red Rose Box (5 page)

“Come in,” I said like a lady. Ruth looked at me out of the corner of one eye.

Mrs. Pittman asked, “Where's your dirty clothes? I'm gonna wash em.”

I told her, “We put em in our travlin bag.”

“They's called suitcases, not travlin bags.” She opened the suitcase, took out the dirty clothes, and told us to take off the lavender dresses because she was going to press them. We did as we were told.

I sat on the bed, a living statue, still as could be, but Ruth, who never knew how to be still, got up, opened the door, and looked after Mrs. Pittman the way folks look after a pretty woman on her way to communion. I told her, “Sit down and be still, like we was told.”

Ruth replied in her sassy way, “Ain't nobody told us to sit still.”

“Stop sayin ain't,” I said.

Ruth frowned. “Didn't nobody tell us to sit down and be still, unless you was hearin things.”

I got weak like a twice-used tea bag and followed Ruth into the hallway.

We could hear Mama and Gramma across the way and we tiptoed over to their door, our ears pressed close. Ruth sneezed and Mama opened the door and asked, “What in the world y'all doin in your underclothes?!”

“Mrs. Pittman took our dresses cuz they was wrinkled. That's why,” I replied.

Mama said, “Come in quick and close the door.”

Gramma was on the bed, slip on, girdle off. The ceiling was painted white but there was pasted-on paper with yellow flowers in bloom everywhere else. I sat on the bed next to Gramma, Ruth in a yellow chair by the window.

Gramma whispered, as if the walls had ears, “Mr. Chapel is a man with a little money.”

I asked, “How much money?”

Mama answered, “He's a well-off man who married Olivia cuz she's beautiful.”

Ruth, smiling like she was being tickled from the inside, said, “He married Olivia cuz he pro'bly see'd her dancing half naked at the Cotton Club.” Then Ruth started dancing around the room like a wild pig and Gramma had a fit.

“Where you heard such nasty nonsense?” she asked Ruth, her voice raised.

Ruth stopped dancing. “Sister Goodnight,” she replied.

Gramma pinched Ruth hard enough to make her scream and told her she was going to have to learn to keep her big mouth shut. That's one thing about Ruth; I loved her but she did have a big mouth.

Mama said, “Olivia never danced half naked.”

Ruth rubbed her behind where Gramma had pinched her.

Someone knocked on the door and Mama said, “Come in.”

Mrs. Pittman opened the door, lavender dresses swinging on two wooden hangers, and said, “Good evenin. Mr. Chapel's home and supper's near ready.”

We followed her back to the pink room and dressed when she excused herself.

Ruth said, “Mr. Chapel must be a white man.”

“No, white cain't marry colored,” I told her. When Ruth asked me why, I told her, “Cuz.”

We sat on the big bed, bouncing, singing silly songs, until Mama turned the glass doorknob, opened the door, poked her head in, and told us, “Come on downstairs with me.” She smiled and said, “You sure are two pretty little gals.” That's what Daddy always called us, pretty little gals.

Mama had on lipstick, stockings, a red dress, and Sister Goodnight's real gold earrings, and Ruth and I looked at her for a while because she had her femininity. It must have been something Olivia's house was full of. Mama walked down the steps with what Elijah would have called a sassy wiggle, me and Ruth on her heels. That was when we saw him.

He was puffing on a fat cigar, sitting in the violet velvet chair, the newspaper in his lap. He, Mr. Chapel, looked up, smiled, and winked at the same time. He was so handsome.

I could tell from looking at him that he had some Indian blood. He had clear, dark, red brown skin, black hair, brown eyes, and a shiny, trimmed black mustache. He stood up, taller than my daddy, like a gentleman should, shook Mama's hand, and introduced himself as Bill, Bill Chapel. I watched and thought that I had never seen my mama, Rita Hopper, look at any man except my daddy the way she was looking at Mr. Bill Chapel. The smooth man Boon crossed my mind.

He let go of Mama's hand, patted the tops of our heads, and said, “Sure is nice to have a house fulla beautiful colored women-folk.”

Aunt Olivia glided in from the dining room, Gramma on her arm, told us dinner was ready, and looked straight into her husband's twinkling eyes. Mr. Bill Chapel took Mama's arm and Aunt Olivia didn't seem to mind. Ruth and I, holding hands again, followed.

The candlelit dining-room table was set with dishes, matching forks, knives, and spoons, water glasses full of cool water, wineglasses waiting to be filled, and ten white roses in a vase, right in the middle. Ruth and I were given seats across from each other and we looked and peeked around those roses, making faces, most of the evening. The plates were white and Ruth picked hers up, admiring her reflection. Gramma pinched her again.

Mrs. Pittman, polite and smiling, came around the table, putting food on our plates, and I felt funny inside, being served.

Mrs. Pittman asked, “Turkey or ham?”

I said, “Turkey and ham.”

I looked at Aunt Olivia, who smiled and said, “You must be hungry after that long train ride.”

Ruth raised her hand and said, “I want ham and turkey too.”

Mr. Chapel said, “Everybody's gonna have ham and turkey, whether they want it or not.” Everyone sitting at the table was smiling, and that was when I knew that money was not the root of all evil like Mama and Miss Lutherine were always saying.

We finished eating, Mrs. Pittman cleared the table without any help from us and gave us each a dish with two scoops of what looked like orange ice cream. Mrs. Pittman saw my question before I could speak and said, “Peach sherbet.”

Ruth looked around the table. “My nose itches. I smell peaches. Somebody's coming with a hole in his britches.” I was waiting for Gramma to pinch her again, but Gramma kept smiling as the silver spoon carried the orange delight to her lips.

I spilled my last spoonful of sherbet on the front of my dress and excused myself from the table, the way Daddy always made us do. I walked up the stairs, through the pink room, into the pink bathroom, and tried to wash the stain from my dress. I scrubbed until the stain was as gone as it was going to be, used the indoor toilet, sat on the bed, and looked around the room. I sat quietly, thinking that I didn't want to ever leave this house with the big bed, fifteen steps, and white roses.

I was still thinking when Ruth came in and told me that she had been sent to bed.

“What you did?” I asked.

“Nuthin,” Ruth replied.

“I don't hardly believe you,” I said.

I looked at Ruth, her golden eyes, the dark skin, her rust-colored hair, and shook my head. Ruth smiled, knowing I knew the truth, went into the bathroom, put the stopper in the drain, and started running the water. I opened the red rose box, found the lavender bubble water, took the bottle into the bathroom, and poured two capfuls under the running water just like it said.

I told Ruth, “You take a bath first and be careful not to get your hair wet cuz it's gonna go back if you do.” I went to get my scarf and when I came back Ruth was in the tub, bubbles everywhere.

My sister, Ruth Louise, always had a good time. From the time when she was just a little something, no matter what, even after a whipping, Ruth came in smiling. We were different. Always would be.

I sat on the floor, waiting my turn, but Ruth stayed in the tub so long that I nearly fell asleep and forgot about taking a bath. Ruth got out of the tub and said, “Leah, you ought not go to bed stinkin cuz the sheets is clean.”

Ruth wrapped a pink towel around her, looked at herself in the mirror, smiled, and walked out of the bathroom like she was some kind of Mardi Gras queen or Cleopatra.

I had one foot in Ruth's dirty water when she peeked in and said, “Mr. Chapel got enuf water for bout seventeen tubs.” I got in her water anyway. There were still plenty of bubbles.

I washed good, even my ears. There was a ring in the tub when the water finished draining, so I put soap on the washcloth and wiped it clean. I put on my white cotton nightgown, clean underpants, and the hundred percent silk bed jacket. When I went into the bedroom, Ruth was asleep at the foot of the bed. I went to the other side, turned back the sheet, took off the bed jacket, folded it neatly, and put it on the night table. I kneeled by the side of the bed and asked God to take care of my daddy and to send me a husband like Mr. Chapel. I made the sign of the cross, got into bed, put my head on the pillow, and the sandman took me.

 

 

 

W
hen I opened my eyes, Ruth was staring at me, her broad nose touching mine. I almost forgot where I was. Ruth stood up, shook her narrow hips, and said, “Little Leah Hopper, sittin in a saucer. Rise, Leah, rise. Wipe your winkin eyes.”

“Weepin, not winkin,” I corrected her.

“So, it don't matter none no way,” Ruth replied.

I got up, went to the window, and looked outside. The sun was barely up and the sky was half lit like a room with one candle. I told Ruth to go back to bed.

She said, “No. I smell bacon, biscuits, and somethin sweet.”

I didn't have to take a deep breath to know she was right because my sister, Ruth, had a nose for food. She could stand outside any kitchen and name every dish about to be put on the table. Collard greens, corn bread, every kind of gravy, red beans and rice, fried cabbage, catfish, bread pudding, oxtail soup, black-eyed peas and neck bones, grits, okra gumbo, or peach cobbler. Ruth knew.

I put on my bed jacket and pink slippers and opened the door, leading the way, Ruth behind me. We walked down the steps, through the dining room, right up to the swinging kitchen door, pushed it opened just to peek, and saw Mrs. Pittman cutting biscuits from dough with the rim of the glass, like Mama did. Mrs. Pittman turned around, saw my eyes, and welcomed us into her kitchen.

She sat us down, gave us each a cup of cold milk, two warm biscuits with butter and peach preserves, and said, “Mr. Chapel fancies peaches.”

She was humming a tune I'd heard Sister Goodnight sing, about bringing in the sheaves, and told us to bless our food. I blessed my food, wondering what sheaves were, butter dripping everywhere.

Ruth asked, “How come Mr. Chapel got a little money?”

“Mr. Chapel was the chauffeur for a rich white man,” Mrs. Pittman said. “Then he got rich hisself when he bought up property after the depression for a dollar here, another dollar there. When his first wife died from tuberculosis, every single highfalutin woman from here to New York was on his doorstep, knockin loud for bout two years. He didn't pay most of em no never mind till he ran into Mrs. Chapel at one of his apartments where she was lookin to rent.” Mrs. Pittman kept talking. “He been a happy man since that October evenin when he came into the house whistlin ‘Honeysuckle Rose.' Now Mr. Chapel and Mrs. Chapel work together. They call it Chapel and Chapel Real Estate.”

The last word was barely out of her mouth when Mr. Chapel came into the kitchen through the swinging door, asking for coffee with cream. He saw us, smiled, and asked, “How the little ladies doin?”

We replied, “Fine,” and smiled back at Mr. Bill Chapel and then at each other.

He drank his coffee standing up and said good-bye. I went to the window to look after him. He got in his car and drove off.

Ruth asked for some bacon and Mrs. Pittman let her have a piece. She must have read my mind because she gave me a piece too, thick rind and all.

Mrs. Pittman smiled, put the last pan of biscuits in the oven, and started scrambling eggs. She put eggs, fried potatoes, and two slices of bacon on our plates. She gave us more biscuits, poured us some orange juice, and said she was going to fatten us up.

She was still smiling and grinning, grinning and smiling when Mama and Gramma came through the door, nostrils wide open from the smell of food that had filled the house.

Gramma said, “The smell of melted butter on hot biscuits woke us.” She wiped the sleep from her eyes and yawned without covering her mouth, and Mama nudged her. Gramma continued, “I'm gonna need some real strong coffee, two cups, if I gotta put up with Rita under the same roof as me for two weeks.”

“Where's Olivia?” Mama asked, letting Gramma's words fly by.

Mrs. Pittman replied quietly like a church whisper, “Mrs. Chapel don't eat no breakfast since she lost her babies, two in a row.”

We all stopped eating. Mama and Gramma stared into the hiding places of each other's eyes. Then Mrs. Pittman said, “Doctor said she can't have no more. Not even to try is what he made Mr. Chapel promise. Stillborn, first a boy, then a girl ... beautiful children ... but none of the Lord's breath was in em.”