The Bluest Eye

by

Toni Morrison

Editing note:

This book is impossible to rate. While reading you will encounter

text that runs all together this is not a scanning error or an

editing error rather it is the way the book was written.

You will also notice numerus grammatical and spelling errors

again not all of these are in fact errors but the way in which

the characters speak.

Finally this book is for mature readers. It is explicit and has

subject matter that some may find offensive, however it is

realistic and portrays a life that most of us cannot understand

or relate to.

Last printing: 04/23/02

`:192’ HOLT, RINEHART AND WINSTON New York

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book

or portions thereof in any form

Published simultaneously in Canada by Holt, Rinehart and Winston

of Canada, Limited

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 79-117270 Published,

October, 1970

345678910

Designed by Richard-Gabriel Rummonds

ISBN: P-1567-rinted in the United States of America

To the two who gave me life and the one who made me free

Here is the house. It is green and white. It has a red door. It

is very pretty. Here is the family. Mother, Father, Dick, and

Jane live in the green-and-white house. They are very happy. See

Jane. She has a red dress She wants to play. Who will play with

Jane? See the cat. It goes meow-meow.  Come and play. Come play

with Jane. The kitten will not play. See Mother. Mother is very

nice. Mother, will you play with Jane? Mother laughs. Laugh,

Mother, laugh. See Father. He is big and strong.  Father, will you

play with Jane? Father is smiling. Smile, Father, smile. See the

dog. Bowwow goes the dog. Do you want to play with Jane? See the

dog run. Run, dog, run. Look, look. Here comes a friend. The

friend will play with Jane. They will play a good game. Play,

Jane, play.

Here is the house it is green and white it has a red door it is

very pretty here is the family mother father dick and jane live

in the green-and-white house they are very happy see jane she has

a red dress she wants to play who will play with jane see the cat

it goes meow-meow come and play come play with jane the kitten

will not play see mother mother is very nice mother will you play

with jane mother laughs laugh mother laugh see father he is big

and strong father will you play with jane father is smiling smile

father smile see the dog bowwow goes the dog do you want to play

do you want to play with jane see the dog run run dog run look

look here comes a friend the friend will play with jane they will

play a good game play jane play

Hereisthehouseitisgreenandwhiteithasareddooritisveryprettyhereisthefa

milymotherfatherdickandjaneliveinthegreenandwhitehousetheyareveryh

appyseejaneshehasareddressshewantstoplaywhowillplaywithjaneseetheca

titgoesmeowmeowcomeandplaycomeplaywithjanethekittenwillnotplays

eemothermotherisverynicemotherwillyouplaywithjanemotherlaughslau

ghmotherlaughseefatherheisbigandstrongfatherwillyouplaywithjanefatherissmilingsmILefathersmileseethedogbowwowgoesthedogdoyouwantto

playdoyouwanttoplaywithjaneseethedogrunrundogrunlooklookherecom

esafriendthefriendwillplaywithjanetheywillplayagoodgameplayjaneplay

Quiet as it’s kept, there were no marigolds in the fall 1941. We

thought, at the time, that it was because Pecola was having her

father’s baby that the marigolds did not grow. A little

examination and much less melancholy would have proved to us that

our seeds were not the only ones that did not sprout; nobody’s

did. Not even the gardens fronting the lake showed marigolds that

year. But so deeply concerned were we with the health and safe

delivery of Pecola’s baby we could think of nothing but our own

magic: if we planted the seeds, and said the right words over

them, they would blossom, and everything would be all right. It

was a long time before my sister and I admitted to ourselves that

no green was going to spring from our seeds. Once we knew, our

guilt was relieved only by fights and mutual accusations about

who was to blame. For years I thought my sister was right: it was

my fault. I had planted them too far down in the earth. It never

occurred to either of us that the earth itself might have been

unyielding. We had dropped our seeds in our own little plot of

black dirt just as Pecola’s father had dropped his seeds in his

own plot of black dirt. Our innocence and faith were no more

productive than his lust or despair. What is clear now is that of

all of that hope, fear, lust, love, and grief, nothing remains

but Pecola and the unyielding earth. Cholly Breedlove is dead;

our innocence too. The seeds shriveled and died; her baby too.

There is really nothing more to say—except why. But since why is

difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how.

Autumn

Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men with sober eyes sing

in the lobby of the Greek hotel. Rosemary Villanucci, our

next-door friend who lives above her father’s cafe, sits in a

1939 Buick eating bread and butter. She rolls down the window to

tell my sister Frieda and me that we can’t come in. We stare at

her, wanting her bread, but more than that wanting to poke the

arrogance out of her eyes and smash the pride of ownership that

curls her chewing mouth. When she comes out of the car we will

beat her up, make red marks on her white skin, and she will cry

and ask us do we want her to pull her pants down. We will say no.

We don’t know what we should feel or do if she does, but whenever

she asks us, we know she is offering us something precious and

that our own pride must be asserted by refusing to accept. School

has started, and Frieda and I get new brown stockings and

cod-liver oil. Grown-ups talk in tired, edgy voices about Zick’s

Coal Company and take us along in the evening to the railroad

tracks where we fill burlap sacks with the tiny pieces of coal

lying about. Later we walk home, glancing back to see the great

carloads of slag being dumped, red hot and smoking, into the

ravine that skirts the steel mill. The dying fire lights the sky

with a dull orange glow. Frieda and I lag behind, staring at the

patch of color surrounded by black. It is impossible not to feel

a shiver when our feet leave the gravel path and sink into the

dead grass in the field. Our house is old, cold, and green. At

night a kerosene lamp lights one large room. The others are

braced in darkness, peopled by roaches and mice. Adults do not

talk to us—they give us directions. They issue orders without

providing information. When we trip and fall down they glance at

us; if we cut or bruise ourselves, they ask us are we

crazy. When we catch colds, they shake their heads in disgust at

our lack of consideration. How, they ask us, do you expect

anybody to get anything done if you all are sick? We cannot

answer them. Our illness is treated with contempt, foul Black

Draught, and castor oil that blunts our minds. When, on a day

after a trip to collect coal, I cough once, loudly, through

bronchial tubes already packed tight with phlegm, my mother

frowns. “Great Jesus. Get on in that bed. How many times do I

have to tell you to wear something on your head? You must be the

biggest fool in this town. Frieda? Get some rags and stuff that

window.” Frieda restuffs the window. I trudge off to bed, full of

guilt and self-pity. I lie down in my underwear, the metal in my

black garters hurts my legs, but I do not take them off, for it

is too cold to lie stockingless. It takes a long time for my body

to heat its place in the bed. Once I have generated a silhouette

of warmth, I dare not move, for there is a cold place one-half

inch in any direction. No one speaks to me or asks how I feel. In

an hour or two my mother comes. Her hands are large and rough,

and when she rubs the Vicks salve on my chest, I am rigid with

pain. She takes two fingers’ full of it at a time, and massages

my chest until I am faint. Just when I think I will tip over into

a scream, she scoops out a little of the salve on her forefinger

and puts it in my mouth, telling me to swallow. A hot flannel is

wrapped about my neck and chest. I am covered up with heavy

quilts and ordered to sweat, which I do—promptly. Later I throw

up, and my mother says, “What did you puke on the bed clothes

for? Don’t you have sense enough to hold your head out the bed?

Now, look what you did. You think I got time for nothing but

washing up your puke?” The puke swaddles down the pillow onto the

sheet—green-gray, with flecks of orange. It moves like the

insides of an uncooked egg. Stubbornly clinging to its own mass,

refusing to break up and be removed. How, I wonder, can it be so

neat and nasty at the same time? My mother’s voice drones on. She

is not talking to me. She is

talking to the puke, but she is calling it my name: Claudia. She

wipes it up as best she can and puts a scratchy towel over the

large wet place. I lie down again. The rags have fallen from the

window crack, and the air is cold. I dare not call her back and

am reluctant to leave my warmth. My mother’s anger humiliates me;

her words chafe my cheeks, and I am crying. I do not know that

she is not angry at me, but at my sickness. I believe she

despises my weakness for letting the sickness “take holt.” By and

by I will not get sick; I will refuse to. But for now I am

crying. I know I am making more snot, but I can’t stop. My sister

comes in. Her eyes are full of sorrow. She sings to me: “When the

deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls, someone thinks of me.

…” I doze, thinking of plums, walls, and “someone.” But was it

really like that? As painful as I remember? Only mildly. Or

rather, it was a productive and fructifying pain. Love, thick and

dark as Alaga syrup, eased up into that cracked window. I could

smell it—taste it—sweet, musty, with an edge of wintergreen in

its base—everywhere in that house. It stuck, along with my

tongue, to the frosted windowpanes. It coated my chest, along

with the salve, and when the flannel came undone in my sleep, the

clear, sharp curves of air outlined its presence on my throat.

And in the night, when my coughing was dry and tough, feet padded

into the room, hands repinned the flannel, readjusted the quilt,

and rested a moment on my forehead. So when I think of autumn, I

think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die.

It was autumn too when Mr. Henry came. Our roomer. Our roomer.

The words ballooned from the lips and hovered about our

heads—silent, separate, and pleasantly mysterious. My mother was

all ease and satisfaction in discussing his coming. “You know

him,” she said to her friends. “Henry Washington. He’s been

living over there with Miss Delia Jones on Thirteenth Street. But

she’s too addled now to keep up. So he’s looking for another

place.”

“Oh, yes.” Her friends do not hide their curiosity. “I been

wondering how long he was going to stay up there with her. They

say she’s real bad off.  Don’t know who he is half the time, and

nobody else.” “Well, that old crazy nigger she married up with

didn’t help her head nonq.” “Did you hear what he told folks when

he left her?” “Uh-uh. What?” “Well, he run off with that trifling

Peggy—from Elyria. You know.” “One of Old Slack Bessie’s girls?”

“That’s the one. Well, somebody asked him why he left a nice good

church woman like Delia for that heifer. You know Delia always

did keep a good house. And he said the honest-to-God real reason

was he couldn’t take no more of that violet water Delia Jones

used. Said he wanted a woman to smell like a woman. Said Delia

was just too clean for him.” “Old dog. Ain’t that nasty!” “You

telling me. What kind of reasoning is that?” “No kind. Some men

just dogs.” “Is that what give her them strokes?” “Must have

helped. But you know, none of them girls wasn’t too bright.

Remember that grinning Hattie? She wasn’t never right. And their

Auntie Julia is still trotting up and down Sixteenth Street

talking to herself.” “Didn’t she get put away?” “Naw. County

wouldn’t take her. Said she wasn’t harming anybody.” “Well, she’s

harming me. You want something to scare the living shit out of

you, you get up at five-thirty in the morning like I do and see

that old hag floating by in that bonnet. Have mercy!” They laugh.

Frieda and I are washing Mason jars. We do not hear their words,

but with grown-ups we listen to and watch out for their voices.

“Well, I hope don’t nobody let me roam around like that when I

get senile. It’s a shame.” “What they going to do about Delia?

Don’t she have no people?” “A sister’s coming up from North

Carolina to look after her. I expect she wants to get aholt of

Delia’s house.” “Oh, come on. That’s a evil thought, if ever I

heard one.” “What you want to bet? Henry Washington said that

sister ain’t seen Delia in fifteen years.” “I kind of thought

Henry would marry her one of these days.” “That old woman?”

“Well, Henry ain’t no chicken.” “No, but he ain’t no buzzard,

either.” “He ever been married to anybody?” “No.” “How come?

Somebody cut it off?” “He’s just picky.” “He ain’t picky. You see

anything around here you’d marry?” “Well … no.” “He’s just

sensible. A steady worker with quiet ways. I hope it works out

all right.” “It will. How much you charging?” “Five dollars every

two weeks.” “That’ll be a big help to you.” “I’ll say.”

Their conversation is like a gently wicked dance: sound meets

sound, curtsies, shimmies, and retires. Another sound enters but

is upstaged by still another: the two circle each other and stop.

Sometimes their words move in lofty spirals; other times they

take strident leaps, and all of it is punctuated with warm-pulsed

laughter—like the throb of a heart made of jelly. The edge, the

curl,

the thrust of their emotions is always clear to Frieda and me. We

do not, cannot, know the meanings of all their words, for we are

nine and ten years old. So we watch their faces, their hands,

their feet, and listen for truth in timbre. So when Mr. Henry

arrived on a Saturday night, we smelled him. He smelled

wonderful. Like trees and lemon vanishing cream, and Nu Nile Hair

Oil and flecks of SenSen. He smiled a lot, showing small even

teeth with a friendly gap in the middle. Frieda and I were not

introduced to him—merely pointed out. Like, here is the

bathroom; the clothes closet is here; and these are my kids,

Frieda and Claudia; watch out for this window; it don’t open all

the way. We looked sideways at him, saying nothing and expecting

him to say nothing. Just to nod, as he had done at the clothes

closet, acknowledging our existence. To our surprise, he spoke to

us. “Hello there. You must be Greta Garbo, and you must be Ginger

Rogers.” We giggled. Even my father was startled into a smile.

“Want a penny?” He held out a shiny coin to us. Frieda lowered

her head, too pleased to answer. I reached for it. He snapped his

thumb and forefinger, and the penny disappeared. Our shock was

laced with delight. We searched all over him, poking our fingers

into his socks, looking up the inside back of his coat. If

happiness is anticipation with certainty, we were happy. And

while we waited for the coin to reappear, we knew we were amusing

Mama and Daddy. Daddy was smiling, and Mama’s eyes went soft as

they followed our hands wandering over Mr. Henry’s body. We loved

him. Even after what came later, there was no bitterness in our

memory of him.

She slept in the bed with us. Frieda on the

outside because she is brave—it never occurs to her that if in

her sleep her hand hangs over the edge of the bed “something”

will crawl out from under it and bite

her fingers off. I sleep near the wall because that thought has

occurred to me. Pecola, therefore, had to sleep in the middle.

Mama had told us two days earlier that a “case” was coming—a girl

who had no place to go. The county had placed her in our house

for a few days until they could decide what to do, or, more

precisely, until the family was reunited. We were to be nice to

her and not fight. Mama didn’t know “what got into people,” but

that old Dog Breedlove had burned up his house, gone upside his

wife’s head, and everybody, as a result, was outdoors. Outdoors,

we knew, was the real terror of life. The threat of being

outdoors surfaced frequently in those days. Every possibility of

excess was curtailed with it. If somebody ate too much, he could

end up outdoors. If somebody used too much coal, he could end up

outdoors. People could gamble themselves outdoors, drink

themselves outdoors. Sometimes mothers put their sons outdoors,

and when that happened, regardless of what the son had done, all

sympathy was with him. He was outdoors, and his own flesh had

done it. To be put outdoors by a landlord was one

thing—unfortunate, but an aspect of life over which you had no

control, since you could not control your income. But to be slack

enough to put oneself outdoors, or heartless enough to put one’s

own kin outdoors—that was criminal. There is a difference between

being put out and being put outdoors. If you are put out, you go

somewhere else; if you are outdoors, there is no place to go. The

distinction was subtle but final. Outdoors was the end of

something, an irrevocable, physical fact, defining and

complementing our metaphysical condition. Being a minority in

both caste and class, we moved about anyway on the hem of life,

struggling to consolidate our weaknesses and hang on, or to creep

singly up into the major folds of the garment. Our peripheral

existence, however, was something we had learned to deal

with—probably because it was abstract. But the concreteness of

being outdoors was another matter—like the difference between

the concept of death and being, in fact, dead. Dead doesn’t

change, and outdoors is here to stay.

Knowing that there was such a thing as outdoors bred in us a

hunger for property, for ownership. The firm possession of a

yard, a porch, a grape arbor. Propertied black people spent all

their energies, all their love, on their nests. Like frenzied,

desperate birds, they overdecorated everything; fussed and

fidgeted over their hard-won homes; canned, jellied, and

preserved all summer to fill the cupboards and shelves; they

painted, picked, and poked at every corner of their houses. And

these houses loomed like hothouse sunflowers among the rows of

weeds that were the rented houses. Renting blacks cast furtive

glances at these owned yards and porches, and made firmer

commitments to buy themselves “some nice little old place.” In

the meantime, they saved, and scratched, and piled away what they

could in the rented hovels, looking forward to the day of

property. Cholly Breedlove, then, a renting black, having put his

family outdoors, had catapulted himself beyond the reaches of

human consideration. He had joined the animals; was, indeed, an

old dog, a snake, a ratty nigger. Mrs. Breedlove was staying with

the woman she worked for; the boy, Sammy, was with some other

family; and Pecola was to stay with us. Cholly was in jail. She

came with nothing. No little paper bag with the other dress, or a

nightgown, or two pair of whitish cotton bloomers. She just

appeared with a white woman and sat down. We had fun in those few

days Pecola was with us. Frieda and I stopped fighting each other

and concentrated on our guest, trying hard to keep her from

feeling outdoors. When we discovered that she clearly did not

want to dominate us, we liked her. She laughed when I clowned for

her, and smiled and accepted gracefully the food gifts my sister

gave her. “Would you like some graham crackers?” “I don’t care.”

Frieda brought her four graham crackers on a saucer and some milk

in a blue-and-white Shirley Temple cup. She was a long time with

the milk, and gazed fondly at the silhouette of Shirley Temple’s

dimpled

face.  Frieda and she had a loving conversation about how cu-ute

Shirley Temple was. I couldn’t join them in their adoration

because I hated Shirley. Not because she was cute, but because

she danced with Bojangles, who was my friend, my uncle, my daddy,

and who ought to have been soft-shoeing it and chuckling with me.

Instead he was enjoying, sharing, giving a lovely dance thing

with one of those little white girls whose socks never slid down

under their heels. So I said, “I like Jane Withers.” They gave me

a puzzled look, decided I was incomprehensible, and continued

their reminiscing about old squint-eyed Shirley. Younger than

both Frieda and Pecola, I had not yet arrived at the turning

point in the development of my psyche which would allow me to

love her. What I felt at that time was unsullied hatred. But

before that I had felt a stranger, more frightening thing than

hatred for all the Shirley Temples of the world. It had begun

with Christmas and the gift of dolls. The big, the special, the

loving gift was always a big, blue-eyed Baby Doll. From the

clucking sounds of adults I knew that the doll represented what

they thought was my fondest wish. I was bemused with the thing

itself, and the way it looked.  What was I supposed to do with it?

Pretend I was its mother? I had no interest in babies or the

concept of motherhood. I was interested only in humans my own age

and size, and could not generate any enthusiasm at the prospect

of being a mother. Motherhood was old age, and other remote

possibilities. I learned quickly, however, what I was expected to

do with the doll: rock it, fabricate storied situations around

it, even sleep with it. Picture books were full of little girls

sleeping with their dolls. Raggedy Ann dolls usually, but they

were out of the question. I was physically revolted by and

secretly frightened of those round moronic eyes, the pancake

face, and orangeworms hair. The other dolls, which were supposed

to bring me great pleasure, succeeded in doing quite the

opposite. When I took it to bed, its hard unyielding limbs

resisted my flesh—the tapered fingertips on those

dimpled hands scratched. If, in sleep, I turned, the bone-cold

head collided with my own. It was a most uncomfortable, patently

aggressive sleeping companion. To hold it was no more rewarding.

The starched gauze or lace on the cotton dress irritated any

embrace. I had only one desire: to dismember it. To see of what

it was made, to discover the dearness, to find the beauty, the

desirability that had escaped me, but apparently only me. Adults,

older girls, shops, magazines, newspapers, window signs—all the

world had agreed that a blue-eyed, yellow-haired, pink-skinned

doll was what every girl child treasured. “Here,” they said,

“this is beautiful, and if you are on this day ‘worthy’ you may

have it.” I fingered the face, wondering at the single-stroke

eyebrows; picked at the pearly teeth stuck like two piano keys

between red bowline lips. Traced the turned-up nose, poked the

glassy blue eyeballs, twisted the yellow hair. I could not love

it. But I could examine it to see what it was that all the world

said was lovable. Break off the tiny fingers, bend the flat feet,

loosen the hair, twist the head around, and the thing made one

sound—a sound they said was the sweet and plaintive cry “Mama,”

but which sounded to me like the bleat of a dying lamb, or, more

precisely, our icebox door opening on rusty hinges in July.

Remove the cold and stupid eyeball, it would bleat still,

“Ahhhhhh,” take off the head, shake out the sawdust, crack the

back against the brass bed rail, it would bleat still. The gauze

back would split, and I could see the disk with six holes, the

secret of the sound. A mere metal roundness. Grown people frowned

and fussed: “You-don’tknowhowto-takecareof-nothing.

I-neverhadababydollinmywholelifeandused-tocrymyeyesoutfor-them.

Now-yougotoneabeautifuloneand-youtearitupwhat’sthematterwith-you?” How strong was their outrage. Tears threatened to erase the

aloofness of their authority. The emotion of years of unfulfilled

longing preened in their voices. I did not know why I destroyed

those dolls. But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I

wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my

desires taken me

seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that

I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object.

I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real

question would have been, “Dear Claudia, what experience would

you like on Christmas?” I could have spoken up, “I want to sit on

the low stool in Big Mama’s kitchen with my lap full of lilacs

and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone.” The lowness

of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big

Mama’s kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music,

and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the

taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward. Instead I tasted and

smelled the acridness of tin plates and cups designed for tea

parties that bored me. Instead I looked with loathing on new

dresses that required a hateful bath in a galvanized zinc tub

before wearing. Slipping around on the zinc, no time to play or

soak, for the water chilled too fast, no time to enjoy one’s

nakedness, only time to make curtains of soapy water careen down

between the legs. Then the scratchy towels and the dreadful and

humiliating absence of dirt. The irritable, unimaginative

cleanliness. Gone the ink marks from legs and face, all my

creations and accumulations of the day gone, and replaced by

goose pimples. I destroyed white baby dolls. But the dismembering

of dolls was not the true horror. The truly horrifying thing was

the transference of the same impulses to little white girls. The

indifference with which I could have axed them was shaken only by

my desire to do so. To discover what eluded me: the secret of the

magic they weaved on others. What made people look at them and

say, “Awwwww,” but not for me? The eye slide of black women as

they approached them on the street, and the possessive gentleness

of their touch as they handled them. If I pinched them, their

eyes—unlike the crazed glint of the baby doll’s eyes—would fold

in pain, and their cry would not be the sound of an icebox door,

but a fascinating cry of pain. When I learned how repulsive this

disinterested violence was, that it was repulsive because

it was disinterested, my shame floundered about for refuge. The

best hiding place was love. Thus the conversion from pristine

sadism to fabricated hatred, to fraudulent love. It was a small

step to Shirley Temple. I learned much later to worship her, just

as I learned to delight in cleanliness, knowing, even as I

learned, that the change was adjustment without improvement.

“Three quarts of milk. That’s what was in that icebox yesterday.

Three whole quarts. Now they ain’t none. Not a drop. I don’t mind

folks coming in and getting what they want, but three quarts of

milk! What the devil does anybody need with three quarts of

milk?” The “folks” my mother was referring to was Pecola. The

three of us, Pecola, Frieda, and I, listened to her downstairs in

the kitchen fussing about the amount of milk Pecola had drunk. We

knew she was fond of the Shirley Temple cup and took every

opportunity to drink milk out of it just to handle and see sweet

Shirley’s face. My mother knew that Frieda and I hated milk and

assumed Pecola drank it out of greediness. It was certainly not

for us to “dispute” her. We didn’t initiate talk with grown-ups;

we answered their questions. Ashamed of the insults that were

being heaped on our friend, we just sat there: I picked toe jam,

Frieda cleaned her fingernails with her teeth, and Pecola

finger-traced some scars on her knee—her head cocked to one

side. My mother’s fussing soliloquies always irritated and

depressed us. They were interminable, insulting, and although

indirect (Mama never named anybody—just talked about folks and

some people), extremely painful in their thrust. She would go on

like that for hours, connecting one offense to another until all

of the things that chagrined her were spewed out. Then, having

told everybody and everything off, she would burst into song and

sing the rest of the day. But it was such a long time before the

singing part came. In the meantime, our stomachs jellying and our

necks burning, we listened, avoided each other’s eyes, and picked

toe jam or whatever. “… I don’t know what I’m supposed to be

running here, a

charity ward, I guess. Time for me to get out of the giving line

and get in the getting line. I guess I ain’t supposed to have

nothing. I’m supposed to end up in the poorhouse. Look like nothing

I do is going to keep me out of there. Folks just spend all their

time trying to figure out ways to send me to the poorhouse. I got

about as much business with another mouth to feed as a cat has

with side pockets. As if I don’t have trouble enough trying to

feed my own and keep out the poorhouse, now I got something else

in here that’s just going to drink me on in there. Well, naw, she

ain’t. Not long as I got strength in my body and a tongue in my

head. There’s a limit to everything. I ain’t got nothing to just

throw away. Don’t nobody need three quarts of milk. Henry Ford

don’t need three quarts of milk. That’s just downright «»ful. I’m

willing to do what I can for folks. Can’t nobody say I ain’t. But

this has got to stop, and I’m just the one to stop it. Bible say

watch as well as pray. Folks just dump they children off on you

and go on ‘bout they business. Ain’t nobody even peeped in here

to see whether that child has a loaf of bread. Look like they

would just peep in to see whether I had a loaf of bread to give

her. But naw. That thought don’t cross they mind. That old

trifling Cholly been out of jail two whole days and ain’t been

here yet to see if his own child was ‘live or dead. She could be

dead for all he know. And that mama neither. What kind of

something is that?” When Mama got around to Henry Ford and all

those people who didn’t care whether she had a loaf of bread, it

was time to go. We wanted to miss the part about Roosevelt and

the CCC camps. Frieda got up and started down the stairs. Pecola

and I followed, making a wide arc to avoid the kitchen doorway.

We sat on the steps of the porch, where my mother’s words could

reach us only in spurts. It was a lonesome Saturday. The house

smelled of Pels Naphtha and the sharp odor of mustard greens

cooking. Saturdays were lonesome, tossy, soapy days. Second in

misery only to those tight, starchy, cough-drop Sundays, so full

of “don’ts” and “set’cha self downs.” If my mother was in a

singing mood, it wasn’t so bad. She would

sing about hard times, bad times, and somebody-donegoneandleft-me

times. But her voice was so sweet and her singing-eyes so melty I

found myself longing for those hard times, yearning to be grown

without “a thin di-i-ime to my name.” I looked forward to the

delicious time when “my man” would leave me, when I would “hate

to see that evening sun go down …” ‘cause then I would know “my

man has left this town.” Misery colored by the greens and blues

in my mother’s voice took all of the grief out of the words and

left me with a conviction that pain was not only endurable, it

was sweet. But without song, those Saturdays sat on my head like

a coal scuttle, and if Mama was fussing, as she was now, it was

like somebody throwing stones at it. “… and here I am poor as

a bowl of yak-me. What do they think I am? Some kind of Sandy

Claus? Well, they can just take they stocking down ‘cause it

ain’t Christmas. …” We fidgeted. “Let’s do something,” Frieda

said. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

Frieda stared at the tops of the trees. Pecola looked at her

feet. “You want to go up to Mr. Henry’s room and look at his

girlie magazines?” Frieda made an ugly face. She didn’t like to

look at dirty pictures. “Well,” I continued, “we could look at

his Bible. That’s pretty.” Frieda sucked her teeth and made

iphttt sound with her lips. “O.K., then. We could go thread

needles for the half-blind lady. She’ll give us a penny.” Frieda

snorted. “Her eyes look like snot. I don’t feel like looking at

them. What you want to do Pecola?” “I don’t care,” she said.

“Anything you want.” I had another idea. “We could go up the

alley and see what’s in the trash cans.” “Too cold,” said Frieda.

She was bored and irritable.

“I know. We could make some fudge.” “You kidding? With Mama in

there fussing? When she starts fussing at the walls, you know

she’s gonna be at it all day. She wouldn’t even let us.” “Well,

let’s go over to the Greek hotel and listen to them cuss.” “Oh,

who wants to do that? Besides, they say the same old words all

the time.” My supply of ideas exhausted, I began to concentrate

on the white spots on my fingernails. The total signified the

number of boyfriends I would have. Seven. Mama’s soliloquy slid

into the silence “… Bible say feed the hungry. That’s fine.

That’s all right. But I ain’t feeding no elephants…. Anybody

need three quarts of milk to live need to get out of here. They

in the wrong place. What is this? Some kind of dairy farm?”

Suddenly Pecola bolted straight up, her eyes wide with terror. A

whinnying sound came from her mouth. “What’s the matter with

you?” Frieda stood up too. Then we both looked where Pecola was

staring. Blood was running down her legs. Some drops were on the

steps. I leaped up. “Hey. You cut yourself? Look. It’s all over

your dress.” A brownish-red stain discolored the back of her

dress. She kept whinnying, standing with her legs far apart.

Frieda said, “Oh. Lordy! I know. I know what that is!” “What?”

Pecola’s fingers went to her mouth. “That’s ministratin’.”

“What’s that?” “You know.” “Am I going to die?” she asked.

“Noooo. You won’t die. It just means you can have a baby!”

“What?” “How do you know?” I was sick and tired of Frieda knowing

everything. “Mildred told me, and Mama too.”

“I don’t believe it.” “You don’t have to, dummy. Look. Wait here.

Sit down, Pecola. Right here.” Frieda was all authority and zest.

“And you,” she said to me, “you go get some water.” “Water?”

“Yes, stupid. Water. And be quiet, or Mama will hear you.” Pecola

sat down again, a little less fear in her eyes. I went into the

kitchen. “What you want, girl?” Mama was rinsing curtains in the

sink. “Some water, ma’am.” “Right where I’m working, naturally.

Well, get a glass. Not no clean one neither. Use that jar.” I got

a Mason jar and filled it with water from the faucet. It seemed a

long time filling. “Don’t nobody never want nothing till they see

me at the sink. Then everybody got to drink water….” When the

jar was full, I moved to leave the room. “Where you going?”

“Outside.” “Drink that water right here!” “I ain’t gonna break

nothing.” “You don’t know what you gonna do.” “Yes, ma’am. I do.

Lemme take it out. I won’t spill none.” “You bed’ not.” I got to

the porch and stood there with the Mason jar of water. Pecola was

crying. “What you crying for? Does it hurt?” She shook her head.

“Then stop slinging snot.” Frieda opened the back door. She had

something tucked in her blouse. She looked at me in amazement and

pointed to the jar. “What’s that supposed to do?” “You told me.

You said get some water.”

“Not a little old jar full. Lots of water. To scrub the steps

with,

dumbbell!” “How was I supposed to know?” “Yeah. How was you. Come

on.” She pulled Pecola up by the arm. “Let’s go back here.” They

headed for the side of the house where the bushes were thick.

“Hey. What about me? I want to go.” “Shut uuuup,” Frieda

stage-whispered. “Mama will hear you. You wash the steps.” They

disappeared around the corner of the house. I was going to miss

something. Again. Here was something important, and I had to stay

behind and not see any of it. I poured the water on the steps,

sloshed it with my shoe, and ran to join them. Frieda was on her

knees; a white rectangle of cotton was near her on the ground.

She was pulling Pecola’s pants off. “Come on. Step out of them.”

She managed to get the soiled pants down and flung them at me.

“Here.” “What am I supposed to do with these?” “Bury them,

moron.” Frieda told Pecola to hold the cotton thing between her

legs. “How she gonna walk like that?” I asked. Frieda didn’t

answer. Instead she took two safety pins from the hem of her

skirt and began to pin the ends of the napkin to Pecola’s dress.

I picked up the pants with two fingers and looked about for

something to dig a hole with. A rustling noise in the bushes

startled me, and turning toward it, I saw a pair of fascinated

eyes in a dough-white face. Rosemary was watching us. I grabbed

for her face and succeeded in scratching her nose. She screamed

and jumped back. “Mrs. MacTeer! Mrs. MacTeer!” Rosemary hollered.

“Frieda and Claudia are out here playing nasty! Mrs. MacTeer!”

Mama opened the window and looked down at us. “What?”

“They’re playing nasty, Mrs. MacTeer. Look. And Claudia hit me

‘cause I seen them!” Mama slammed the window shut and came

running out the back door. “What you all doing? Oh. Uh-huh.

Uh-huh. Playing nasty, huh?” She reached into the bushes and

pulled off a switch. “I’d rather raise pigs than some nasty

girls. Least I can slaughter them!” We began to shriek. “No,

Mama. No, ma’am. We wasn’t! She’s a liar! No, ma’am, Mama! No,

ma’am, Mama!” Mama grabbed Frieda by the shoulder, turned her

around, and gave her three or four stinging cuts on her legs.

“Gonna be nasty, huh? Naw you ain’t!” Frieda was destroyed.

Whippings wounded and insulted her. Mama looked at Pecola. “You

too!” she said. “Child of mine or not!” She grabbed Pecola and

spun her around. The safety pin snapped open on one end of the

napkin, and Mama saw it fall from under her dress. The switch

hovered in the air while Mama blinked. “What the devil is going

on here?” Frieda was sobbing. I, next in line, began to explain.

“She was bleeding. We was just trying to stop the blood!” Mama

looked at Frieda for verification. Frieda nodded. “She’s

ministratin’. We was just helping.” Mama released Pecola and

stood looking at her. Then she pulled both of them toward her,

their heads against her stomach. Her eyes were sorry. “All right,

all right. Now, stop crying. I didn’t know. Come on, now. Get on

in the house. Go on home, Rosemary. The show is over.” We trooped

in, Frieda sobbing quietly, Pecola carrying a white tail, me

carrying the little-girl-gone-to-woman pants. Mama led us to the

bathroom. She prodded Pecola inside, and taking the underwear

from me, told us to stay out. We could hear water running into

the bathtub. “You think she’s going to drown her?”

“Oh, Claudia. You so dumb. She’s just going to wash her clothes

and all.” “Should we beat up Rosemary?” “No. Leave her alone.”

The water gushed, and over its gushing we could hear the music of

my mother’s laughter.

That night, in bed, the three of us lay still. We were full of

awe and respect for Pecola. Lying next to a real person who was

really ministratin’ was somehow sacred. She was different from us

now—grown-up-like. She, herself, felt the distance, but refused

to lord it over us. After a long while she spoke very softly. “Is

it true that I can have a baby now?” “Sure,” said Frieda

drowsily. “Sure you can.” “But … how?” Her voice was hollow

with wonder. “Oh,” said Frieda, “somebody has to love you.” “Oh.”

There was a long pause in which Pecola and I thought this over.

It would involve, I supposed, “my man,” who, before leaving me,

would love me. But there weren’t any babies in the songs my

mother sang. Maybe that’s why the women were sad: the men left

before they could make a baby. Then Pecola asked a question that

had never entered my mind. “How do you do that? I mean, how do

you get somebody to love you?” But Frieda was asleep. And I

didn’t know.

HEREISTHEHOUSEITISGREENANDWHITEITHASAREDDO

ORITISVERYPRETTYITISVERYPRETTYPRETTYPRETTYP

There is an abandoned store on the southeast corner of Broadway

and Thirty-fifth Street in Lorain, Ohio. It does not recede into

its background of leaden sky, nor harmonize with the gray frame

houses and black telephone poles around it. Rather, it foists

itself on the eye of the passerby in a manner that is both

irritating and melancholy. Visitors who drive to this tiny town

wonder why it has not been torn down, while pedestrians, who are

residents of the neighborhood, simply look away when they pass

it. At one time, when the building housed a pizza parlor, people

saw only slow-footed teen-aged boys huddled about the corner.

These young boys met there to feel their groins, smoke

cigarettes, and plan mild outrages. The smoke from their

cigarettes they inhaled deeply, forcing it to fill their lungs,

their hearts, their thighs, and keep at bay the shiveriness, the

energy of their youth. They moved slowly, laughed slowly, but

flicked the ashes from their cigarettes too quickly, too often,

and exposed themselves, to those who were interested, as novices

to the habit. But long before the sound of their lowing and the

sight of their preening, the building was leased to a Hungarian

baker, modestly famous for his brioche and poppy-seed rolls.

Earlier than that, there was a real-estate office there, and even

before that, some gypsies used it as a base of operations. The

gypsy family gave the large plate-glass window as much

distinction and character as it ever had.  The girls of the family

took turns sitting between yards of velvet draperies and Oriental

rugs hanging at the windows. They looked out and occasionally

smiled, or winked, or beckoned—only occasionally. Mostly they

looked, their elaborate dresses, long-sleeved and long-skirted,

hiding the nakedness that stood in their eyes.

So fluid has the population in that area been, that probably no

one remembers longer, longer ago, before the time of the gypsies

and the time of the teen-agers when the Breedloves lived there,

nestled together in the storefront. Festering together in the

debris of a realtor’s whim. They slipped in and out of the box of

peeling gray, making no stir in the neighborhood, no sound in the

labor force, and no wave in the mayor’s office. Each member of

the family in his own cell of consciousness, each making his own

patchwork quilt of reality—collecting fragments of experience

here, pieces of information there. From the tiny impressions

gleaned from one another, they created a sense of belonging and

tried to make do with the way they found each other. The plan of

the living quarters was as unimaginative as a first-generation

Greek landlord could contrive it to be. The large “store” area

was partitioned into two rooms by beaverboard planks that did not

reach to the ceiling. There was a living room, which the family

called the front room, and the bedroom, where all the living was

done. In the front room were two sofas, an upright piano, and a

tiny artificial Christmas tree which had been there, decorated

and dust-laden, for two years. The bedroom had three beds: a

narrow iron bed for Sammy, fourteen years old, another for

Pecola, eleven years old, and a double bed for Cholly and Mrs.

Breedlove. In the center of the bedroom, for the even

distribution of heat, stood a coal stove. Trunks, chairs, a small

end table, and a cardboard “wardrobe” closet were placed around

the walls. The kitchen was in the back of this apartment, a

separate room. There were no bath facilities. Only a toilet bowl,

inaccessible to the eye, if not the ear, of the tenants. There is

nothing more to say about the furnishings. They were anything but

describable, having been conceived, manufactured, shipped, and

sold in various states of thoughtlessness, greed, and

indifference. The furniture had aged without ever having become

familiar. People had owned it, but never known it. No one had

lost a penny or a brooch under the cushions of either sofa and

remembered the place and time of the loss or the finding. No one

had clucked and said, “But I

had it just a minute ago. I was sitting right there talking to …”

or “Here it is. It must have slipped down while I was feeding

the baby!” No one had given birth in one of the beds—or

remembered with fondness the peeled paint places, because that’s

what the baby, when he learned to pull himself up, used to pick

loose. No thrifty child had tucked a wad of gum under the table.

No happy drunk—a friend of the family, with a fat neck,

unmarried, you know, but God how he eats!— had sat at the piano

and played “You Are My Sunshine.” No young girl had stared at the

tiny Christmas tree and remembered when she had decorated it, or

wondered if that blue ball was going to hold, or if HE would ever

come back to see it. There were no memories among those pieces.

Certainly no memories to be cherished. Occasionally an item

provoked a physical reaction: an increase of acid irritation in

the upper intestinal tract, a light flush of perspiration at the

back of the neck as circumstances surrounding the piece of

furniture were recalled. The sofa, for example. It had been

purchased new, but the fabric had split straight across the back

by the time it was delivered. The store would not take the

responsibility. … “Looka here, buddy. It was O.K. when I put it

on the truck. The store can’t do anything about it once it’s on

the truck. …” Listerine and Lucky Strike breath. “But I don’t

want no tore couch if it’s bought new.” Pleading eyes and

tightened testicles. “Tough shit, buddy. Your tough shit. …”

You could hate a sofa, of course—that is, if you could hate a

sofa. But it didn’t matter. You still had to get together $4.80 a

month. If you had to pay $4.80 a month for a sofa that started

off split, no good, and humiliating—you couldn’t take any joy in

owning it. And the joylessness stank, pervading everything. The

stink of it kept you from painting the beaverboard walls; from

getting a matching piece of material for the chair; even from

sewing up the split, which became a gash, which became a gaping

chasm that exposed the cheap frame and

cheaper upholstery. It withheld the refreshment in a sleep slept

on it. It imposed a furtiveness on the loving done on it. Like a

sore tooth that is not content to throb in isolation, but must

diffuse its own pain to other parts of the body—making breathing

difficult, vision limited, nerves unsettled, so a hated piece of

furniture produces a fretful malaise that asserts itself

throughout the house and limits the delight of things not related

to it.

The only living thing in the Breedloves’ house was the coal

stove, which lived independently of everything and everyone, its

fire being “out,” “banked,” or “up” at its own discretion, in

spite of the fact that the family fed it and knew all the details

of its regimen: sprinkle, do not dump, not too much…. The

fire seemed to live, go down, or die according to its own

schemata. In the morning, however, it always saw fit to die.

HEREISTHEFAMILYMOTHERFATHERDICKANDJANETHE

YLIVEINTHEGREENANDWHITEHOUSETHEYAREVERYH

The Breedloves did not live in a storefront because they were

having temporary difficulty adjusting to the cutbacks at the

plant. They lived there because they were poor and black, and

they stayed there because they believed they were ugly. Although

their poverty was traditional and stultifying, it was not unique.

But their ugliness was unique. No one could have convinced them

that they were not relentlessly and aggressively ugly. Except for

the father, Cholly, whose ugliness (the result of despair,

dissipation, and violence directed toward petty things and weak

people) was behavior, the rest of the family—Mrs. Breedlove,

Sammy Breedlove, and Pecola Breedlove—wore their ugliness, put

it on, so to speak, although it did not belong to them. The eyes,

the small eyes set closely together under narrow foreheads. The

low, irregular hairlines, which seemed even more irregular in

contrast to the straight, heavy eyebrows which nearly met. Keen

but crooked noses, with insolent nostrils. They had high

cheekbones, and their ears turned forward. Shapely lips which

called attention not to themselves but to the rest of the face.

You looked at them and wondered why they were so ugly; you looked

closely and could not find the source. Then you realized that it

came from conviction, their conviction. It was as though some

mysterious all-knowing master had given each one a cloak of

ugliness to wear, and they had each accepted it without question.

The master had said, “You are ugly people.” They had looked about

themselves and saw nothing to contradict the statement; saw, in

fact, support for it leaning at them from every billboard, every

movie, every glance. “Yes,” they had said. “You are right.” And

they took the ugliness in their hands, threw it as a mantle over

them, and went about the world with it. Dealing with it each

according to his way. Mrs.

Breedlove handled hers as an actor does a prop: for the

articulation of character, for support of a role she frequently

imagined was hers— martyrdom. Sammy used his as a weapon to

cause others pain. He adjusted his behavior to it, chose his

companions on the basis of it: people who could be fascinated,

even intimidated by it. And Pecola. She hid behind hers.

Concealed, veiled, eclipsed—peeping out from behind the shroud

very seldom, and then only to yearn for the return of her mask.

This family, on a Saturday morning in October, began, one by one,

to stir out of their dreams of affluence and vengeance into the

anonymous misery of their storefront.

Mrs. Breedlove slipped noiselessly out of bed, put a sweater on

over her nightgown (which was an old day dress), and walked

toward the kitchen. Her one good foot made hard, bony sounds; the

twisted one whispered on the linoleum. In the kitchen she made

noises with doors, faucets, and pans. The noises were hollow, but

the threats they implied were not. Pecola opened her eyes and lay

staring at the dead coal stove. Cholly mumbled, thrashed about in

the bed for a minute, and then was quiet. Even from where Pecola

lay, she could smell Cholly’s whiskey. The noises in the kitchen

became louder and less hollow. There was direction and purpose in

Mrs. Breedlove’s movements that had nothing to do with the

preparation of breakfast. This awareness, supported by ample

evidence from the past, made Pecola tighten her stomach muscles

and ration her breath. Cholly had come home drunk. Unfortunately

he had been too drunk to quarrel, so the whole business would

have to erupt this morning. Because it had not taken place

immediately, the oncoming fight would lack spontaneity; it would

be calculated, uninspired, and deadly. Mrs. Breedlove came

swiftly into the room and stood at the foot of the bed where

Cholly lay. “I need some coal in this house.”

Cholly did not move. “Hear me?” Mrs. Breedlove jabbed Cholly’s

foot. Cholly opened his eyes slowly. They were red and menacing.

With no exception, Cholly had the meanest eyes in town. “Awwwwww,

woman!” “I said I need some coal. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit

in this house. Your whiskey ass wouldn’t feel hellfire, but I’m

cold. I got to do a lot of things, but I ain’t got to freeze.”

“Leave me lone.” “Not until you get me some coal. If working like

a mule don’t give me the right to be warm, what am I doing it

for? You sure ain’t bringing in nothing. If it was left up to

you, we’d all be dead….” Her voice was like an earache in the

brain. “… If you think I’m going to wade out in the cold and

get it myself, you’d better think again.” “I don’t give a shit

how you get it.” A bubble of violence burst in his throat. “You

going to get your drunk self out of that bed and get me some coal

or not?” Silence. “Cholly!” Silence. “Don’t try me this morning,

man. You say one more word, and I’ll split you open!” Silence.

“All right. All right. But if I sneeze once, just once, God help

your butt!” Sammy was awake now too, but pretending to be asleep.

Pecola still held her stomach muscles taut and conserved her

breath. They all knew that Mrs. Breedlove could have, would have,

and had, gotten coal from the shed, or that Sammy or Pecola could

be directed to get it. But the unquarreled evening hung like the

first note of a dirge in sullenly expectant air. An escapade of

drunkenness, no matter how routine, had its own ceremonial close.

The tiny, undistinguished days that Mrs. Breedlove lived

were identified, grouped, and classed by

these quarrels. They gave substance to the minutes and hours

otherwise dim and unrecalled. They relieved the tiresomeness of

poverty, gave grandeur to the dead rooms. In these violent breaks

in routine that were themselves routine, she could display the

style and imagination of what she believed to be her own true

self. To deprive her of these fights was to deprive her of all

the zest and reasonableness of life. Cholly, by his habitual

drunkenness and orneriness, provided them both with the material

they needed to make their lives tolerable. Mrs. Breedlove

considered herself an upright and Christian woman, burdened with

a no-count man, whom God wanted her to punish. (Cholly was beyond

redemption, of course, and redemption was hardly the point—Mrs.

Breedlove was not interested in Christ the Redeemer, but rather

Christ the Judge.) Often she could be heard discoursing with

Jesus about Cholly, pleading with Him to help her “strike the

bastard down from his pea-knuckle of pride.” And once when a

drunken gesture catapulted Cholly into the red-hot stove, she

screamed, “Get him, Jesus! Get him!” If Cholly had stopped

drinking, she would never have forgiven Jesus. She needed

Cholly’s sins desperately. The lower he sank, the wilder and more

irresponsible he became, the more splendid she and her task

became. In the name of Jesus. No less did Cholly need her. She

was one of the few things abhorrent to him that he could touch

and therefore hurt. He poured out on her the sum of all his

inarticulate fury and aborted desires. Hating her, he could leave

himself intact. When he was still very young, Cholly had been

surprised in some bushes by two white men while he was newly but

earnestly engaged in eliciting sexual pleasure from a little

country girl. The men had shone a flashlight right on his behind.

He had stopped, terrified. They chuckled. The beam of the

flashlight did not move. “Go on,” they said. “Go on and finish.

And, nigger! make it good.” The flashlight did not move. For some

reason Cholly had not hated the white men; he hated, despised,

the girl. Even

a half-remembrance of this episode, along with myriad other

humiliations, defeats, and emasculations, could stir him into

flights of depravity that surprised himself—but only himself.

Somehow he could not astound. He could only be astounded. So he

gave that up, too. Cholly and Mrs. Breedlove fought each other

with a darkly brutal formalism that was paralleled only by their

lovemaking. Tacitly they had agreed not to kill each other. He

fought her the way a coward fights a man—with feet, the palms of

his hands, and teeth. She, in turn, fought back in a purely

feminine way—with frying pans and pokers, and occasionally a

flat iron would sail toward his head. They did not talk, groan,

or curse during these beatings. There was only the muted sound of

falling things, and flesh on unsurprised flesh. There was a

difference in the reaction of the children to these battles.

Sammy cursed for a while, or left the house, or threw himself

into the fray. He was known, by the time he was fourteen, to have

run away from home no less than twenty-seven times. Once he got

to Buffalo and stayed three months. His returns, whether by force

or circumstance, were sullen. Pecola, on the other hand,

restricted by youth and sex, experimented with methods of

endurance. Though the methods varied, the pain was as consistent

as it was deep. She struggled between an overwhelming desire that

one would kill the other, and a profound wish that she herself

could die. Now she was whispering, “Don’t, Mrs. Breedlove.

Don’t.” Pecola, like Sammy and Cholly, always called her mother

Mrs. Breedlove. “Don’t, Mrs. Breedlove. Don’t.” But Mrs.

Breedlove did. By the grace, no doubt, of God, Mrs. Breedlove

sneezed. Just once. She ran into the bedroom with a dishpan full

of cold water and threw it in Cholly’s face. He sat up, choking

and spitting. Naked and ashen, he leaped from the bed, and with a

flying tackle, grabbed his wife around the waist, and they hit

the floor. Cholly picked her up and knocked her down with the

back of his hand. She fell in a sitting position, her back

supported by Sammy’s bed frame. She had not let go of

the dishpan, and began to hit at Cholly’s thighs and groin with

it. He put his foot in her chest, and she dropped the pan.

Dropping to his knee, he struck her several times in the face,

and she might have succumbed early had he not hit his hand

against the metal bed frame when his wife ducked. Mrs. Breedlove

took advantage of this momentary suspension of blows and slipped

out of his reach. Sammy, who had watched in silence their

struggling at his bedside, suddenly began to hit his father about

the head with both fists, shouting “You naked fuck!” over and

over and over. Mrs. Breedlove, having snatched up the round, flat

stove lid, ran tippy-toe to Cholly as he was pulling himself up

from his knees, and struck him two blows, knocking him right back

into the senselessness out of which she had provoked him.

Panting, she threw a quilt over him and let him lie. Sammy

screamed, “Kill him! Kill him!” Mrs. Breedlove looked at Sammy

with surprise. “Cut out that noise, boy.” She put the stove lid

back in place, and walked toward the kitchen. At the doorway she

paused long enough to say to her son, “Get up from there anyhow.

I need some coal.”

Letting herself breathe easy now, Pecola covered her head with

the quilt. The sick feeling, which she had tried to prevent by

holding in her stomach, came quickly in spite of her precaution.

There surged in her the desire to heave, but as always, she knew

she would not. “Please, God,” she whispered into the palm of her

hand. “Please make me disappear.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

Little parts of her body faded away. Now slowly, now with a rush.

Slowly again. Her fingers went, one by one; then her arms

disappeared all the way to the elbow. Her feet now. Yes, that was

good. The legs all at once. It was hardest above the thighs. She

had to be real still and pull. Her stomach would not go. But

finally it, too, went away. Then her chest, her neck. The face

was hard, too. Almost done, almost. Only her tight, tight eyes

were left. They were always left. Try as she might, she could

never get her eyes to disappear. So what

was the point? They were everything. Everything was there, in

them. All of those pictures, all of those faces. She had long ago

given up the idea of running away to see new pictures, new faces,

as Sammy had so often done. He never took her, and he never

thought about his going ahead of time, so it was never planned.

It wouldn’t have worked anyway. As long as she looked the way she

did, as long as she was ugly, she would have to stay with these

people. Somehow she belonged to them. Long hours she sat looking

in the mirror, trying to discover the secret of the ugliness, the

ugliness that made her ignored or despised at school, by teachers

and classmates alike. She was the only member of her class who

sat alone at a double desk. The first letter of her last name

forced her to sit in the front of the room always. But what about

Marie Appolonaire? Marie was in front of her, but she shared a

desk with Luke Angelino. Her teachers had always treated her this

way. They tried never to glance at her, and called on her only

when everyone was required to respond. She also knew that when

one of the girls at school wanted to be particularly insulting to

a boy, or wanted to get an immediate response from him, she could

say, “Bobby loves Pecola Breedlove! Bobby loves Pecola

Breedlove!” and never fail to get peals of laughter from those

in earshot, and mock anger from the accused. It had occurred to

Pecola some time ago that if her eyes, those eyes that held the

pictures, and knew the sights—if those eyes of hers were

different, that is to say, beautiful, she herself would be

different. Her teeth were good, and at least her nose was not big

and flat like some of those who were thought so cute. If she

looked different, beautiful, maybe Cholly would be different, and

Mrs. Breedlove too. Maybe they’d say, “Why, look at pretty-eyed

Pecola. We mustn’t do bad things in front of those pretty eyes.”

Pretty eyes. Pretty blue eyes. Big blue pretty eyes. Run, Jip,

run. Jip runs, Alice runs. Alice has blue eyes. Jerry has blue

eyes. Jerry runs. Alice runs. They run with their blue eyes. Four

blue eyes. Four pretty blue eyes. Blue-sky eyes.

Blue—like Mrs. Forrest’s blue blouse eyes.

Morning-gloryblue-eyes. AliceandJerrybluestorybook-eyes.

Each night, without fail, she prayed for blue eyes. Fervently,

for a year she had prayed. Although somewhat discouraged, she was

not without hope. To have something as wonderful as that happen

would take a long, long time. Thrown, in this way, into the

binding conviction that only a miracle could relieve her, she

would never know her beauty. She would see only what there was to

see: the eyes of other people. She walks down Garden Avenue to a

small grocery store which sells penny candy. Three pennies are in

her shoe—slipping back and forth between the sock and the inner

sole. With each step she feels the painful press of the coins

against her foot. A sweet, endurable, even cherished irritation,

full of promise and delicate security. There is plenty of time to

consider what to buy. Now, however, she moves down an avenue

gently buffeted by the familiar and therefore loved images. The

dandelions at the base of the telephone pole. Why, she wonders,

do people call them weeds? She thought they were pretty. But

grownups say, “Miss Dunion keeps her yard so nice. Not a

dandelion anywhere.” Hunkie women in black babushkas go into the

fields with baskets to pull them up. But they do not want the

yellow heads—only the jagged leaves. They make dandelion soup.

Dandelion wine. Nobody loves the head of a dandelion. Maybe

because they are so many, strong, and soon. There was the

sidewalk crack shaped like a Y, and the other one that lifted the

concrete up from the dirt floor. Frequently her sloughing step

had made her trip over that one. Skates would go well over this

sidewalk—old it was, and smooth; it made the wheels glide

evenly, with a mild whirr. The newly paved walks were bumpy and

uncomfortable, and the sound of skate wheels on new walks was

grating. These and other inanimate things she saw and

experienced. They were real to her. She knew them. They were the

codes and touchstones

of the world, capable of translation and possession. She owned

the crack that made her stumble; she owned the clumps of

dandelions whose white heads, last fall, she had blown away;

whose yellow heads, this fall, she peered into. And owning them

made her part of the world, and the world a part of her. She

climbs four wooden steps to the door of Yacobowski’s Fresh Veg.

Meat and Sundries Store. A bell tinkles as she opens it. Standing

before the counter, she looks at the array of candies. All Mary

Janes, she decides. Three for a penny. The resistant sweetness

that breaks open at last to deliver peanut butter—the oil and

salt which complement the sweet pull of caramel. A peal of

anticipation unsettles her stomach. She pulls off her shoe and

takes out the three pennies. The gray head of Mr. Yacobowski

looms up over the counter. He urges his eyes out of his

thoughts to encounter her. Blue eyes. Blear-dropped. Slowly, like

Indian summer moving imperceptibly toward fall, he looks toward

her. Somewhere between retina and object, between vision and

view, his eyes draw back, hesitate, and hover. At some fixed

point in time and space he senses that he need not waste the

effort of a glance. He does not see her, because for him there is

nothing to see. How can a fifty-two-year-old white immigrant

storekeeper with the taste of potatoes and beer in his mouth, his

mind honed on the doe-eyed Virgin Mary, his sensibilities blunted

by a permanent awareness of loss, see a little black girl?

Nothing in his life even suggested that the feat was possible,

not to say desirable or necessary. “Yeah?” She looks up at him

and sees the vacuum where curiosity ought to lodge. And something

more. The total absence of human recognition—the glazed

separateness. She does not know what keeps his glance suspended.

Perhaps because he is grown, or a man, and she a little girl. But

she has seen interest, disgust, even anger in grown male eyes.

Yet this vacuum is not new to her. It has an edge; somewhere in

the bottom lid is the distaste. She has seen it lurking in the

eyes of all white

people. So. The distaste must be for her, her blackness. All

things in her are flux and anticipation. But her blackness is

static and dread. And it is the blackness that accounts for, that

creates, the vacuum edged with distaste in white eyes. She points

her finger at the Mary Janes—a little black shaft of finger, its

tip pressed on the display window. The quietly inoffensive

assertion of a black child’s attempt to communicate with a white

adult. “Them.” The word is more sigh than sense. “What? These?

These?” Phlegm and impatience mingle in his voice. She shakes her

head, her fingertip fixed on the spot which, in her view, at any

rate, identifies the Mary Janes. He cannot see her view— the

angle of his vision, the slant of her finger, makes it

incomprehensible to him. His lumpy red hand plops around in the

glass casing like the agitated head of a chicken outraged by the

loss of its body. “Christ. Kantcha talk?” His fingers brush the

Mary Janes. She nods. “Well, why’nt you say so? One? How many?”

Pecola unfolds her fist, showing the three pennies. He scoots

three Mary Janes toward her—three yellow rectangles in each

packet. She holds the money toward him. He hesitates, not wanting

to touch her hand. She does not know how to move the finger of

her right hand from the display counter or how to get the coins

out of her left hand. Finally he reaches over and takes the

pennies from her hand. His nails graze her damp palm. Outside,

Pecola feels the inexplicable shame ebb. Dandelions. A dart of

affection leaps out from her to them. But they do not look at her

and do not send love back. She thinks, “They are ugly. They are

weeds.” Preoccupied with that revelation, she trips on the

sidewalk crack. Anger stirs and wakes in her; it opens its mouth,

and like a hot-mouthed puppy, laps up the dredges of her shame.

Anger is better. There is a sense of being in anger. A reality

and

presence. An awareness of worth. It is a lovely surging. Her

thoughts fall back to Mr. Yacobowski’s eyes, his phlegmy voice.

The anger will not hold; the puppy is too easily surfeited. Its

thirst too quickly quenched, it sleeps. The shame wells up again,

its muddy rivulets seeping into her eyes. What to do before the

tears come. She remembers the Mary Janes. Each pale yellow

wrapper has a picture on it. A picture of little Mary Jane, for

whom the candy is named. Smiling white face. Blond hair in gentle

disarray, blue eyes looking at her out of a world of clean

comfort. The eyes are petulant, mischievous. To Pecola they are

simply pretty. She eats the candy, and its sweetness is good. To

eat the candy is somehow to eat the eyes, eat Mary Jane. Love

Mary Jane. Be Mary Jane. Three pennies had bought her nine lovely

orgasms with Mary Jane. Lovely Mary Jane, for whom a candy is

named.

Three whores lived in the apartment above the Breedloves’

storefront. China, Poland, and Miss Marie. Pecola loved them,

visited them, and ran their errands. They, in turn, did not

despise her. On an October morning, the morning of the stove-lid

triumph, Pecola climbed the stairs to their apartment. Even

before the door was opened to her tapping, she could hear Poland

singing—her voice sweet and hard, like new strawberries:

I got blues in my mealbarrel Blues up on the shelf I got blues in

my mealbarrel Blues up on the shelf Blues in my bedroom Cause I’m

sleepin’ by myself

“Hi, dumplin’. Where your socks?” Marie seldom called Pecola the

same thing twice, but invariably her epithets were fond ones

chosen from menus and dishes that were forever uppermost in her

mind.

“Hello, Miss Marie. Hello, Miss China. Hello, Miss Poland.” “You

heard me. Where your socks? You as bare-legged as a yard

dog.” “I couldn’t find any.” “Couldn’t find any? Must be

somethin’ in your house that loves

socks.” China chuckled. Whenever something was missing, Marie

attributed its disappearance to “something in the house that

loved it.” “There is somethin’ in this house that loves

brassieres,” she would say with alarm. Poland and China were

getting ready for the evening. Poland, forever ironing, forever

singing. China, sitting on a pale-green kitchen chair, forever

and forever curling her hair. Marie never got ready. The women

were friendly, but slow to begin talk. Pecola always took the

initiative with Marie, who, once inspired, was difficult to stop.

“How come you got so many boyfriends, Miss Marie?” “Boyfriends?

Boyfriends? Chittlin’, I ain’t seen a boy since nineteen and

twenty-seven.” “You didn’t see none then.” China stuck the hot

curlers into a tin of Nu Nile hair dressing. The oil hissed at

the touch of the hot metal. “How come, Miss Marie?” Pecola

insisted. “How come what? How come I ain’t seen a boy since

nineteen and twenty-seven? Because they ain’t been no boys since

then. That’s when they stopped. Folks started gettin’ born old.”

“You mean that’s when you got old,” China said. “I ain’t never

got old. Just fat.” “Same thing.” “You think ‘cause you skinny,

folks think you young? You’d mak a haint buy a girdle.” “And you

look like the north side of a southbound mule.” “All I know is,

them bandy little legs of yours is every bit as old as mine.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout my bandy legs. That’s the first thing they

push aside.” All three of the women laughed. Marie threw back her

head. From deep inside, her laughter came like the sound of many

rivers, freely, deeply, muddily, heading for the room of an open

sea. China giggled spastically. Each gasp seemed to be yanked out

of her by an unseen hand jerking an unseen string. Poland, who

seldom spoke unless she was drunk, laughed without sound. When

she was sober she hummed mostly or chanted blues songs, of which

she knew many. Pecola fingered the fringe of a scarf that lay on

the back of a sofa. “I never seen nobody with as many boyfriends

as you got, Miss Marie. How come they all love you?” Marie opened

a bottle of root beer. “What else they gone do? They know I’m

rich and good-lookin’. They wants to put their toes in my curly

hair, and get at my money.” “You rich, Miss Marie?”

“Puddin’, I got money’s mammy.” “Where you get it from? You

don’t do no work.” “Yeah,” said China, “where you get it

from?” “Hoover give it me. I did him a favor once, for the F. B.

and I.” “What’d you do?” “I did him a favor. They wanted to catch

this crook, you see. Name of Johnny. He was as low-down as they

come….” “We know that.” China arranged a curl. “… the F.

B. and I. wanted him bad. He killed more people than TH. And if

you crossed him? Whoa, Jesus! He’d run you as long as there was

ground. Well, I was little and cute then. No more than ninety

pounds, soaking wet.” “You ain’t never been soaking wet,” China

said. “Well, you ain’t never been dry. Shut up. Let me tell you,

sweetnin’. To tell it true, I was the only one could handle him.

He’d go out and rob a bank or kill some people, and I’d say to

him, soft-like, ‘Johnny, you shouldn’t do that.’ And he’d say he

just had to bring me pretty

things. Lacy drawers and all. And every Saturday we’d get a case

of beer and fry up some fish. We’d fry it in meal and egg batter,

you know, and when it was all brown and crisp—not hard,

though—we’d break open that cold beer….” Marie’s eyes went

soft as the memory of just such a meal sometime, somewhere

transfixed her. All her stories were subject to breaking down at

descriptions of food. Pecola saw Marie’s teeth settling down into

the back of crisp sea bass; saw the fat fingers putting back into

her mouth tiny flakes of white, hot meat that had escaped from

her lips; she heard the “pop” of the beer-bottle cap; smelled the

acridness of the first stream of vapor; felt the cold beeriness

hit the tongue. She ended the daydream long before Marie. “But

what about the money?” she asked. China hooted. “She’s makin’

like she’s the Lady in Red that told on Dillinger. Dillinger

wouldn’t have come near you lessen he was going hunting in Africa

and shoot you for a hippo.” “Well, this hippo had a ball back in

Chicago. Whoa Jesus, ninety nine!” “How come you always say ‘Whoa

Jesus’ and a number?” Pecola had long wanted to know. “Because my

mama taught me never to cuss.” “Did she teach you not to drop

your drawers?” China asked. “Didn’t have none,” said Marie.

“Never saw a pair of drawers till I was fifteen, when I left

Jackson and was doing day work in Cincinnati. My white lady gave

me some old ones of hers. I thought they was some kind of

stocking cap. I put it on my head when I dusted. When she saw me,

she liked to fell out.” “You must have been one dumb somebody.”

China lit a cigarette and cooled her irons. “How’d I know?” Marie

paused. “And what’s the use of putting on something you got to

keep taking off all the time? Dewey never let me keep them on

long enough to get used to them.” Dewey who?” This was a somebody

new to Pecola.

“Dewey who? Chicken! You never heard me tell of Dewey?” Marie

was shocked by her negligence. “No, ma’am.” “Oh, honey, you’ve

missed half your life. Whoa Jesus, one-ninety! You talkin’

‘bout smooth! I met him when I was fourteen. We ran away and

lived together like married for three years. You know all those

klinker-tops you see runnin’ up here? Fifty of ‘em in a bowl

wouldn’t make a Dewey Prince ankle bone. Oh, Lord. How that man

loved me!” China arranged a fingerful of hair into a bang effect.

“Then why left you to sell tail?” “Girl, when I found out I could

sell it—that somebody would pay cold cash for it, you could have

knocked me over with a feather.” Poland began to laugh.

Soundlessly. “Me too. My auntie whipped me good that first time

when I told her I didn’t get no money. I said ‘Money? For what?

He didn’t owe me nothin’.’ She said, ‘The hell he didn’t!’” They

all dissolved in laughter. Three merry gargoyles. Three merry

harridans. Amused by a long ago time of ignorance. They did not

belong to those generations of prostitutes created in novels,

with great and generous hearts, dedicated, because of the horror

of circumstance, to ameliorating, the luckless, barren life of

men, taking money incidentally and humbly for their

“understanding.” Nor were they from that sensitive breed of young

girl, gone wrong at the hands of fate, forced to cultivate an

outward brittleness in order to protect her springtime from

further shock, but knowing full well she was cut out for better

things, and could make the right man happy. Neither were they the

sloppy, inadequate whores who, unable to make a living at it

alone, turn to drug consumption and traffic or pimps to help

complete their scheme of self-destruction, avoiding suicide only

to punish the memory of some absent father or to sustain the

misery of some silent mother. Except for Marie’s fabled love for

Dewey Prince, these women hated men, all men, without

shame, apology, or discrimination. They abused their visitors

with a scorn grown mechanical from use. Black men, white men,

Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Jews, Poles, whatever—all were

inadequate and weak, all came under their jaundiced eyes and were

the recipients of their disinterested wrath. They took delight in

cheating them. On one occasion the town well knew, they lured a

Jew up the stairs, pounced on him, all three, held him up by the

heels, shook everything out of his pants pockets, and threw him

out of the window. Neither did they have respect for women, who,

although not their colleagues, so to speak, nevertheless deceived

their husbands—regularly or irregularly, it made no difference.

“Sugar-coated whores,” they called them, and did not yearn to be

in their shoes. Their only respect was for what they would have

described as “good Christian colored women.” The woman whose

reputation was spotless, and who tended to her family, who didn’t

drink or smoke or run around. These women had their undying, if

covert, affection. They would sleep with their husbands, and take

their money, but always with a vengeance. Nor were they

protective and solicitous of youthful innocence. They looked back

on their own youth as a period of ignorance, and regretted that

they had not made more of it. They were not young girls in

whores’ clothing, or whores regretting their loss of innocence.

They were whores in whores’ clothing, whores who had never been

young and had no word for innocence. With Pecola they were as

free as they were with each other. Marie concocted stories for

her because she was a child, but the stories were breezy and

rough. If Pecola had announced her intention to live the life

they did, they would not have tried to dissuade her or voiced any

alarm. “You and Dewey Prince have any children, Miss Marie?”

“Yeah. Yeah. We had some.” Marie fidgeted. She pulled a bobby pin

from her hair and began to pick her teeth. That meant she didn’t

want to talk anymore. Pecola went to the window and looked down

at the empty street. A tuft of grass had forced its way up

through a crack in the sidewalk,

only to meet a raw October wind. She thought of Dewey Prince and

how he loved Miss Marie. What did love feel like? she wondered.

How do grown-ups act when they love each other? Eat fish

together??! Into her eyes came the picture of Cholly and Mrs.

Breedlove in bed. He making sounds as though he were in pain, as

though something had him by the throat and wouldn’t let go.

Terrible as his noises were, they were not nearly as bad as the

no noise at all from her mother. It was as though she was not

even there. Maybe that was love. Choking sounds and silence.

Turning her eyes from the window, Pecola looked at the women.

China had changed her mind about the bangs and was arranging a

small but sturdy pompadour. She was adept in creating any number

of hair styles, but each one left her with a pinched and harassed

look. Then she applied makeup heavily. Now she gave herself

surprised eyebrows and a cupid-bow mouth. Later she would make

Oriental eyebrows and an evilly slashed mouth. Poland, in her

sweet strawberry voice, began another song:

I know a boy who is sky-soft brown I know a boy who is sky-soft

brown The dirt leaps for joy when his feet touch the ground. His

strut is a peacock His eye is burning brass His smile is sorghum

syrup drippin’ slow-sweet to the last I know a boy who is

sky-soft brown

Marie sat shelling peanuts and popping them into her mouth.

Pecola looked and looked at the women. Were they real? Marie

belched, softly, purringly, lovingly.

Winter

My daddy’s face is a study. Winter moves into it and presides

there. His eyes become a cliff of snow threatening to avalanche;

his eyebrows bend like black limbs of leafless trees. His skin

takes on the pale, cheerless yellow of winter sun; for a jaw he

has the edges of a snowbound field dotted with stubble; his high

forehead is the frozen sweep of the Erie, hiding currents of

gelid thoughts that eddy in darkness. Wolf killer turned hawk

fighter, he worked night and day to keep one from the door and

the other from under the windowsills. A Vulcan guarding the

flames, he gives us instructions about which doors to keep closed

or opened for proper distribution of heat, lays kindling by,

discusses qualities of coal, and teaches us how to rake, feed,

and bank the fire. And he will not unrazor his lips until spring.

Winter tightened our heads with a band of cold and melted our

eyes. We put pepper in the feet of our stockings, Vaseline on our

faces, and stared through dark icebox mornings at four stewed

prunes, slippery lumps of oatmeal, and cocoa with a roof of skin.

But mostly we waited for spring, when there could be gardens. By

the time this winter had stiffened itself into a hateful knot

that nothing could loosen, something did loosen it, or rather

someone. A someone who splintered the knot into silver threads

that tangled us, netted us, made us long for the dull chafe of

the previous boredom. This disrupter of seasons was a new girl in

school named Maureen Peal. A high-yellow dream child with long

brown hair braided into two lynch ropes that hung down her back.

She was rich, at least by our standards, as rich as the richest

of the white girls, swaddled in comfort and care. The quality of

her clothes threatened to derange Frieda and me. Patent-leather

shoes with buckles, a cheaper version of which we got only at

Easter and which had disintegrated by the end of May.

Fluffy sweaters the color of lemon drops tucked into skirts with

pleats so orderly they astounded us. Brightly colored knee socks

with white borders, a brown velvet coat trimmed in white rabbit

fur, and a matching muff. There was a hint of spring in her sloe

green eyes, something summery in her complexion, and a rich

autumn ripeness in her walk. She enchanted the entire school.

When teachers called on her, they smiled encouragingly. Black

boys didn’t trip her in the halls; white boys didn’t stone her,

white girls didn’t suck their teeth when she was assigned to be

their work partners; black girls stepped aside when she wanted to

use the sink in the girls’ toilet, and their eyes genuflected

under sliding lids. She never had to search for anybody to eat

with in the cafeteria—they flocked to the table of her choice,

where she opened fastidious lunches, shaming our jelly-stained

bread with egg-salad sandwiches cut into four dainty squares,

pink-frosted cupcakes, sticks of celery and carrots, proud, dark

apples. She even bought and liked white milk. Frieda and I were

bemused, irritated, and fascinated by her. We looked hard for

flaws to restore our equilibrium, but had to be content at first

with uglying up her name, changing Maureen Peal to Meringue Pie.

Later a minor epiphany was ours when we discovered that she had a

dog tooth—a charming one to be sure—but a dog tooth

nonetheless. And when we found out that she had been born with

six fingers on each hand and that there was a little bump where

each extra one had been removed, we smiled. They were small

triumphs, but we took what we could get—snickering behind her

back and calling her Six-finger-dog-tooth-meringue-pie. But we

had to do it alone, for none of the other girls would cooperate

with our hostility. They adored her. When she was assigned a

locker next to mine, I could indulge my jealousy four times a

day. My sister and I both suspected that we were secretly

prepared to be her friend, if she would let us, but I knew it

would be a dangerous friendship, for when my eye traced the white

border patterns of those Kelly-green knee socks, and felt the

pull and

lack of my brown stockings, I wanted to kick her. And when I

thought of the unearned haughtiness in her eyes, I plotted

accidental slammings of locker doors on her hand. As locker

friends, however, we got to know each other a little, and I was

even able to hold a sensible conversation with her without

visualizing her fall off a cliff, or giggling my way into what I

thought was a clever insult. One day, while I waited at the

locker for Frieda, she joined me. “Hi.” “Hi.” “Waiting for your

sister?” “Uh-huh.” “Which way do you go home?” “Down Twenty-first

Street to Broadway.” “Why don’t you go down Twenty-second

Street?” “‘Cause I live on Twenty-first Street.” “Oh. I can walk

that way, I guess. Partly, anyway.” “Free country.” Frieda came

toward us, her brown stockings straining at the knees because she

had tucked the toe under to hide a hole in the foot. “Maureen’s

gonna walk part way with us.” Frieda and I exchanged glances, her

eyes begging my restraint, mine promising nothing. It was a false

spring day, which, like Maureen, had pierced the shell of a

deadening winter. There were puddles, mud, and an inviting warmth

that deluded us. The kind of day on which we draped our coats

over our heads, left our galoshes in school, and came down with

croup the following day. We always responded to the slightest

change in weather, the most minute shifts in time of day. Long

before seeds were stirring, Frieda and I were scruffing and

poking at the earth, swallowing air, drinking rain…. As we

emerged from the school with Maureen, we began to moult

immediately. We put our head scarves in our coat pockets, and our

coats on our heads. I was wondering how to maneuver Maureen’s fur

muff into a gutter when a commotion in the playground distracted

us. A group of boys was circling and holding at bay a victim,

Pecola Breedlove. Bay Boy, Woodrow Cain, Buddy Wilson, Junie

Bug—like a necklace of semiprecious stones they surrounded her.

Heady with the smell of their own musk, thrilled by the easy

power of a majority, they gaily harassed her. “Black e mo. Black

e mo. Yadaddsleepsnekked. Black e mo black e mo ya dadd sleeps

nekked. Black e mo …”  They had extemporized a verse made up

of two insults about matters over which the victim had no

control; the color of her skin and speculations on the sleeping

habits of an adult, wildly fitting in its incoherence.  That they

themselves were black, or that their own father had similarly

relaxed habits was irrelevant. It was their contempt for their

own blackness that gave the first insult its teeth. They seemed

to have taken all of their smoothly cultivated ignorance, their

exquisitely learned self-hatred, their elaborately designed

hopelessness and sucked it all up into a fiery cone of scorn that

had burned for ages in the hollows of their minds—cooled—and

spilled over lips of outrage, consuming whatever was in its path.

They danced a macabre ballet around the victim, whom, for their

own sake, they were prepared to sacrifice to the flaming pit.

Black e mo Black e mo Ya daddy sleeps nekked Stch ta ta stch ta

ta stach ta ta ta ta ta

Pecola edged around the circle crying. She had dropped her

notebook, and covered her eyes with her hands. We watched, afraid

they might notice us and turn their energies our way. Then

Frieda, with set lips and Mama’s eyes, snatched her coat from her

head and threw it on the ground. She ran toward them and brought

her books down on Woodrow Cain’s head. The circle broke. Woodrow

Cain grabbed his head.

“Hey, girl!” “You cut that out, you hear?” I had never heard

Frieda’s voice so loud and clear. Maybe because Frieda was taller

than he was, maybe because he saw her eyes, maybe because he had

lost interest in the game, or maybe because he had a crush on

Frieda, in any case Woodrow looked frightened just long enough to

give her more courage. “Leave her ‘lone, or I’m gone tell

everybody what you did!” Woodrow did not answer; he just walled

his eyes. Bay Boy piped up, “Go on, gal. Ain’t nobody bothering

you.” “You shut up, Bullet Head.” I had found my tongue. “Who you

calling Bullet Head?” “I’m calling you Bullet Head, Bullet Head.”

Frieda took Pecola’s hand. “Come on.” “You want a fat lip?” Bay

Boy drew back his fist at me. “Yeah. Gimme one of yours.” “You

gone get one.” Maureen appeared at my elbow, and the boys seemed

reluctant to continue under her springtime eyes so wide with

interest. They buckled in confusion, not willing to beat up three

girls under her watchful gaze. So they listened to a budding male

instinct that told them to pretend we were unworthy of their

attention. “Come on, man.” “Yeah. Come on. We ain’t got time to

fool with them.” Grumbling a few disinterested epithets, they

moved away. I picked up Pecola’s notebook and Frieda’s coat, and

the four of us left the playground. “Old Bullet Head, he’s always

picking on girls.” Frieda agreed with me. “Miss Forrester said he

was incorrigival.” Really?” I didn’t know what that meant, but it

had enough of a doom sound in it to be true of Bay Boy. While

Frieda and I clucked on about the near fight, Maureen,

suddenly animated, put her velvet-sleeved arm through Pecola’s

and began to behave as though they were the closest of friends.

“I just moved here. My name is Maureen Peal. What’s yours?”

“Pecola.” “Pecola? Wasn’t that the name of the girl in Imitation

of Life?” “I don’t know. What is that?” “The picture show, you

know. Where this mulatto girl hates her mother ‘cause she is

black and ugly but then cries at the funeral. It was real sad.

Everybody cries in it. Claudette Colbert too.” “Oh.” Pecola’s

voice was no more than a sigh. “Anyway, her name was Pecola too.

She was so pretty. When it comes back, I’m going to see it again.

My mother has seen it four times.” Frieda and I walked behind

them, surprised at Maureen’s friendliness to Pecola, but pleased.

Maybe she wasn’t so bad, after all. Frieda had put her coat back

on her head, and the two of us, so draped, trotted along

enjoying the warm breeze and Frieda’s heroics. “You’re in my gym

class, aren’t you?” Maureen asked Pecola. “Yes.” “Miss

Erkmeister’s legs sure are bow. I bet she thinks they’re cute.

How come she gets to wear real shorts, and we have to wear those

old bloomers? I want to die every time I put them on.” Pecola

smiled but did not look at Maureen. “Hey.” Maureen stopped short.

“There’s an Isaley’s. Want some ice cream? I have money.” She

unzipped a hidden pocket in her muff and pulled out a multifolded

dollar bill. I forgave her those knee socks. “My uncle sued

Isaley’s.” Maureen said to the three of us. “He sued the Isaley’s

in Akron. They said he was disorderly and that that was why they

wouldn’t serve him, but a friend of his, a policemen, came in and

beared the witness, so the suit went through.” “What’s a suit?”

“It’s when you can beat them up if you want to and won’t anybody

do nothing. Our family does it all the time. We believe in

suits.” At the entrance to Isaley’s Maureen turned to Frieda and

me, asking, “You all going to buy some ice cream?” We looked at

each other. “No,” Frieda said. Maureen disappeared into the store

with Pecola. Frieda looked placidly down the street; I opened my

mouth, but quickly closed it. It was extremely important that the

world not know that I fully expected Maureen to buy us some ice

cream, that for the past 120 seconds I had been selecting the

flavor, that I had begun to like Maureen, and that neither of us

had a penny. We supposed Maureen was being nice to Pecola because

of the boys, and were embarrassed to be caught—even by each

other—thinking that she would treat us, or that we deserved it

as much as Pecola did. The girls came out. Pecola with two dips

of orange-pineapple, Maureen with black raspberry. “You should

have got some,” she said. “They had all kinds. Don’t eat down to

the tip of the cone,” she advised Pecola. “Why?” “Because there’s

a fly in there.” “How you know?” “Oh, not really. A girl told me

she found one in the bottom of hers once, and ever since then she

throws that part away.” “Oh.”

We passed the Dreamland Theater, and Betty Grable smiled down at

us. “Don’t you just love her?” Maureen asked. “Uh-huh,” said

Pecola. I differed. “Hedy Lamarr is better.” Maureen agreed.

“Ooooo yes. My mother told me that a girl named Audrey, she went

to the beauty parlor where we lived before, and asked the lady to

fix her hair like Hedy Lamarr’s, and the lady said, ‘Yeah,

when you grow some hair like Hedy Lamarr’s.’” She laughed long

and sweet. “Sounds crazy,” said Frieda. “She sure is. Do you know

she doesn’t even menstrate yet, and she’s sixteen. Do you, yet?”

“Yes.” Pecola glanced at us. “So do I.” Maureen made no attempt

to disguise her pride. “Two months ago I started. My girl friend

in Toledo, where we lived before, said when she started she was

scared to death. Thought she had killed herself.” “Do you know

what it’s for?” Pecola asked the question as though hoping to

provide the answer herself. “For babies.” Maureen raised two

pencil-stroke eyebrows at the obviousness of the question.

“Babies need blood when they are inside you, and if you are

having a baby, then you don’t menstrate. But when you’re not

having a baby, then you don’t have to save the blood, so it comes

out.” “How do babies get the blood?” asked Pecola. “Through the

like-line. You know. Where your belly button is. That is where

the like-line grows from and pumps the blood to the baby.” “Well,

if the belly buttons are to grow like-lines to give the baby

blood, and only girls have babies, how come boys have belly

buttons?” Maureen hesitated. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But

boys have all sorts of things they don’t need.” Her tinkling

laughter was somehow stronger than our nervous ones. She curled

her tongue around the edge of the cone, scooping up a dollop of

purple that made my eyes water. We were waiting for a stop light

to change. Maureen kept scooping the ice cream from around the

cone’s edge with her tongue; she didn’t bite the edge as I would

have done. Her tongue circled the cone. Pecola had finished hers;

Maureen evidently liked her things to last. While I was thinking

about her ice cream, she must have been

thinking about her last remark, for she said to Pecola, “Did you

ever see a naked man?” Pecola blinked, then looked away. “No.

Where would I see a naked man?” “I don’t know. I just asked.” “I

wouldn’t even look at him, even if I did see him. That’s dirty.

Who wants to see a naked man?” Pecola was agitated. “Nobody’s

father would be naked in front of his own daughter. Not unless he

was dirty too.” “I didn’t say ‘father.’ I just said ‘a naked

man.’” “Well …” “How come you said ‘father’?” Maureen wanted

to know. “Who else would she see, dog tooth?” I was glad to have

a chance to show anger. Not only because of the ice cream, but

because we had seen our own father naked and didn’t care to be

reminded of it and feel the shame brought on by the absence of

shame. He had been walking down the hall from the bathroom into

his bedroom and passed the open door of our room. We had lain

there wide-eyed. He stopped and looked in, trying to see in the

dark room whether we were really asleep—or was it his

imagination that opened eyes were looking at him? Apparently he

convinced himself that we were sleeping. He moved away, confident

that his little girls would not lie open-eyed like that, staring,

staring. When he had moved on, the dark took only him away, not

his nakedness. That stayed in the room with us. Friendly-like.

“I’m not talking to you,” said Maureen. “Besides, I don’t care if

she sees her father naked. She can look at him all day if she

wants to. Who cares?” “You do,” said Frieda. “That’s all you talk

about.” “It is not.” “It is so. Boys, babies, and somebody’s

naked daddy. You must be boy-crazy.”

“You better be quiet.” “Who’s gonna make me?” Frieda put her hand

on her hip and jutted her face toward Maureen. “You all ready

made. Mammy made.” “You stop talking about my mama.” “Well, you

stop talking about my daddy.” “Who said anything about your old

daddy?” “You did.” “Well, you started it.” “I wasn’t even talking

to you. I was talking to Pecola.” “Yeah. About seeing her naked

daddy.” “So what if she did see him?” Pecola shouted, “I never

saw my daddy naked. Never.” “You did too,” Maureen snapped. “Bay

Boy said so.” “I did not.” “You did.” “I did not.” “Did Your own

daddy, too!” Pecola tucked her head in—a funny, sad, helpless

movement. A kind of hunching of the shoulders, pulling in of the

neck, as though she wanted to cover her ears. “You stop talking

about her daddy,” I said. “What do I care about her old black

daddy?” asked Maureen. “Black? Who you calling black?” “You!”

“You think you so cute!” I swung at her and missed, hitting

Pecola in the face. Furious at my clumsiness, I threw my notebook

at her, but it caught her in the small of her velvet back, for

she had turned and was flying across the street against traffic.

Safe on the other side, she screamed at us, “I am cute! And you

ugly! Black and ugly black e mos. I am cute!” She ran down the

street, the green knee socks making her legs look like wild

dandelion stems that had somehow lost their heads. The

weight of her remark stunned us, and it was a second or two

before Frieda and I collected ourselves enough to shout,

“Six-finger-dog-tooth-meringue-pie!” We chanted this most

powerful of our arsenal of insults as long as we could see the

green stems and rabbit fur. Grown people frowned at the three

girls on the curbside, two with their coats draped over their

heads, the collars framing the eyebrows like nuns’ habits, black

garters showing where they bit the tops of brown stockings that

barely covered the knees, angry faces knotted like dark

cauliflowers. Pecola stood a little apart from us, her eyes

hinged in the direction in which Maureen had fled. She seemed to

fold into herself, like a pleated wing. Her pain antagonized me.

I wanted to open her up, crisp her edges, ram a stick down that

hunched and curving spine, force her to stand erect and spit the

misery out on the streets. But she held it in where it could lap

up into her eyes. Frieda snatched her coat from her head. “Come

on, Claudia. ‘Bye, Pecola.” We walked quickly at first, and then

slower, pausing every now and then to fasten garters, tie

shoelaces, scratch, or examine old scars. We were sinking under

the wisdom, accuracy, and relevance of Maureen’s last words. If

she was cute—and if anything could be believed, she was—then we

were not. And what did that mean? We were lesser. Nicer,

brighter, but still lesser. Dolls we could destroy, but we could

not destroy the honey voices of parents and aunts, the obedience

in the eyes of our peers, the slippery light in the eyes of our

teachers when they encountered the Maureen Peals of the world.

What was the secret? What did we lack? Why was it important? And

so what? Guileless and without vanity, we were still in love with

ourselves then. We felt comfortable in our skins, enjoyed the

news that our senses released to us, admired our dirt, cultivated

our scars, and could not comprehend this unworthiness. Jealousy

we understood and thought natural—a desire to have what somebody

else had; but envy was a

strange, new feeling for us. And all the time we knew that

Maureen Peal was not the Enemy and not worthy of such intense

hatred. The Thing to fear was the Thing that made her beautiful,

and not us. The house was quiet when we opened the door. The

acrid smell of simmering turnips filled our cheeks with sour

saliva. “Mama!” There was no answer, but a sound of feet. Mr.

Henry shuffled part of the way down the stairs. One thick,

hairless leg leaned out of his bathrobe. “Hello there, Greta

Garbo; hello, Ginger Rogers.” We gave him the giggle he was

accustomed to. “Hello, Mr. Henry. Where’s Mama?” “She went to

your grandmaw’s. Left word for you to cut off the turnips and eat

some graham crackers till she got back. They in the kitchen.” We

sat in silence at the kitchen table, crumbling the crackers into

anthills. In a little while Mr. Henry came back down the stairs.

Now he had his trousers on under his robe. “Say. Wouldn’t you all

like some cream?” “Oh, yes, sir.” “Here. Here’s a quarter. Gone

over to Isaley’s and get yourself some cream. You been good

girls, ain’t you?” His light-green words restored color to the

day. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Henry. Will you tell Mama for us

if she comes?” “Sure. But she ain’t due back for a spell.”

Coatless, we left the house and had gotten all the way to the

corner when Frieda said, “I don’t want to go to Isaley’s.”

“What?” “I don’t want ice cream. I want potato chips.” “They got

potato chips at Isaley’s.” “I know, but why go all that long way?

Miss Bertha got potato chips.” “But I want ice cream.”

“No you don’t, Claudia.” “I do too.” “Well, you go on to

Isaley’s. I’m going to Miss Bertha’s.” “But you got the quarter,

and I don’t want to go all the way up there by myself.” “Then

let’s go to Miss Bertha’s. You like her candy, don’t you?” “It’s

always stale, and she always runs out of stuff.” “Today is

Friday. She orders fresh on Friday.” “And then that crazy old

Soaphead Church lives there.” “So what? We’re together. We’ll run

if he does anything at us.” “He scares me.” “Well, I don’t want

to go up by Isaley’s. Suppose Meringue Pie is hanging around. You

want to run into her, Claudia?” “Come on, Frieda. I’ll get

candy.” Miss Bertha had a small candy, snuff, and tobacco store.

One brick room sitting in her front yard. You had to peep in the

door, and if she wasn’t there, you knocked on the door of her

house in back. This day she was sitting behind the counter

reading a Bible in a tube of sunlight. Frieda bought potato

chips, and we got three Powerhouse bars for ten cents, and had a

dime left. We hurried back home to sit under the lilac bushes on

the side of the house. We always did our Candy Dance there so

Rosemary could see us and get jealous. The Candy Dance was a

humming, skipping, foot-tapping, eating, smacking combination

that overtook us when we had sweets. Creeping between the bushes

and the side of the house, we heard voices and laughter. We

looked into the living-room window, expecting to see Mama.

Instead we saw Mr. Henry and two women. In a playful manner, the

way grandmothers do with babies, he was sucking the fingers of

one of the women, whose laughter filled a tiny place over his

head. The other woman was buttoning her coat. We knew immediately

who they were, and our flesh crawled. One was China, and the

other was called the Maginot Line. The back of my neck itched.

These were the fancy women of the

maroon nail polish that Mama and Big Mama hated. And in our

house. China was not too terrible, at least not in our

imaginations. She was thin, aging, absentminded, and

unaggressive. But the Maginot Line. That was the one my mother

said she “wouldn’t let eat out of one of her plates.” That was

the one church women never allowed their eyes to rest on. That

was the one who had killed people, set them on fire, poisoned

them, cooked them in lye. Although I thought the Maginot Line’s

face, hidden under all that fat, was really sweet, I had heard

too many black and red words about her, seen too many mouths go

triangle at the mention of her name, to dwell on any redeeming

features she might have. Showing brown teeth, China seemed to be

genuinely enjoying Mr. Henry. The sight of him licking her

fingers brought to mind the girlie magazines in his room. A cold

wind blew somewhere in me, lifting little leaves of terror and

obscure longing. I thought I saw a mild lonesomeness cross the

face of the Maginot Line. But it may have been my own image that

I saw in the slow flaring of her nostrils, in her eyes that

reminded me of waterfalls in movies about Hawaii. The Maginot

Line yawned and said, “Come on, China. We can’t hang in here all

day. Them people be home soon.” She moved toward the door. Frieda

and I dropped down to the ground, looking wildly into each

other’s eyes. When the women were some distance away, we went

inside. Mr. Henry was in the kitchen opening a bottle of pop.

“Back already?” “Yes, sir.” “Cream all gone?” His little teeth

looked so kindly and helpless. Was that really our Mr. Henry with

China’s fingers? “We got candy instead.” “You did huh? Ole

sugar-tooth Greta Garbo.” He wiped the bottle sweat and turned it

up to his lips—a gesture that made me uncomfortable.

“Who were those women, Mr. Henry?” He choked on the pop and

looked at Frieda. “What you say?” “Those women,” she repeated,

“who just left. Who were they?” “Oh.” He laughed the grown-up

getting-ready-to-lie laugh. A heh-heh we knew well. “Those were

some members of my Bible class. We read the scriptures together,

and so they came today to read with me.” “Oh,” said Frieda. I was

looking at his house slippers to keep from seeing those kindly

teeth frame a lie. He walked toward the stairs and then turned

back to us. “Bed’ not mention it to your mother. She don’t take

to so much Bible study and don’t like me having visitors, even if

they good Christians.” “No, sir, Mr. Henry. We won’t.” He rapidly

mounted the stairs. “Should we?” I asked. “Tell Mama?” Frieda

sighed. She had not even opened her Powerhouse bar or her potato

chips, and now she traced the letters on the candy wrappers with

her fingers. Suddenly she lifted her head and began to look all

around the kitchen. “No. i guess not. No plates are out.”

“Plates? What you talking about now?” “No plates are out. The

Maginot Line didn’t eat out of one of Mama’s plates. Besides,

Mama would just fuss all day if we told her,” We sat down and

looked at the graham-cracker anthills we had made. “We better cut

off the turnips. They’ll burn, and Mama will whip us,” she said.

“I know.” “But if we let them burn, we won’t have to eat them.”

“Heyyy, what a lovely idea,” I thought. “Which you want? A

whipping and no turnips, or turnips and no whippings?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we could burn them just a little so Mama and

Daddy can eat them, but we can say we can’t.” “O.K.” I made a

volcano out of my anthill. “Frieda?” “What?” “What did Woodward

do that you was gonna tell?” “Wet the bed. Mrs. Cain told Mama he

won’t quit.” “Old nasty.” The sky was getting dark; I looked out

of the window and saw snow falling. I poked my finger down into

the mouth of my volcano, and it toppled, dispersing the golden

grains into little swirls. The turnip pot crackled.

SEETHECATITGOESMEOWMEOWCOMEANDPLAYCOMEPL

AYWITHJANETHEKITTENWILLNOTPLAYPLAYPLAYPLA

They come from Mobile. Aiken. From Newport News. From Marietta.

From Meridian. And the sounds of these places in their mouths

make you think of love. When you ask them where they are from,

they tilt their heads and say “Mobile” and you think you’ve been

kissed. They say “Aiken” and you see a white butterfly glance off

a fence with a torn wing. They say “Nagadoches” and you want to

say “Yes, I will.” You don’t know what these towns are like, but

you love what happens to the air when they open their lips and

let the names ease out. Meridian. The sound of it opens the

windows of a room like the first four notes of a hymn. Few people

can say the names of their home towns with such sly affection.

Perhaps because they don’t have home towns, just places where

they were born. But these girls soak up the juice of their home

towns, and it never leaves them. They are thin brown girls who

have looked long at hollyhocks in the backyards of Meridian,

Mobile, Aiken, and Baton Rouge. And like hollyhocks they are

narrow, tall, and still. Their roots are deep, their stalks are

firm, and only the top blossom nods in the wind. They have the

eyes of people who can tell what time it is by the color of the

sky. Such girls live in quiet black neighborhoods where everybody

is gainfully employed. Where there are porch swings hanging from

chains. Where the grass is cut with a scythe, where rooster combs

and sunflowers grow in the yards, and pots of bleeding heart,

ivy, and mother-in-law tongue line the steps and windowsills.

Such girls have bought watermelon and snapbeans from the fruit

man’s wagon. They have put in the window the cardboard sign that

has a pound measure printed on each of three edges—10 lbs., 25

lbs., 50 lbs.—and no ice on the fourth. These particular brown

girls from Mobile and Aiken are not like some of

their sisters. They are not fretful, nervous, or shrill; they do

not have lovely black necks that stretch as though against an

invisible collar; their eyes do not bite. These sugar-brown

Mobile girls move through the streets without a stir. They are as

sweet and plain as buttercake. Slim ankles; long, narrow feet.

They wash themselves with orange-colored Lifebuoy soap, dust

themselves with Cashmere Bouquet talc, clean their teeth with

salt on a piece of rag, soften their skin with Jergens Lotion.

They smell like wood, newspapers, and vanilla. They straighten

their hair with Dixie Peach, and part it on the side. At night

they curl it in paper from brown bags, tie a print scarf around

their heads, and sleep with hands folded across their stomachs.

They do not drink, smoke, or swear, and they still call sex

“nookey.” They sing second soprano in the choir, and although

their voices are clear and steady, they are never picked to solo.

They are in the second row, white blouses starched, blue skirts

almost purple from ironing. They go to land-grant colleges,

normal schools, and learn how to do the white man’s work with

refinement: home economics to prepare his food; teacher education

to instruct black children in obedience; music to soothe the

weary master and entertain his blunted soul. Here they learn the

rest of the lesson begun in those soft houses with porch swings

and pots of bleeding heart: how to behave. The careful

development of thrift, patience, high morals, and good manners.

In short, how to get rid of the funkiness. The dreadful funkiness

of passion, the funkiness of nature, the funkiness of the wide

range of human emotions. Wherever it erupts, this Funk, they wipe

it away; where it crusts, they dissolve it; wherever it drips,

flowers, or clings, they find it and fight it until it dies. They

fight this battle all the way to the grave. The laugh that is a

little too loud; the enunciation a little too round; the gesture

a little too generous. They hold their behind in for fear of a

sway too free; when they wear lipstick, they never cover the

entire mouth for fear of lips too thick, and they worry, worry,

worry about the edges of their hair.

They never seem to have boyfriends, but they always marry.

Certain men watch them, without seeming to, and know that if such

a girl is in his house, he will sleep on sheets boiled white,

hung out to dry on juniper bushes, and pressed flat with a heavy

iron. There will be pretty paper flowers decorating the picture

of his mother, a large Bible in the front room. They feel secure.

They know their work clothes will be mended, washed, and ironed

on Monday, that their Sunday shirts will billow on hangers from

the door jamb, stiffly starched and white. They look at her hands

and know what she will do with biscuit dough; they smell the

coffee and the fried ham; see the white, smoky grits with a

dollop of butter on top. Her hips assure them that she will bear

children easily and painlessly. And they are right. What they do

not know is that this plain brown girl will build her nest stick

by stick, make it her own inviolable world, and stand guard over

its every plant, weed, and doily, even against him. In silence

will she return the lamp to where she put it in the first place;

remove the dishes from the table as soon as the last bite is

taken; wipe the doorknob after a greasy hand has touched it. A

sidelong look will be enough to tell him to smoke on the back

porch. Children will sense instantly that they cannot come into

her yard to retrieve a ball. But the men do not know these

things. Nor do they know that she will give him her body

sparingly and partially. He must enter her surreptitiously,

lifting the hem of her nightgown only to her navel. He must rest

his weight on his elbows when they make love, ostensibly to avoid

hurting her breasts but actually to keep her from having to touch

or feel too much of him. While he moves inside her, she will

wonder why they didn’t put the necessary but private parts of the

body in some more convenient place —like the armpit, for

example, or the palm of the hand. Someplace one could get to

easily, and quickly, without undressing. She stiffens when she

feels one of her paper curlers coming undone from the activity of

love; imprints in her mind which one it is that is coming loose

so she can quickly secure it once he is through. She hopes he

will not sweat—

the damp may get into her hair; and that she will remain dry

between her legs—she hates the glucking sound they make when she

is moist. When she senses some spasm about to grip him, she will

make rapid movements with her hips, press her fingernails into

his back, suck in her breath, and pretend she is having an

orgasm. She might wonder again, for the six hundredth time, what

it would be like to have that feeling while her husband’s penis

is inside her. The closest thing to it was the time she was

walking down the street and her napkin slipped free of her

sanitary belt. It moved gently between her legs as she walked.

Gently, ever so gently. And then a slight and distinctly

delicious sensation collected in her crotch. As the delight grew,

she had to stop in the street, hold her thighs together to

contain it. That must be what it is like, she thinks, but it

never happens while he is inside her. When he withdraws, she

pulls her nightgown down, slips out of the bed and into the

bathroom with relief. Occasionally some living thing will engage

her affections. A cat, perhaps, who will love her order,

precision, and constancy; who will be as clean and quiet as she

is. The cat will settle quietly on the windowsill and caress her

with his eyes. She can hold him in her arms, letting his back

paws struggle for footing on her breast and his forepaws cling to

her shoulder. She can rub the smooth fur and feel the unresisting

flesh underneath. At her gentlest touch he will preen, stretch,

and open his mouth. And she will accept the strangely pleasant

sensation that comes when he writhes beneath her hand and

flattens his eyes with a surfeit of sensual delight. When she

stands cooking at the table, he will circle about her shanks, and

the trill of his fur spirals up her legs to her thighs, to make

her fingers tremble a little in the pie dough. Or, as she sits

reading the “Uplifting Thoughts” in The Liberty Magazine, the cat

will jump into her lap. She will fondle that soft hill of hair

and let the warmth of the animal’s body seep over and into the

deeply private areas of her lap. Sometimes the magazine drops,

and she opens her legs just a little, and the two of them will be

still together,

perhaps shifting a little together, sleeping a little together,

until four o’clock, when the intruder comes home from work

vaguely anxious about what’s for dinner. The cat will always know

that he is first in her affections. Even after she bears a child.

For she does bear a child—easily, and painlessly. But only one.

A son. Named Junior. One such girl from Mobile, or Meridian, or

Aiken who did not sweat in her armpits nor between her thighs,

who smelled of wood and vanilla, who had made souffles in the

Home Economics Department, moved with her husband, Louis, to

Lorain, Ohio. Her name was Geraldine. There she built her nest,

ironed shirts, potted bleeding hearts, played with her cat, and

birthed Louis Junior. Geraldine did not allow her baby, Junior,

to cry. As long as his needs were physical, she could meet

them—comfort and satiety. He was always brushed, bathed, oiled,

and shod. Geraldine did not talk to him, coo to him, or indulge

him in kissing bouts, but she saw that every other desire was

fulfilled. It was not long before the child discovered the

difference in his mother’s behavior to himself and the cat. As he

grew older, he learned how to direct his hatred of his mother to

the cat, and spent some happy moments watching it suffer. The cat

survived, because Geraldine was seldom away from home, and could

effectively soothe the animal when Junior abused him. Geraldine,

Louis, Junior, and the cat lived next to the playground of

Washington Irving School. Junior considered the playground his

own, and the schoolchildren coveted his freedom to sleep late, go

home for lunch, and dominate the playground after school. He

hated to see the swings, slides, monkey bars, and seesaws empty

and tried to get kids to stick around as long as possible. White

kids; his mother did not like him to play with niggers. She had

explained to him the difference between colored people and

niggers. They were easily identifiable. Colored people were neat

and quiet; niggers were dirty and loud. He belonged to the former

group—he wore white shirts and blue trousers; his hair was cut

as close to his scalp as possible to avoid any suggestion of

wool, the part was etched into his hair by the barber. In winter

his mother put Jergens Lotion on his face to keep the skin from

becoming ashen. Even though he was light-skinned, it was possible

to ash.  The line between colored and nigger was not always clear;

subtle and telltale signs threatened to erode it, and the watch

had to be constant. Junior used to long to play with the black

boys. More than anything in the world he wanted to play King of

the Mountain and have them push him down the mound of dirt and

roll over him. He wanted to feel their hardness pressing on him,

smell their wild blackness, and say “Fuck you” with that lovely

casualness. He wanted to sit with them on curbstones and compare

the sharpness of jackknives, the distance and arcs of spitting.

In the toilet he wanted to share with them the laurels of being

able to pee far and long. Bay Boy and P. L. had at one time been

his idols. Gradually he came to agree with his mother that

neither Bay Boy nor P. L. was good enough for him. He played only

with Ralph Nisensky, who was two years younger, wore glasses, and

didn’t want to do anything. More and more Junior enjoyed bullying

girls. It was easy making them scream and run. How he laughed

when they fell down and their bloomers showed. When they got up,

their faces red and crinkled, it made him feel good. The nigger

girls he did not pick on very much. They usually traveled in

packs, and once when he threw a stone at some of them, they

chased, caught, and beat him witless. He lied to his mother,

saying Bay Boy did it. His mother was very upset. His father just

kept on reading the Lor^m Journal. When the mood struck him, he

would call a child passing by to come play on the swings or the

seesaw. If the child wouldn’t, or did and left too soon, Junior

threw gravel at him. He became a very good shot. Alternately

bored and frightened at home, the playground was his joy. On a

day when he had been especially idle, he saw a very black girl

taking a shortcut through the playground. She kept her head down

as she walked. He had seen her many times before, standing alone,

always alone, at recess. Nobody ever played with her. Probably, he

thought, because she was ugly. Now Junior called to her. “Hey!

What are you doing walking through my yard?” The girl stopped.

“Nobody can come through this yard ‘less I say so.” “This ain’t

your yard. It’s the school’s.” “But I’m in charge of it.” The

girl started to walk away. “Wait.” Junior walked toward her. “You

can play in it if you want to. What’s your name?” “Pecola. I

don’t want to play.” “Come on. I’m not going to bother you.” “I

got to go home.” “Say, you want to see something? I got something

to show you.” “No. What is it?” “Come on in my house. See, I live

right there. Come on. I’ll show you.” “Show me what?” “Some

kittens. We got some kittens. You can have one if you want.”

“Real kittens?” “Yeah. Come on.” He pulled gently at her dress.

Pecola began to move toward his house. When he knew she had

agreed, Junior ran ahead excitedly, stopping only to yell back at

her to come on. He held the door open for her, smiling his

encouragement. Pecola climbed the porch stairs and hesitated

there, afraid to follow him. The house looked dark. Junior said,

“There’s nobody here. My ma’s gone out, and my father’s at work.

Don’t you want to see the kittens?” Junior turned on the lights.

Pecola stepped inside the door. How beautiful, she thought. What

a beautiful house. There was a big red-and-gold Bible on the

dining-room table. Little lace doilies

were everywhere—on arms and backs of chairs, in the center of a

large dining table, on little tables. Potted plants were on all

the windowsills.  A color picture of Jesus Christ hung on a wall

with the prettiest paper flowers fastened on the frame. She

wanted to see everything slowly, slowly. But Junior kept saying,

“Hey, you. Come on. Come on.” He pulled her into another room,

even more beautiful than the first. More doilies, a big lamp with

green-and-gold base and white shade. There was even a rug on the

floor, with enormous dark-red flowers. She was deep in admiration

of the flowers when Junior said, “Here!” Pecola turned. “Here is

your kitten!” he screeched. And he threw a big black cat right in

her face. She sucked in her breath in fear and surprise and felt

fur in her mouth. The cat clawed her face and chest in an effort

to right itself, then leaped nimbly to the floor. Junior was

laughing and running around the room clutching his stomach

delightedly. Pecola touched the scratched place on her face and

felt tears coming. When she started toward the doorway, Junior

leaped in front of her. “You can’t get out. You’re my prisoner,”

he said. His eyes were merry but hard. “You let me go.” “No!” He

pushed her down, ran out the door that separated the rooms, and

held it shut with his hands. Pecola’s banging on the door

increased his gasping, high-pitched laughter. The tears came

fast, and she held her face in her hands. When something soft and

furry moved around her ankles, she jumped, and saw it was the

cat. He wound himself in and about her legs. Momentarily

distracted from her fear, she squatted down to touch him, her

hands wet from the tears. The cat rubbed up against her knee. He

was black all over, deep silky black, and his eyes, pointing down

toward his nose, were bluish green. The light made them shine

like blue ice. Pecola rubbed the cat’s head; he whined, his

tongue flicking with pleasure. The blue eyes in the black face

held her. Junior, curious at not hearing her sobs, opened the

door, and saw

her squatting down rubbing the cat’s back. He saw the cat

stretching its head and flattening its eyes. He had seen that

expression many times as the animal responded to his mother’s

touch. “Gimme my cat!” His voice broke. With a movement both

awkward and sure he snatched the cat by one of its hind legs and

began to swing it around his head in a circle. “Stop that!”

Pecola was screaming. The cat’s free paws were stiffened, ready

to grab anything to restore balance, its mouth wide, its eyes

blue streaks of horror. Still screaming, Pecola reached for

Junior’s hand. She heard her dress rip under her arm. Junior

tried to push her away, but she grabbed the arm which was

swinging the cat. They both fell, and in falling, Junior let go

the cat, which, having been released in mid-motion, was thrown

full force against the window. It slithered down and fell on the

radiator behind the sofa. Except for a few shudders, it was

still. There was only the slightest smell of singed fur.

Geraldine opened the door. “What is this?” Her voice was mild, as

though asking a perfectly reasonable question. “Who is this

girl?” “She killed our cat,” said Junior. “Look.” He pointed to

the radiator, where the cat lay, its blue eyes closed, leaving

only an empty, black, and helpless face. Geraldine went to the

radiator and picked up the cat. He was limp in her arms, but she

rubbed her face in his fur. She looked at Pecola. Saw the dirty

torn dress, the plaits sticking out on her head, hair matted

where the plaits had come undone, the muddy shoes with the wad of

gum peeping out from between the cheap soles, the soiled socks,

one of which had been walked down into the heel of the shoe. She

saw the safety pin holding the hem of the dress up. Up over the

hump of the cat’s back she looked at her. She had seen this little

girl all of her life. Hanging out of windows over saloons in

Mobile, crawling over the porches of shotgun houses on the edge of

town, sitting in bus stations holding paper bags and crying to

mothers who kept saying

“Shet up!” Hair uncombed, dresses falling apart, shoes untied and

caked with dirt. They had stared at her with great

uncomprehending eyes. Eyes that questioned nothing and asked

everything. Unblinking and unabashed, they stared up at her. The

end of the world lay in their eyes, and the beginning, and all

the waste in between. They were everywhere. They slept six in a

bed, all their pee mixing together in the night as they wet their

beds each in his own candy-and-potato-chip dream. In the long, hot

days, they idled away, picking plaster from the walls and digging

into the earth with sticks. They sat in little rows on street

curbs, crowded into pews at church, taking space from the nice,

neat, colored children; they clowned on the playgrounds, broke

things in dime stores, ran in front of you on the street, made

ice slides on the sloped sidewalks in winter. The girls grew up

knowing nothing of girdles, and the boys announced their manhood

by turning the bills of their caps backward. Grass wouldn’t grow

where they lived. Flowers died. Shades fell down. Tin cans and

tires blossomed where they lived. They lived on cold black-eyed

peas and orange pop. Like flies they hovered; like flies they

settled. And this one had settled in her house. Up over the hump

of the cat’s back she looked. “Get out,” she said, her voice

quiet. “You nasty little black bitch. Get out of my house.” The

cat shuddered and flicked his tail. Pecola backed out of the

room, staring at the pretty milk-brown lady in the pretty

gold-and-green house who was talking to her through the cat’s

fur. The pretty lady’s words made the cat fur move; the breath of

each word parted the fur. Pecola turned to find the front door

and saw Jesus looking down at her with sad and unsurprised eyes,

his long brown hair parted in the middle, the gay paper flowers

twisted around his face. Outside, the March wind blew into the

rip in her dress. She held her head down against the cold. But

she could not hold it low enough to avoid seeing the snowflakes

falling and dying on the pavement.

Spring

The first twigs are thin, green, and supple. They bend into a

complete circle, but will not break. Their delicate, showy

hopefulness shooting from forsythia and lilac bushes meant only a

change in whipping style. They beat us differently in the spring.

Instead of the dull pain of a winter strap, there were these new

green switches that lost their sting long after the whipping was

over. There was a nervous meanness in these long twigs that made

us long for the steady stroke of a strap or the firm but honest

slap of a hairbrush. Even now spring for me is shot through with

the remembered ache of switchings, and forsythia holds no cheer.

Sunk in the grass of an empty lot on a spring Saturday, I split

the stems of milkweed and thought about ants and peach pits and

death and where the world went when I closed my eyes. I must have

lain long in the grass, for the shadow that was in front of me

when I left the house had disappeared when I went back. I entered

the house, as the house was bursting with an uneasy quiet. Then I

heard my mother singing something about trains and Arkansas. She

came in the back door with some folded yellow curtains which she

piled on the kitchen table. I sat down on the floor to listen to

the song’s story, and noticed how strangely she was behaving. She

still had her hat on, and her shoes were dusty, as though she had

been walking in deep dirt. She put on some water to boil and then

swept the porch; then she hauled out the curtain stretcher, but

instead of putting the damp curtains on it, she swept the porch

again. All the time singing about trains and Arkansas. When she

finished, I went to look for Frieda. I found her upstairs lying on

our bed, crying the tired, whimpering cry that follows the first

wailings—mostly gasps and shudderings. I lay on the bed and looked

at the tiny bunches of wild roses sprinkled over her dress. Many

washings had faded their color and dimmed their outlines. “What

happened, Frieda?” She lifted a swollen face from the crook of

her arm. Shuddering still, she sat up, letting her thin legs

dangle over the bedside. I knelt on the bed and picked up the hem

of my dress to wipe her running nose. She never liked wiping

noses on clothes, but this time she let me. It was the way Mama

did with her apron. “Did you get a whipping?” She shook

her head no. “Then why you crying?” “Because.” “Because

what?” “Mr. Henry.” “What’d he do?” “Daddy beat him up.” “What

for? The Maginot Line? Did he find out about the Maginot Line?”

“No.” “Well, what, then? Come on, Frieda. How come I can’t know?”

“He … picked at me.” “Picked at you? You mean like Soaphead

Church?” “Sort of.” “He showed his privates at you?” “Noooo. He

touched me.” “Where?” “Here and here.” She pointed to the tiny

breasts that, like two fallen acorns, scattered a few faded rose

leaves on her dress. “Really? How did it feel?” “Oh, Claudia.”

She sounded put-out. I wasn’t asking the right questions. “It

didn’t feel like anything.”

“But wasn’t it supposed to? Feel good, I mean?” Frieda sucked her

teeth. “What’d he do? Just walk up and pinch them?” She sighed.

“First he said how pretty I was. Then he grabbed my arm and

touched me.” “Where was Mama and Daddy?” “Over at the garden

weeding.” “What’d you say when he did it?” “Nothing. I just ran

out the kitchen and went to the garden.” “Mama said we was never

to cross the tracks by ourselves.” “Well, what would you do? Set

there and let him pinch you?” I looked at my chest. “I don’t have

nothing to pinch. I’m never going to have nothing.” “Oh, Claudia,

you’re jealous of everything. You want him to?” “No, I just get

tired of having everything last.” “You do not. What about scarlet

fever? You had that first.” “Yes, but it didn’t last. Anyway,

what happened at the garden?” “I told Mama, and she told Daddy,

and we all come home, and he was gone, so we waited for him, and

when Daddy saw him come up on the porch, he threw our old

tricycle at his head and knocked him off the porch.” “Did he

die?” “Naw. He got up and started singing ‘Nearer My God to

Thee.’ Then Mama hit him with a broom and told him to keep the

Lord’s name out of his mouth, but he wouldn’t stop, and Daddy was

cussing, and everybody was screaming.” “Oh, shoot, I always miss

stuff.” “And Mr. Buford came running out with his gun, and Mama

told him to go somewhere and sit down, and Daddy said no, give

him the gun, and Mr. Buford did, and Mama screamed, and Mr. Henry

shut up and started running, and Daddy shot at him and Mr. Henry

jumped out of his shoes and kept on running in his socks. Then

Rosemary Came out and said that Daddy was going to jail, and I

hit her.” “Real hard?”

“Real hard.” “Is that when Mama whipped you?” “She didn’t whip

me, I told you.” “Then why you crying?” “Miss Dunion came in

after everybody was quiet, and Mama and Daddy was fussing about

who let Mr. Henry in anyway, and she said that Mama should take

me to the doctor, because I might be ruined, and Mama started

screaming all over again.” “At you?” “No. At Miss Dunion.” “But

why were you crying?” “I don’t want to be ruined’” “What’s

ruined?” “You know. Like the Maginot Line. She’s ruined. Mama

said so.” The tears came back. An image of Frieda, big and fat,

came to mind. Her thin legs swollen, her face surrounded by

layers of rouged skin. I too begin to feel tears. “But, Frieda,

you could exercise and not eat.” She shrugged. “Besides, what

about China and Poland? They’re ruined too, aren’t they? And they

ain’t fat.” “That’s because they drink whiskey. Mama says whiskey

ate them up.” “You could drink whiskey.” “Where would I get

whiskey?” We thought about this. Nobody would sell it to us; we

had no money, anyway. There was never any in our house. Who would

have some? “Pecola,” I said. “Her father’s always drunk. She can

get us some.’ “You think so?” “Sure. Cholly’s always drunk. Let’s

go ask her. We don’t have to tell her what for.”

“Now?” “Sure, now.” “What’ll we tell Mama?” “Nothing. Let’s just

go out the back. One at a time. So she won’t

notice.” “O.K. You go first, Claudia.” We opened the fence gate

at the bottom of the backyard and ran down the alley. Pecola

lived on the other side of Broadway. We had never been in her

house, but we knew where it was. A two-story gray building that

had been a store downstairs and had an apartment upstairs. Nobody

answered our knock on the front door, so we walked around to the

side door. As we approached, we heard radio music and looked to

see where it came from. Above us was the second-story porch,

lined with slanting, rotting rails, and sitting on the porch was

the Maginot Line herself. We stared up and automatically reached

for the other’s hand. A mountain of flesh, she lay rather than

sat in a rocking chair. She had no shoes on, and each foot was

poked between a railing: tiny baby toes at the tip of puffy feet;

swollen ankles smoothed and tightened the skin; massive legs like

tree stumps parted wide at the knees, over which spread two roads

of soft flabby inner thigh that kissed each other deep in the

shade of her dress and closed. A dark-brown root-beer bottle,

like a burned limb, grew out of her dimpled hand. She looked at

us down through the porch railings and emitted a low, long belch.

Her eyes were as clean as rain, and again I remembered the

waterfall. Neither of us could speak. Both of us imagined we were

seeing what was to become of Frieda. The Maginot Line smiled at

us. “You all looking for somebody?” I had to pull my tongue from

the roof of my mouth to say, “Pecola—she live here?”

“uh-huh, but

she ain’t here now. She gone to her mama’s work Place to git the

wash.”

“Yes, ma’am. She coming back?” “Uh-huh. She got to hang up the

clothes before the sun goes down.” “Oh.” “You can wait for her.

Wanna come up here and wait?” We exchanged glances. I looked back

up at the broad cinnamon roads that met in the shadow of her

dress. Frieda said, “No, ma’am.” “Well,” the Maginot Line seemed

interested in our problem. “Yo can go to her mama’s work place,

but it’s way over by the lake.” “Where by the lake?” “That big

white house with the wheelbarrow full of flowers.” It was a house

that we knew, having admired the large white wheelbarrow tilted

down on spoked wheels and planted with seasonal flowers. “Ain’t

that too far for you all to go walking?” Frieda scratched her

knee. “Why don’t you wait for her? You can come up here. Want

some pop?” Those rain-soaked eyes lit up, and her smile was

full, not like the pinched and holding-back smile of other

grownups. I moved to go up the stairs, but Frieda said, “No,

ma’am, we ain’t allowed.” I was amazed at her courage, and

frightened of her sassiness. The smile of the Maginot Line

slipped. “Ain’t ‘llowed?” “No’m.” “Ain’t ‘llowed to what?” “Go in

your house.” “Is that right?” The waterfalls were still. “How

come?” “My mama said so. My mama said you ruined.” The waterfalls

began to run again. She put the root-beer bottle to her lips and

drank it empty. With a graceful movement of the wrist, a gesture

so quick and small we never really saw it, only remembered it

afterward, she tossed the bottle over the rail at us. It split at

our feet,

and shards of brown glass dappled our legs before we could jump

back. The Maginot Line put a fat hand on one of the folds of her

stomach and laughed. At first just a deep humming with her mouth

closed, then a larger, warmer sound. Laughter at once beautiful

and frightening. She let her head tilt sideways, closed her eyes,

and shook her massive trunk, letting the laughter fall like a

wash of red leaves all around us. Scraps and curls of the

laughter followed us as we ran. Our breath gave out at the same

time our legs did. After we rested against a tree, our heads on

crossed forearms, I said, “Let’s go home.” Frieda was still

angry—fighting, she believed, for her life. “No, we got to get

it now.” “We can’t go all the way to the lake.” “Yes we can. Come

on.” “Mama gone get us.” “No she ain’t. Besides, she can’t do

nothing but whip us.” That was true. She wouldn’t kill us, or

laugh a terrible laugh at us, or throw a bottle at us. We walked

down tree-lined streets of soft gray houses leaning like tired

ladies…. The streets changed; houses looked more sturdy,

their paint was newer, porch posts straighter, yards deeper. Then

came brick houses set well back from the street, fronted by yards

edged in shrubbery clipped into smooth cones and balls of velvet

green. The lakefront houses were the loveliest. Garden furniture,

ornaments, windows like shiny eyeglasses, and no sign of life.

The backyards of these houses fell away in green slopes down to a

strip of sand, and then the blue Lake Erie, lapping all the way

to Canada. The orange-patched sky of the steel-mill section never

reached this part of town. This sky was always blue. We reached

Lake Shore Park, a city park laid out with rosebuds, fountains,

bowling greens, picnic tables. It was empty now, but sweetly

expectant of clean, white, well-behaved children and parents who

would play there above the lake in summer before half-running,

half-stumbling down the slope to the welcoming water. Black

people were not allowed in the park, and so it filled our dreams.

Right before the entrance to the park was the large white house

with the wheelbarrow full of flowers. Short crocus blades

sheathed the purple-and-white hearts that so wished to be first

they endured the chill and rain of early spring. The walkway was

flagged in calculated disorder, hiding the cunning symmetry. Only

fear of discovery and the knowledge that we did not belong kept

us from loitering. We circled the proud house and went to the

back. There on the tiny railed stoop sat Pecola in a light red

sweater and blue cotton dress. A little wagon was parked near

her. She seemed glad to see us. “Hi.” “Hi.” “What you all doing

here?” She was smiling, and since it was a rare thing to see on

her, I was surprised at the pleasure it gave me. “We’re looking

for you.” “Who told you I was here?” “The Maginot Line.”

“Who is that?” “That big fat lady. She lives over you.” “Oh, you

mean Miss Marie. Her name is Miss Marie.” “Well, everybody calls

her Miss Maginot Line. Ain’t you scared?” “Scared of what?” “The

Maginot Line.” Pecola looked genuinely puzzled. “What for?” “Your

mama let you go in her house? And eat out of her plates?” “She

don’t know I go. Miss Marie is nice. They all nice.” “Oh, yeah,”

I said, “she tried to kill us.” “Who? Miss Marie? She don’t

bother nobody.” “Then how come your mama don’t let you go in her

house if she so nice?”

“I don’t know. She say she’s bad, but they ain’t bad. They give

me stuff all the time.” “What stuff?” “Oh, lots of stuff, pretty

dresses, and shoes. I got more shoes than I ever wear. And

jewelry and candy and money. They take me to the movies, and once

we went to the carnival. China gone take me to Cleveland to see

the square, and Poland gone take me to Chicago to see the Loop.

We going everywhere together.” “You lying. You don’t have no

pretty dresses.” “I do, too.” “Oh, come on, Pecola, what you

telling us all that junk for?” Frieda asked. “It ain’t junk.”

Pecola stood up ready to defend her words, when the door opened.

Mrs. Breedlove stuck her head out the door and said, “What’s

going on out here? Pecola, who are these children?” “That’s

Frieda and Claudia, Mrs. Breedlove.” “Whose girls are you?” She

came all the way out on the stoop. She looked nicer than I had

ever seen her, in her white uniform and her hair in a small

pompadour. “Mrs. MacTeer’s girls, ma’am.” “Oh, yes. Live over on

Twenty-first Street?” “Yes, ma’am.” “What are you doing ‘way over

here?” “Just walking. We came to see Pecola.” “Well, you better

get on back. You can walk with Pecola. Come on in while I get the

wash.” We stepped into the kitchen, a large spacious room. Mrs.

Breedlove’s skin glowed like taffeta in the reflection of white

porcelain, white woodwork, polished cabinets, and brilliant

copperware. Odors of meat, vegetables, and something freshly

baked mixed with a scent of Pels Naphtha. “I’m gone get the wash.

You all stand stock still right there and

don’t mess up nothing.” She disappeared behind a white swinging

door, and we could hear the uneven flap of her footsteps as she

descended into the basement. Another door opened, and in walked a

little girl, smaller and younger than all of us. She wore a pink

sunback dress and pink fluffy bedroom slippers with two bunny

ears pointed up from the tips. Her hair was corn yellow and bound

in a thick ribbon. When she saw us, fear danced across her face

for a second. She looked anxiously around the kitchen. “Where’s

Polly?” she asked. The familiar violence rose in me. Her calling

Mrs. Breedlove Polly, when even Pecola called her mother Mrs.

Breedlove seemed reason enough to scratch her. “She’s

downstairs,” I said. “Polly!” she called. “Look,” Frieda

whispered, “look at that.” On the counter near the stove in a

silvery pan was a deep-dish berry cobbler. The purple juice

bursting here and there through crust. We moved closer. “It’s

still hot,” Frieda said. Pecola stretched her hand to touch the

pan, lightly, to see if it was hot. “Polly, come here,” the

little girl called again. It may have been nervousness,

awkwardness, but the pan tilted under Pecola’s fingers and fell

to the floor, splattering blackish blueberries everywhere. Most

of the juice splashed on Pecola’s legs, and the burn must have

been painful, for she cried out and began hopping about just as

Mrs. Breedlove entered with a tightly packed laundry bag. In one

gallop she was on Pecola, and with the back of her hand knocked

her to the floor. Pecola slid in the pie juice, one leg folding

under her. Mrs. Breedlove yanked her up by the arm, slapped her

again, and in a voice thin with anger, abused Pecola directly and

Frieda and me by implication. “Crazy fool… my floor, mess … look what you …

work get on out now out crazy … my floor, my floor … my

floor.” Her words were hotter and darker than the smoking

berries, and we backed away in dread. The little girl in pink

started to cry. Mrs. Breedlove turned to her. “Hush’ baby, hush.

Come here. Oh, Lord, look at your dress. Don’t cry no more. Polly

will change it.” She went to the sink and turned tap water on a

fresh towel. Over her shoulder she spit out words to us like

rotten pieces of apple. “Pick up that wash and get on out of

here, so I can get this mess cleaned up.” Pecola picked up the

laundry bag, heavy with wet clothes, and we stepped hurriedly out

the door. As Pecola put the laundry bag in the wagon, we could

hear Mrs. Breedlove hushing and soothing the tears of the little

pink-and-yellow girl. “Who were they, Polly?” “Don’t worry none,

baby.” “You gonna make another pie?”

“‘Course I will.” “Who were

they, Polly?” “Hush. Don’t worry none,” she whispered, and the

honey in her words complemented the sundown spilling on the lake.

SEEMOTHERMOTHERISVERYNICEMOTHERWILLYOUPRA

YWITHJANEMOTHERLAUGHSLAUGHMOTHERLAUGHLA

The easiest thing to do would be to build a case out of her foot.

That is what she herself did. But to find out the truth about how

dreams die, one should never take the word of the dreamer. The

end of her lovely beginning was probably the cavity in one of her

front teeth. She preferred, however, to think always of her foot.

Although she was the ninth of eleven children and lived on a

ridge of red Alabama clay seven miles from the nearest road, the

complete indifference with which a rusty nail was met when it

punched clear through her foot during her second year of life

saved Pauline Williams from total anonymity. The wound left her

with a crooked, archless foot that flopped when she walked—not a

limp that would have eventually twisted her spine, but a way of

lifting the bad foot as though she were extracting it from little

whirlpools that threatened to pull it under. Slight as it was,

this deformity explained for her many things that would have been

otherwise incomprehensible: why she alone of all the children had

no nickname; why there were no funny jokes and anecdotes about

funny things she had done; why no one ever remarked on her food

preferences—no saving of the wing or neck for her—no cooking of

the peas in a separate pot without rice because she did not like

rice; why nobody teased her; why she never felt at home anywhere,

or that she belonged anyplace. Her general feeling of

separateness and unworthiness she blamed on her foot. Restricted,

as a child, to this cocoon of her family’s spinning, she

cultivated quiet and private pleasures. She liked, most of all,

to arrange things. To line things up in rows—jars on shelves at

canning, peach pits on the step, sticks, stones, leaves—and the

members of her family let these arrangements be. When by some

accident somebody scattered her rows, they always stopped to

retrieve them for her, and

she was never angry, for it gave her a chance to rearrange them

again. Whatever portable plurality she found, she organized into

neat lines, according to their size, shape, or gradations of

color. Just as she would never align a pine needle with the leaf

of a cottonwood tree, she would never put the jars of tomatoes

next to the green beans. During all of her four years of going to

school, she was enchanted by numbers and depressed by words. She

missed—without knowing what she missed— paints and crayons.

Near the beginning of World War I, the Williamses discovered,

from returning neighbors and kin, the possibility of living

better in another place. In shifts, lots, batches, mixed in with

other families, they migrated, in six months and four journeys,

to Kentucky, where there were mines and millwork.

“When all us left from dawn home and was waiting down by the

depot for the truck, it was nighttime. June bugs was shooting

everywhere. They lighted up a tree leaf, and I seen a streak of

green every now and again. That was the last time I seen real

June bugs. These things up here ain’t June bugs. They’s something

else. Folks here call them fireflies. Down home they was

different. But I recollect that streak of green. I recollect it

well.”

In Kentucky they lived in a real town, ten to fifteen houses on a

single street, with water piped right into the kitchen. Ada and

Fowler Williams found a five-room frame house for their family.

The yard was bounded by a once-white fence against which

Pauline’s mother planted flowers and within which they kept a few

chickens. Some of her brothers joined the Army, one sister died,

and two got married, increasing the living space and giving the

entire Kentucky venture a feel of luxury. The relocation was

especially comfortable to Pauline, who was old enough to leave

school. Mrs. Williams got a job cleaning and cooking for a white

minister on the other side of town, and Pauline, now the oldest

girl at home, took over the care of the house. She kept the fence

repair, pulling the pointed stakes erect, securing them with bits

of

wire, collected eggs, swept, cooked, washed, and minded the two

younger children—a pair of twins called Chicken and Pie, who

were still in school. She was not only good at housekeeping, she

enjoyed it. After her parents left for work and the other children

were at school or in mines, the house was quiet. The stillness

and isolation both calmed and energized her. She could arrange

and clean without interruption until two o’clock, when Chicken

and Pie came home. When the war ended and the twins were ten

years old, they too left school to work. Pauline was fifteen,

still keeping house, but with less enthusiasm. Fantasies about

men and love and touching were drawing her mind and hands away

from her work. Changes in weather began to affect her, as did

certain sights and sounds. These feelings translated themselves

to her in extreme melancholy. She thought of the death of newborn

things, lonely roads, and strangers who appear out of nowhere

simply to hold one’s hand, woods in which the sun was always

setting. In church especially did these dreams grow. The songs

caressed her, and while she tried to hold her mind on the wages

of sin, her body trembled for redemption, salvation, a mysterious

rebirth that would simply happen, with no effort on her part. In

none of her fantasies was she ever aggressive; she was usually

idling by the river bank, or gathering berries in a field when a

someone appeared, with gentle and penetrating eyes, who—with no

exchange of words—understood; and before whose glance her foot

straightened and her eyes dropped. The someone had no face, no

form, no voice, no odor. He was a simple Presence, an

all-embracing tenderness with strength and a promise of rest. It

did not matter that she had no idea of what to do or say to the

Presence—after the wordless knowing and the soundless touching,

her dreams disintegrated. But the Presence would know what to do.

She had only to lay her head on his chest and he would lead her

away to the sea, to the city, to the woods … forever. There

was a woman named Ivy who seemed to hold in her mouth all of the

sounds of Pauline’s soul. Standing a little apart from the choir,

Ivy sang the dark sweetness that Pauline could not name; she

the death-defying death that Pauline yearned for; she sang of the

Stranger who knew …

Precious Lord take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.

Through the storms, through the night

Lead me on to the light

Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me on.

When my way grows drear

Precious Lord linger near,

When my life is almost gone

Hear my cry hear my call

Hold my hand lest I fall

Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me on.

Thus it was that when the Stranger, the someone, did appear out

of nowhere, Pauline was grateful but not surprised. He came,

strutting right out of a Kentucky sun on the hottest day of the

year. He came big, he came strong, he came with yellow eyes,

flaring nostrils, and he came with his own music. Pauline was

leaning idly on the fence, her arms resting on the cross rail

between the pickets. She had just put down some biscuit dough and

was cleaning the flour from under her nails. Behind her at some

distance she heard whistling. One of these rapid, high-note riffs

that black boys make up as they go while sweeping, shoveling, or

just walking along. A kind of city-street music where laughter

belies anxiety, and joy is as short and straight as the blade of

a pocketknife. She listened carefully to the music and let it

pull her lips into a smile. The whistling got louder, and still

she did not turn around, for she wanted it to last. While smiling

to herself and holding fast to the break in somber thoughts, she

felt something tickling her foot. She laughed aloud and turned to

see. The whistler was bending down tickling her foot and

kissing her leg. She could not stop her laughter—not

until he looked up at her and she saw the Kentucky sun drenching

the yellow, heavy-lidded eyes of Cholly Breedlove.

“When I first seed Cholly, I want you to know it was like all the

bits of color from that time down home when all us chil’ren went

berry picking after a funeral and I put some in the pocket of my

Sunday dress, and they mashed up and stained my hips. My whole

dress was messed with purple, and it never did wash out. Not the

dress nor me. I could feel that purple deep inside me. And that

lemonade Mama used to make when Pap came in out the fields. It be

cool and yellowish, with seeds floating near the bottom. And that

streak of green them June bugs made on the trees the night we

left from down home. All of them colors was in me. Just sitting

there. So when Cholly come up and tickled my foot, it was like

them berries, that lemonade, them streaks of green the June bugs

made, all come together. Cholly was thin then, with real light

eyes. He used to whistle, and when I heerd him, shivers come on

my skin.”

Pauline and Cholly loved each other. He seemed to relish her

company and even to enjoy her country ways and lack of knowledge

about city things. He talked with her about her foot and asked,

when they walked through the town or in the fields, if she were

tired. Instead of ignoring her infirmity, pretending it was not

there, he made it seem like something special and endearing. For

the first time Pauline felt that her bad foot was an asset. And

he did touch her, firmly but gently, just as she had dreamed. But

minus the gloom of setting suns and lonely river banks. She was

secure and grateful; he was kind and lively. She had not known

there was so much laughter in the world. They agreed to marry and

go ‘way up north, where Cholly said steel mills were begging for

workers. Young, loving, and full of energy, they came to Lorain,

Ohio. Cholly found work in the steel mills right away, and

Pauline started keeping house. And then she lost her front tooth.

But there must have been a speck, a brown speck easily mistaken

for food but which did not leave,

which sat on the enamel for months, and grew, until it cut into

the surface and then to the brown putty underneath, finally

eating away to the root, but avoiding the nerves, so its presence

was not noticeable or uncomfortable. Then the weakened roots,

having grown accustomed to the poison, responded one day to

severe pressure, and the tooth fell free, leaving a ragged stump

behind. But even before the little brown speck, there must have

been the conditions, the setting that would allow it to exist in

the first place. In that young and growing Ohio town whose side

streets, even, were paved with concrete, which sat on the edge of

a calm blue lake, which boasted an affinity with Oberlin, the

underground railroad station, just thirteen miles away, this

melting pot on the lip of America facing the cold but receptive

Canada—What could go wrong?

“Me and Cholly was getting along good then. We come up north;

supposed to be more jobs and all. We moved into two rooms up over

a furniture store, and I set about housekeeping. Cholly was

working at the steel plant, and everything was looking good. I

don’t know what all happened. Everything changed. It was hard to

get to know folks up here, and I missed my people. I weren’t used

to so much white folks. The ones I seed before was something

hateful, but they didn’t come around too much. I mean, we didn’t

have too much truck with them. Just now and then in the fields,

or at the commissary. But they want all over us. Up north they

was everywhere—next door, downstairs, all over the streets—and

colored folks few and far between. Northern colored folk was

different too. Dicty-like. No better than whites for meanness.

They could make you feel just as no-count, ‘cept I didn’t expect

it from them. That was the lonesomest time of my life. I ‘member

looking out them front windows just waiting for Cholly to come

home at three o’clock. I didn’t even have a cat to talk to.”

In her loneliness, she turned to her husband for reassurance,

entertainment, for things to fill the vacant places. Housework

was not enough; there were only two rooms, and no yard to keep or

move

about in. The women in the town wore high-heeled shoes, and when

Pauline tried to wear them, they aggravated her shuffle into a

pronounced limp. Cholly was kindness still, but began to resist

her total dependence on him. They were beginning to have less and

less to say to each other. He had no problem finding other people

and other things to occupy him—men were always climbing the

stairs asking for him, and he was happy to accompany them,

leaving her alone. Pauline felt uncomfortable with the few black

women she met. They were amused by her because she did not

straighten her hair. When she tried to make up her face as they

did, it came off rather badly. Their goading glances and private

snickers at her way of talking (saying “chil’ren”) and dressing

developed in her a desire for new clothes. When Cholly began to

quarrel about the money she wanted, she decided to go to work.

Taking jobs as a day worker helped with the clothes, and even a

few things for the apartment, but it did not help with Cholly. He

was not pleased with her purchases and began to tell her so.

Their marriage was shredded with quarrels. She was still no more

than a girl, and still waiting for that plateau of happiness,

that hand of a precious Lord who, when her way grew drear, would

always linger near. Only now she had a clearer idea of what drear

meant. Money became the focus of all their discussions, hers for

clothes, his for drink. The sad thing was that Pauline did not

really care for clothes and makeup. She merely wanted other women

to cast favorable glances her way. After several months of doing

day work, she took a steady job in the home of a family of

slender means and nervous, pretentious ways.

“Cholly commenced to getting meaner and meaner and wanted to

fight me all of the time. I give him as good as I got. Had to.

Look like working for that woman and fighting Cholly was all I

did. Tiresome. But I holt on to my jobs, even though working for

that woman was more than a notion. It wasn’t so much her meanness

as just simpleminded. Her whole family was. Couldn’t get along

with one another worth nothing. You’d think with a pretty house

like that and all the money they could holt on to, they would

enjoy one another. She haul off and cry over the leastest thing.

If one of her friends cut her short on the telephone, she’d go to

crying. She should of been glad she had a telephone. I ain’t got

one yet. I recollect how her baby brother who she put through

dentistry school didn’t invite them to some big party he throwed.

They was a big to-do about that. Everybody stayed on the

telephone for days. Fussing and carrying on. She asked me,

‘Pauline, what would you do if your man brother had a party and

didn’t invite you?’ I said if I really wanted to go to that

party, I reckoned I’d go anyhow. Never mind what he want. She

just sucked her teeth a little and made out like what I said was

dumb. All the while I was thinking how dumb she was. Whoever told

her that her brother was her friend? Folks can’t like folks just

‘cause they has the same mama. I tried to like that woman myself.

She was good about giving me stuff, but I just couldn’t like her.

Soon as I worked up a good feeling on her account, she’d do

something ignorant and start in to telling me how to clean and

do. If I left her on her own, she’d drown in dirt. I didn’t have

to pick up after Chicken and Pie the way I had to pick up after

them. None of them knew so much as how to wipe their behinds. I

know, ‘cause I did the washing. And couldn’t pee proper to save

their lives. Her husband ain’t hit the bowl yet. Nasty white

folks is about the nastiest things they is. But I would have

stayed on ‘cepting for Cholly come over by where I was working

and cut up so. He come there drunk wanting some money. When that

white woman see him, she turned red. She tried to act

strong-like, but she was scared bad. Anyway, she told Cholly to

get out or she would call the police. He cussed her and started

pulling on me. I would of gone upside his head, but I don’t want

no dealings with the police. So I taken my things and left. I

tried to get back, but she didn’t want me no more if I was going

to stay with Cholly. She said she would let me stay if I left

him. I thought about that. But later on it didn’t seem none too

bright for a black woman to leave a black man for a white woman.

She didn’t never give me the eleven dollars she owed me, neither.

That hurt bad. The gas man had cut the gas off, and I couldn’t

cook none. I really begged that woman for my money. I went to see

her. She was mad as a wet hen. Kept on telling me I owed her for

uniforms and some old broken-down bed she give me. I didn’t

know if I owed her or not, but I needed my money. She wouldn’t

let up none, neither, even when I give her my word that Cholly

wouldn’t come back there no more. Then I got so desperate I asked

her if she would loan it to me. She was quiet for a spell, and

then she told me I shouldn’t let a man take advantage over me.

That I should have more respect, and it was my husband’s duty to

pay the bills, and if he couldn’t, I should leave and get

alimony. All such simple stuff. What was he gone give me alimony

on? I seen she didn’t understand that all I needed from her was

my eleven dollars to pay the gas man so I could cook. She

couldn’t get that one thing through her thick head. ‘Are you

going to leave him, Pauline.’ she kept on saying. I thought

she’d give me my money if I said I would, so I said’ Yes, ma’am.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You leave him, and then come back to

work, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.’ ‘Can I have my money

today?’ I said. ‘No’ she said. ‘Only when you leave him. I’m only

thinking of you and your future. What good is he, Pauline, what

good is he to you?’ How you going to answer a woman like that,

who don’t know what good a man is, and say out of one side of her

mouth she’s thinking of your future but won’t give you your own

money so you can buy you something besides baloney to eat? So I

said, ‘No good, ma’am. He ain’t no good to me. But just the same,

I think I’d best stay on.’ She got up, and I left. When I got

outside, I felt pains in my crotch, I had held my legs together

so tight trying to make that woman understand. But I reckon now

she couldn’t understand. She married a man with a slash in his

face instead of a mouth. So how could she understand?”

One winter Pauline discovered she was pregnant. When she told

Cholly, he surprised her by being pleased. He began to drink less

and come home more often. They eased back into a relationship

more like the early days of their marriage, when he asked if she

were tired or wanted him to bring her something from the store.

In this state of ease, Pauline stopped doing day work and

returned to her own housekeeping. But the loneliness in those two

rooms had not gone away. When the winter sun hit the peeling

green paint of the kitchen chairs, when the smoked hocks were

boiling in the pot, when all she could

hear was the truck delivering furniture downstairs, she thought

about back home, about how she had been all alone most of the

time then too, but that this lonesomeness was different. Then she

stopped staring at the green chairs, at the delivery truck; she

went to the movies instead. There in the dark her memory was

refreshed, and she succumbed to her earlier dreams. Along with

the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to

another—physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in

the history of human thought. Both originated in envy, thrived in

insecurity, and ended in disillusion. In equating physical beauty

with virtue, she stripped her mind, bound it, and collected self

contempt by the heap. She forgot lust and simple caring for. She

regarded love as possessive mating, and romance as the goal of

the spirit. It would be for her a well-spring from which she

would draw the most destructive emotions, deceiving the lover and

seeking to imprison the beloved, curtailing freedom in every way.

She was never able, after her education in the movies, to look at

a face and not assign it some category in the scale of absolute

beauty, and the scale was one she absorbed in full from the

silver screen. There at last were the darkened woods, the lonely

roads, the river banks, the gentle knowing eyes. There the flawed

became whole, the blind sighted, and the lame and halt threw away

their crutches. There death was dead, and people made every

gesture in a cloud of music. There the black-and-white images

came together, making a magnificent whole—all projected through

the ray of light from above and behind. It was really a simple

pleasure, but she learned all there was to love and all there was

to hate.

“The onliest time I be happy seem like was when I was in the

picture show. Every time I got, I went. I’d go early, before the

show started. They’d cut off the lights, and everything be black.

Then the screen would light up, and I’d move right on in them

pictures. White men taking such good care of they women, and they

all dressed up in big clean houses with the bathtubs right in the

same room with the toilet. Them pictures gave me a lot of

pleasure, but it

made coming home hard, and looking at Cholly hard. I don’t know.

I ‘member one time I went to see Clark Gable and Jean Harlow. I

fixed my hair up like I’d seen hers on a magazine. A part on the

side, with one little curl on my forehead. It looked just like

her. Well, almost just like. Anyway, I sat in that show with my

hair done up that way and had a good time. I thought I’d see it

through to the end again, and I got up to get me some candy. I

was sitting back in my seat, and I taken a big bite of that

candy, and it pulled a tooth right out of my mouth. I could of

cried. I had good teeth, not a rotten one in my head. I don’t

believe I ever did get over that. There I was, five months

pregnant, trying to look like Jean Harlow, and a front tooth

gone. Everything went then. Look like I just didn’t care no more

after that. I let my hair go back, plaited it up, and settled

down to just being ugly. I still went to the pictures, though,

but the meanness got worse. I wanted my tooth back. Cholly poked

fun at me, and we started fighting again. I tried to kill him. He

didn’t hit me too hard, ‘cause I were pregnant I guess, but the

fights, once they got started up again, kept up. He begin to make

me madder than anything I knowed, and I couldn’t keep my hands

off him. Well, I had that baby—a boy—and after that got

pregnant again with another one. But it weren’t like I thought it

was gone be. I loved them and all, I guess, but maybe it was

having no money, or maybe it was Cholly, but they sure worried

the life out of me. Sometimes I’d catch myself hollering at them

and beating them, and I’d feel sorry for them, but I couldn’t

seem to stop. When I had the second one, a girl, I ‘member I said

I’d love it no matter what it looked like. She looked like a

black ball of hair. I don’t recollect trying to get pregnant that

first time. But that second time, I actually tried to get

pregnant. Maybe ‘cause I’d had one already and wasn’t scairt to

do it. Anyway, I felt good, and wasn’t thinking on the carrying,

just the baby itself. I used to talk to it whilst it be still in

the womb. Like good friends we was. You know. I be hanging wash

and I knowed lifting weren’t good for it. I’d say to it holt on

now I gone hang up these few rags, don’t get froggy; it be over

soon. It wouldn’t leap or nothing. Or I be mixing something in a

bowl for the other chile and I’d talk to it then too. You know,

just friendly talk. On up til the end I felted good about that

baby. I went to the hospital when my time come. So I could be

easeful. I didn’t want

to have it at home like I done with the boy. They put me in a big

room with a whole mess of women. The pains was coming, but not

too bad. A little old doctor come to examine me. He had all sorts

of stuff. He gloved his hand and put some kind of jelly on it and

rammed it up between my legs. When he left off some more doctors

come. One old one and some young ones. The old one was learning

the young ones about babies. Showing them how to do. When he got

to me he said now these here women you don’t have any trouble

with. They deliver right away and with no pain. Just like horses.

The young ones smiled it little. They looked at my stomach and

between my legs. They never said nothing to me. Only one looked

at me. Looked at my face, I mean. I looked right back at him. He

dropped his eyes and turned red. He knowed, I reckon, that maybe

I weren’t no horse foaling. But them others. They didn’t know.

They went on. I seed them talking to them white women: ‘How you

feel? Gonna have twins?’ Just shucking them, of course, but nice

talk. Nice friendly talk. I got edgy, and when them pains got

harder, I was glad. Glad to have something else to think about. I

moaned something awful. The pains wasn’t as bad as I let on, but

I had to let them people know having a baby was more than a bowel

movement. I hurt just like them white women. Just ‘cause I wasn’t

hooping and hollering before didn’t mean I wasn’t feeling pain.

What’d they think? That just ‘cause I knowed how to have a baby

with no fuss that my behind wasn’t pulling and aching like

theirs? Besides, that doctor don’t know what he talking about. He

must never seed no mare foal. Who say they don’t have no pain?

Just ‘cause she don’t cry? ‘Cause she can’t say it, they think it

ain’t there? If they looks in her eyes and see them eyeballs

lolling back, see the sorrowful look, they’d know. Anyways, the

baby come. Big old healthy thing. She looked different from what

I thought. Reckon I talked to it so much before I conjured up a

mind’s eye view of it. So when I seed it, it was like looking at

a picture of your mama when she was a girl. You knows who she is

but she don’t look the same. They give her to me for a nursing,

and she liked to pull my nipple off right away. She caught on

fast. Not like Sammy, he was the hardest child to feed. But

Pecola look like she knowed right off what to. A right smart

baby she was. I used to like to watch her. You know they makes

them greedy sounds. Eyes all soft and wet. A cross between a

puppy and

a dying man. But I knowed she was ugly. Head full of pretty hair,

but Lord she was ugly.”

When Sammy and Pecola were still young Pauline had to go back to

work. She was older now, with no time for dreams and movies. It

was time to put all of the pieces together, make coherence where

before there had been none. The children gave her this need; she

herself was no longer a child. So she became, and her process of

becoming was like most of ours: she developed a hatred for things

that mystified or obstructed her; acquired virtues that were easy

to maintain; assigned herself a role in the scheme of things; and

harked back to simpler times for gratification. She took on the

full responsibility and recognition of breadwinner and returned

to church. First, however, she moved out of the two rooms into a

spacious first floor of a building that had been built as a

store. She came into her own with the women who had despised her,

by being more moral than they; she avenged herself on Cholly by

forcing him to indulge in the weaknesses she despised. She joined

a church where shouting was frowned upon, served on Stewardess

Board No. 3, and became a member of Ladies Circle No. i. At

prayer meeting she moaned and sighed over Cholly’s ways, and

hoped God would help her keep the children from the sins of the

father. She stopped saying “chil’ren” and said “childring”

instead. She let another tooth fall, and was outraged by painted

ladies who thought only of clothes and men. Holding Cholly as a

model of sin and failure, she bore him like a crown of thorns,

and her children like a cross. It was her good fortune to find a

permanent job in the home of a well-to-do family whose members

were affectionate, appreciative, and generous. She looked at

their houses, smelled their linen, touched their silk draperies,

and loved all of it. The child’s pink nightie, the stacks of

white pillow slips edged with embroidery, the sheets with top

hems picked out with blue cornflowers. She became what is known

as an ideal servant, for such a role filled practically all of

her needs. When

she bathed the little Fisher girl, it was in a porcelain tub with

silvery taps running infinite quantities of hot, clear water. She

dried her in fluffy white towels and put her in cuddly night

clothes. Then she brushed the yellow hair, enjoying the roll and

slip of it between her fingers. No zinc tub, no buckets of

stove-heated water, no flaky, stiff, grayish towels washed in a

kitchen sink, dried in a dusty backyard, no tangled black puffs

of rough wool to comb. Soon she stopped trying to keep her own

house. The things she could afford to buy did not last, had no

beauty or style, and were absorbed by the dingy storefront. More

and more she neglected her house, her children, her man—they

were like the afterthoughts one has just before sleep, the

early-morning and late-evening edges of her day, the dark edges

that made the daily life with the Fishers lighter, more delicate,

more lovely. Here she could arrange things, clean things, line

things up in neat rows. Here her foot flopped around on deep pile

carpets, and there was no uneven sound. Here she found beauty,

order, cleanliness, and praise. Mr. Fisher said, “I would rather

sell her blueberry cobblers than real estate.” She reigned over

cupboards stacked high with food that would not be eaten for

weeks, even months; she was queen of canned vegetables bought by

the case, special fondants and ribbon candy curled up in tiny

silver dishes. The creditors and service people who humiliated

her when she went to them on her own behalf respected her, were

even intimidated by her, when she spoke for the Fishers. She

refused beef slightly dark or with edges not properly trimmed.

The slightly reeking fish that she accepted for her own family

she would all but throw in the fish man’s face if he sent it to

the Fisher house. Power, praise, and luxury were hers in this

household. They even gave her what she had never had—a

nickname—Polly. It was her pleasure to stand in her kitchen at

the end of a day and survey her handiwork. Knowing there were

soap bars by the dozen, bacon by the rasher, and reveling in her

shiny pots and pans and polished floors. Hearing, “We’ll never

let her go. We could never find anybody like Polly. She will not

leave the kitchen until everything is in order. Really, she is the

ideal servant.”

Pauline kept this order, this beauty, for herself, a private

world, and never introduced it into her storefront, or to her

children. Them she bent toward respectability, and in so doing

taught them fear: fear of being clumsy, fear of being like their

father, fear of not being loved by God, fear of madness like

Cholly’s mother’s. Into her son she beat a loud desire to run

away, and into her daughter she beat a fear of growing up, fear

of other people, fear of life. All the meaningfulness of her life

was in her work. For her virtues were intact. She was an active

church woman, did not drink, smoke, or carouse, defended herself

mightily against Cholly, rose above him in every way, and felt

she was fulfilling a mother’s role conscientiously when she

pointed out their father’s faults to keep them from having them,

or punished them when they showed any slovenliness, no matter how

slight, when she worked twelve to sixteen hours a day to support

them. And the world itself agreed with her. It was only

sometimes, sometimes, and then rarely, that she thought about the

old days, or what her life had turned to. They were musings, idle

thoughts, full sometimes of the old dreaminess, but not the kind

of thing she cared to dwell on.

“I started to leave him once, but something came up. Once, after

he tried to set the house on fire, I was all set in my mind to

go. I can’t even ‘member now what held me. He sure ain’t give me

much of a life. But it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes things wasn’t

all bad. He used to come easing into bed sometimes, not too

drunk. I make out like I’m asleep, ‘cause it’s late, and he taken

three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. I

hear him breathing, but I don’t look around. I can see in my

mind’s eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the

muscles like great big peach stones sanded down, with veins

running like little swollen rivers down his arms. Without

touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers.

I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long

fingers curled up and still. I think about the thick, knotty hair

on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I

want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair

cut my skin. I know just where the hair growth slacks out—just

above his navel—and how it picks up again and spreads out. Maybe

he’ll shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his

flank just graze my behind. I don’t move even yet. Then he lift

his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. If I don’t

move, he’ll move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Soft

and slow-like. I still don’t move, because I don’t want him to

stop. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep on rubbing my

stomach. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. Then I

don’t want him to rub my stomach anymore. I want him to put his

hand between my legs. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but

not opening my legs. I want him to open them for me. He does, and

I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be

softer than I ever been before. All my strength in his hand. My

brain curls up like wilted leaves. A funny, empty feeling is in

my hands. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head.

His mouth is under my chin. Then I don’t want his hand between my

legs no more, because I think I am softening away. I stretch my

legs open, and he is on top of me. Too heavy to hold, and too

light not to. He puts his thing in me. In me. In me. I wrap my

feet around his back so he can’t get away. His face is next to

mine. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back

home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arm

outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold on tight. My fingers and

my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I

know he wants me to come first. But I can’t. Not until he does.

Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not

until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he

couldn’t stop if he had to. That he would die rather than take

his thing out of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he

has, and give it to me. To me. To me. When he does, I feel a

power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He

shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty

enough, and young enough to let him make me come. I take my

fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop

back onto the bed. I don’t make no noise, because the chil’ren

might hear. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating

up into me—deep in me. That streak of green from the June-bug

light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs,

Mama’s lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. Then I feel like I’m

laughing

between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the

color, and I’m afraid I’ll come, and afraid I won’t. But I know

I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts and

lasts and lasts. I want to thank him, but don’t know how, so I

pat him like you do a baby. He asks me if I’m all right. I say

yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. I want to say

something, but I don’t. I don’t want to take my mind off the

rainbow. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I don’t.

Besides, Cholly is asleep with his leg throwed over me. I can’t

move and don’t want to.

“But it ain’t like that anymore. Most

times he’s thrashing away inside me before I’m woke, and through

when I am. The rest of the time I can’t even be next to his

stinking drunk self. But I don’t care ‘bout it no more. My Maker

will take care of me. I know He will. I know He will. Besides, it

don’t make no difference about this old earth. There is sure to

be a glory. Only thing I miss sometimes is that rainbow. But like

I say, I don’t recollect it much anymore.”

SEEFATHERHEISBIGANDSTRONGFATHERWILLYOUPLAY

WITHJANEFATHERISSMILINGSMILEFATHERSMILESMILE

When Cholly was four days old, his mother wrapped him in two

blankets and one newspaper and placed him on a junk heap by the

railroad. His Great Aunt Jimmy, who had seen her niece carrying a

bundle out of the back door, rescued him. She beat his mother

with a razor strap and wouldn’t let her near the baby after that.

Aunt Jimmy raised Cholly herself, but took delight sometimes in

telling him of how she had saved him. He gathered from her that

his mother wasn’t right in the head. But he never had a chance to

find out, because she ran away shortly after the razor strap, and

no one had heard of her since. Cholly was grateful for having

been saved. Except sometimes. Sometimes when he watched Aunt

Jimmy eating collards with her fingers, sucking her four gold

teeth, or smelled her when she wore the asafetida bag around her

neck, or when she made him sleep with her for warmth in winter

and he could see her old, wrinkled breasts sagging in her

nightgown—then he wondered whether it would have been just as

well to have died there. Down in the rim of a tire under a soft

black Georgia sky. He had four years of school before he got

courage enough to ask his aunt who and where his father was.

“That Fuller boy, I believe it was,” his aunt said. “He was

hanging around then, but he taken off pretty quick before you was

born. I think he gone to Macon. Him or his brother. Maybe both. I

hear old man Fuller say something bout it once.” “What name he

have?” asked Cholly. “Fuller, Foolish.” “I mean what his given

name?”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes to think, and sighed. “Can’t

recollect.”

It was in the spring, a very chilly spring, that Aunt Jimmy died

of peach cobbler. She went to a camp meeting that took place

after a rainstorm, and the damp wood of the benches was bad for

her. For four or five days afterward, she felt poorly. Friends

came to see about her. Some made camomile tea; others rubbed her

with liniment. Miss Alice, her closest friend, read the Bible to

her. Still she was declining. Advice was prolific, if

contradictory. “Don’t eat no whites of eggs.” “Drink new milk.” “Chew on this root.” Aunt Jimmy ignored all but Miss

Alice’s Bible reading. She nodded in drowsy appreciation as the

words from First Corinthians droned over her. Sweet amens fell

from her lips as she was chastised for all her sins. But her body

would not respond. Finally it was decided to fetch M’Dear. M’Dear

was a quiet woman who lived in a shack near the woods. She was a

competent midwife and decisive diagnostician. Few could remember

when M’Dear was not around. In any illness that could not be

handled by ordinary means— known cures, intuition, or

endurance—the word was always, “Fetch M’Dear.” When she arrived

at Aunt Jimmy’s house, Cholly was amazed at the sight of her. He

had always pictured her as shriveled and hunched over, for he

knew she was very, very old. But M’Dear loomed taller than the

preacher who accompanied her. She must have been over six feet

tall. Four big white knots of hair gave power and authority to

her soft black face. Standing straight as a poker, she seemed to

need her hickory stick not for support but for communication. She

tapped it lightly on the floor as she looked down at Aunt Jimmy’s

wrinkled face. She stroked the knob with the thumb of her right

hand while she ran her left one over Aunt Jimmy’s body. The backs

of her long fingers she placed on the patient’s cheek, then

placed her palm on the forehead. She ran her fingers through the

sick woman’s hair, lightly scratching the scalp, and then looking

at what the fingernails revealed. She lifted

Aunt Jimmy’s hand and looked closely at it—fingernails, back

skin, the flesh of the palm she pressed with three fingertips.

Later she put her ear on Aunt Jimmy’s chest and stomach to

listen. At M’Dear’s request, the women pulled the slop jar from

under the bed to show the stools. M’Dear tapped her stick while

looking at them. “Bury the slop jar and everything in it,” she

said to the women. To Aunt Jimmy she said, “You done caught cold

in your womb. Drink pot liquor and nothing else.” “Will it pass?”

asked Aunt Jimmy. “Is I’m gone be all right?” “I reckon.” M’Dear

turned and left the room. The preacher put her in his buggy to

take her home. That evening the women brought bowls of pot liquor

from black eyed peas, from mustards, from cabbage, from kale,

from collards, from turnips, from beets, from green beans. Even

the juice from a boiling hog jowl. Two evenings later Aunt Jimmy

had gained much strength. When Miss Alice and Mrs. Gaines stopped

in to check on her, they remarked on her improvement. The three

women sat talking about various miseries they had had, their cure

or abatement, what had helped. Over and over again they returned

to Aunt Jimmy’s condition. Repeating its cause, what could have

been done to prevent the misery from taking hold, and M’Dear’s

infallibility. Their voices blended into a threnody of nostalgia

about pain. Rising and falling, complex in harmony, uncertain in

pitch, but constant in the recitative of pain. They hugged the

memories of illnesses to their bosoms. They licked their lips and

clucked their tongues in fond remembrance of pains they had

endured—childbirth, rheumatism, croup, sprains, backaches,

piles. All of the bruises they had collected from moving about

the earth—harvesting, cleaning, hoisting, pitching, stooping,

kneeling, picking—always with young ones underfoot. But they had

been young once. The odor of their armpits and haunches had

mingled into a lovely musk; their eyes had been furtive,

their lips relaxed, and the delicate turn of their heads on those

slim black necks had been like nothing other than a doe’s. Their

laughter had been more touch than sound. Then they had grown.

Edging into life from the back door. Becoming. Everybody in the

world was in a position to give them orders. White women said,

“Do this.” White children said, “Give me that.” White men said,

“Come here.” Black men said, “Lay down.” The only people they

need not take orders from were black children and each other.

But they took all of that and re-created it in their own image.

They ran the houses of white people, and knew it. When white men

beat their men, they cleaned up the blood and went home to

receive abuse from the victim. They beat their children with one

hand and stole for them with the other. The hands that felled

trees also cut umbilical cords; the hands that wrung the necks

of chickens and butchered hogs also nudged African violets into

bloom; the arms that loaded sheaves, bales, and sacks rocked

babies into sleep. They patted biscuits into flaky ovals of

innocence—and shrouded the dead. They plowed all day and came

home to nestle like plums under the limbs of their men. The legs

that straddled a mule’s back were the same ones that straddled

their men’s hips. And the difference was all the difference there

was. Then they were old. Their bodies honed, their odor sour.

Squatting in a cane field, stooping in a cotton field, kneeling

by a river bank, they had carried a world on their heads. They

had given over the lives of their own children and tendered their

grandchildren. With relief they wrapped their heads in rags, and

their breasts in flannel; eased their feet into felt. They were

through with lust and lactation, beyond tears and terror. They

alone could walk the roads of Mississippi, the lanes of Georgia,

the fields of Alabama unmolested. They were old enough to be

irritable when and where they chose, tired enough to look forward

to death, disinterested enough to accept the idea of pain while

ignoring the presence of pain. They were, in fact and at last,

free. And the lives

of these old black women were synthesized in their eyes—a puree

of tragedy and humor, wickedness and serenity, truth and fantasy.

They chattered far into the night. Cholly listened and grew

sleepy. The lullaby of grief enveloped him, rocked him, and at

last numbed him. In his sleep the foul odor of an old woman’s

stools turned into the healthy smell of horse shit, and the

voices of the three women were muted into the pleasant notes of a

mouth organ. He was aware, in his sleep, of being curled up in a

chair, his hands tucked between his thighs. In a dream his penis

changed into a long hickory stick, and the hands caressing it

were the hands of M’Dear. On a wet Saturday night, before Aunt

Jimmy felt strong enough to get out of the bed, Essie Foster

brought her a peach cobbler. The old lady ate a piece, and the

next morning when Cholly went to empty the slop jar, she was

dead. Her mouth was a slackened O, and her hands, those long

fingers with a man’s hard nails, having done their laying by,

could now be dainty on the sheet. One open eye looked at him as

if to say, “Mind how you take holt of that jar, boy.” Cholly

stared back, unable to move, until a fly settled at the corner of

her mouth. He fanned it away angrily, looked back at the eye, and

did its bidding. Aunt Jimmy’s funeral was the first Cholly had

ever attended. As a member of the family, one of the bereaved, he

was the object of a great deal of attention. The ladies had

cleaned the house, aired everything out, notified everybody, and

stitched together what looked like a white wedding dress for Aunt

Jimmy, a maiden lady, to wear when she met Jesus. They even

produced a dark suit, white shirt, and tie for Cholly. The

husband of one of them cut his hair. He was enclosed in

fastidious tenderness. Nobody talked to him; that is, they

treated him like the child he was, never engaging him in serious

conversation; but they anticipated wishes he never had: meals

appeared, hot water for the wooden tub, clothes laid out. At the

wake he was allowed to fall asleep, and arms carried him to bed.

Only on the third day after the death—the day of the

funeral—did he have to share the spotlight. Aunt Jimmy’s people

came from nearby towns and farms. Her brother

O. V., his children and wife, and lots of cousins. But Cholly was

still the major figure, because he was “Jimmy’s boy, the last

thing she loved,” and “the one who found her.” The solicitude of

the women the head pats of the men, pleased Cholly, and the

creamy conversations fascinated him. “What’d she die from?”

“Essie’s pie.” “Don’t say?” “Uh-huh. She was doing fine, I saw

her the very day before. Said she wanted me to bring her some

black thread to patch some things for the boy. I should of known

just from her wanting black thread that was a sign.” “Sure was.”

“Just like Emma. ‘Member? She kept asking for thread. Dropped

dead that very evening.” “Yeah. Well, she was determined to have

it. Kept on reminding me. I told her I had some to home, but naw,

she wanted it new. So I sent Li’l June to get some that very

morning when she was laying dead. I was just fixing to bring it

over, ‘long with a piece of sweet bread. You know how she craved

my sweet bread.” “Sure did. Always bragged on it. She was a good

friend to you.” “I believe it. Well, I had no more got my clothes

on when Sally bust in the door hollering about how Cholly here

had been over to Miss Alice saying she was dead. You could have

knocked me over, I tell you.” “Guess Essie feels mighty bad.”

“Oh, Lord, yes. But I told her the Lord giveth and the Lord

taketh away. Wasn’t her fault none. She makes good peach pies.

But she bound to believe it was the pie did it, and I ‘spect she

right.” “Well, she shouldn’t worry herself none ‘bout that. She

was just doing what we all would of done.” “Yeah. ‘Cause I was

sure wrapping up that sweet bread, and that, could of done it

too.”

“I doubts that. Sweet bread is pure. But a pie is the worse thing

to give anybody ailing. I’m surprised Jimmy didn’t know better.”

“If she did, she wouldn’t let on. She would have tried to please.

You know how she was. So good.” “I’ll say. Did she leave

anything?” “Not even a pocket handkerchief. The house belongs to

some white folks in Clarksville.” “Oh, yeah? I thought she owned

it.” “May have at one time. But not no more. I hear the insurance

folks been down talking to her brother.” “How much do it come

to?” “Eighty-five dollars, I hear.” “That all?” “Can she get in

the ground on that?” “Don’t see how. When my daddy died last year

this April it costed one hundred and fifty dollars. ‘Course, we

had to have everything just so. Now Jimmy’s people may all have

to chip in. That undertaker that lays out black folks ain’t none

too cheap.” “Seems a shame. She been paying on that insurance all

her life.” “Don’t I know?” “Well, what about the boy? What he

gone do?” “Well, caint nobody find that mama, so Jimmy’s brother

gone take him back to his place. They say he got a nice place.

Inside toilet and everything.” “That’s nice. He seems like a good

Christian man. And the boy need a man’s hand.” “What time’s the

funeral?” “Two clock. She ought to be in the ground by four.”

“Where’s the banquet? I heard Essie wanted it at her house.”

“Naw, it’s at Jimmy’s. Her brother wanted it so.” “Well, it will

be a big one. Everybody liked old Jimmy. Sure will miss her in

the pew.” The funeral banquet was a peal of joy after the

thunderous beauty of

the funeral. It was like a street tragedy with spontaneity tucked

softly into the corners of a highly formal structure. The

deceased was the tragic hero, the survivors the innocent victims;

there was the omnipresence of the deity, strophe and antistrophe

of the chorus of mourners led by the preacher. There was grief

over the waste of Life; the stunned wonder at the ways of God,

and the restoration of order in nature at the graveyard. Thus the

banquet was the exultation, the harmony, the acceptance of

physical frailty, joy in the termination of misery. Laughter,

relief, a steep hunger for food. Cholly had not yet fully

realized his aunt was dead. Everything was so interesting. Even

at the graveyard he felt nothing but curiosity, and when his turn

had come to view the body at the church, he had put his hand out

to touch the corpse to see if it were really ice cold like

everybody said. But he drew his hand back quickly. Aunt Jimmy

looked so private, and it seemed wrong somehow to disturb that

privacy. He had trudged back to his pew dry-eyed amid tearful

shrieks and shouts of others, wondering if he should try to cry.

Back in his house, he was free to join in the gaiety and enjoy

what he really felt—a kind of carnival spirit. He ate greedily

and felt good enough to try to get to know his cousins. There was

some question, according to the adults, as to whether they were

his real cousins or not, since Jimmy’s brother O. V. was only a

half-brother, and Cholly’s mother had been the daughter of

Jimmy’s sister, but that sister was from the second marriage of

Jimmy’s father, and O. V. was from the first marriage. One of

these cousins interested Cholly in particular. He was about

fifteen or sixteen years old. Cholly went outside and found the

boy standing with some others near the tub where Aunt Jimmy used

to boil her clothes. He ventured a tentative “Hey.” They

responded with another. The fifteen-year-old named Jake offered

Cholly a rolled-up cigarette. Cholly took it, but when he held

the cigarette at arm’s length and stuck the

tip of it into the match flame, instead of putting it in his

mouth and drawing on it, they laughed at him. Shamefaced, he

threw the cigarette down. He felt it important to do something to

reinstate himself with Jake. So when he asked Cholly if he knew

any girls, Cholly said, “Sure.” All the girls Cholly knew were at

the banquet, and he pointed to a cluster of them standing,

hanging, draping on the back porch. Darlene too. Cholly hoped

Jake wouldn’t pick her. “Let’s get some and walk around,” said

Jake. The two boys sauntered over to the porch. Cholly didn’t

know how to begin. Jake wrapped his legs around the rickety porch

rail and just sat there staring off into space as though he had

no interest in them at all. He was letting them look him over,

and guardedly evaluating them in return. The girls pretended they

didn’t see the boys and kept on chattering. Soon their talk got

sharp; the gentle teasing they had been engaged in with each

other changed to bitchiness, a serious kind of making fun. That

was Jake’s clue; the girls were reacting to him. They had gotten

a whiff of his manhood and were shivering for a place in his

attention. Jake left the porch rail and walked right up to a girl

named Suky, the one who had been most bitter in her making fun.

“Want to show me ‘round?” He didn’t even smile. Cholly held his

breath, waiting for Suky to shut Jake up. She was good at that,

and well known for her sharp tongue. To his enormous surprise,

she readily agreed, and even lowered her lashes. Taking courage,

Cholly turned to Darlene and said, “Come on ‘long. We just going

down to the gully.” He waited for her to screw up her face and

say no, or what for, or some such thing. His feelings about her

were mostly fear—fear that she would not like him, and fear that

she would. His second fear materialized. She smiled and jumped

down the three waning steps to join him. Her eyes were full of

compassion, and Cholly remembered that he was the bereaved.

“If you want to,” she said, “but not too far. Mama said we got to

leave early, and its getting dark.” The four of them moved away.

Some of the other boys had come to the porch and were about to

begin that partly hostile, partly indifferent, partly desperate

mating dance. Suky, Jake, Darlene, and Cholly walked through

several backyards until they came to an open field. They ran

across it and came to a dry riverbed lined with green. The object

of the walk was a wild vineyard where the muscadine grew. Too

new, too tight to have much sugar, they were eaten anyway. None

of them wanted—not then—the grape’s easy relinquishing of all

its dark juice. The restraint, the holding off, the promise of

sweetness that had yet to unfold, excited them more than full

ripeness would have done. At last their teeth were on edge, and

the boys diverted themselves by pelting the girls with the

grapes. Their slim black boy wrists made G clefs in the air as

they executed the tosses. The chase took Cholly and Darlene away

from the lip of the gully, and when they paused for breath, Jake

and Suky were nowhere in sight. Darlene’s white cotton dress was

stained with juice. Her big blue hair bow had come undone, and

the sundown breeze was picking it up and fluttering it about her

head. They were out of breath and sank down in the

green-and-purple grass on the edge of the pine woods. Cholly lay

on his back panting. His mouth full of the taste of muscadine,

listening to the pine needles rustling loudly in their

anticipation of rain. The smell of promised rain, pine, and

muscadine made him giddy. The sun had gone and pulled away its

shreds of light. Turning his head to see where the moon was,

Cholly caught sight of Darlene in moonlight behind him. She was

huddled into a D—arms encircling drawn-up knees, on which she

rested her head. Cholly could see her bloomers and the muscles of

her young thighs. “We bed’ get on back,” he said. “Yeah.” She

stretched her legs flat on the ground and began to retie her hair

ribbon. “Mama gone whup me.” “Naw she ain’t.”

“Uh-huh. She told me she would if I get dirty.” “You ain’t

dirty.” “I am too. Looka that.” She dropped her hands from the

ribbon and smoothed out a place on her dress where the grape

stains were heaviest. Cholly felt sorry for her; it was just as

much his fault. Suddenly he realized that Aunt Jimmy was dead,

for he missed the fear of being whipped. There was nobody to do

it except Uncle O. V., and he was the bereaved too. “Let me,” he

said. He rose to his knees facing her and tried to tie her

ribbon. Darlene put her hands under his open shirt and rubbed the

damp tight skin. When he looked at her in surprise, she stopped

and laughed. He smiled and continued knotting the bow. She put

her hands back under his shirt. “Hold still,” he said. “How I

gone get this?” She tickled his ribs with her fingertips. He

giggled and grabbed his rib cage. They were on top of each other

in a moment. She corkscrewing her hands into his clothes. He

returning the play, digging into the neck of her dress, and then

under her dress. When he got his hand in her bloomers, she

suddenly stopped laughing and looked serious. Cholly, frightened,

was about to take his hand away, but she held his wrist so he

couldn’t move it. He examined her then with his fingers, and she

kissed his face and mouth. Cholly found her muscadine-lipped

mouth distracting. Darlene released his head, shifted her body,

and pulled down her pants. After some trouble with the buttons,

Cholly dropped his pants down to his knees. Their bodies began to

make sense to him, and it was not as difficult as he had thought

it would be. She moaned a little, but the excitement collecting

inside him made him close his eyes and regard her moans as no

more than pine sighs over his head. Just as he felt an explosion

threaten, Darlene froze and cried out. He thought he had hurt her,

but when he looked at her face, she was staring wildly at

something over his shoulder. He jerked around.

There stood two white men. One with a spirit lamp, the other with

a flashlight. There was no mistake about their being white; he

could smell it. Cholly jumped, trying to kneel, stand, and get

his pants up all in one motion. The men had long guns. “Hee hee

hee heeeee.” The snicker was a long asthmatic cough. The other

raced the flashlight all over Cholly and Darlene. “Get on wid it,

nigger,” said the flashlight one. “Sir?” said Cholly, trying to

find a buttonhole. “I said, get on wid it. An’ make it good,

nigger, make it good.” There was no place for Cholly’s eyes to

go. They slid about furtively searching for shelter, while his

body remained paralyzed. The flashlight man lifted his gun down

from his shoulder, and Cholly heard the clop of metal. He dropped

back to his knees. Darlene had her head averted, her eyes staring

out of the lamplight into the surrounding darkness and looking

almost unconcerned, as though they had no part in the drama

taking place around them. With a violence born of total

helplessness, he pulled her dress up, lowered his trousers and

underwear. “Hee hee hee hee heeeeee.” Darlene put her hands over

her face as Cholly began to simulate what had gone on before. He

could do no more than make-believe. The flashlight made a moon on

his behind. “Hee hee hee hee heeee.”    “Come on, coon. Faster.

You ain’t doing nothing for her.” “Hee hee hee hee heeee.”

Cholly, moving faster, looked at Darlene. He hated her. He almost

wished he could do it—hard, long, and painfully, he hated her so

much. The flashlight wormed its way into his guts and turned the

sweet taste of muscadine into rotten fetid bile. He stared at

Darlene’s hands covering her face in the moon and lamplight. They

looked like baby claws. “Hee hee hee hee heee.”

Some dogs howled. “Thas them. Thas them. I know thas Old Honey.”

“Yep,” said the spirit lamp. “Come on.” The flashlight turned

away, and one of them whistled to Honey.    — “Wait,” said the

spirit lamp, “the coon ain’t comed yet.” “Well, he have to come

on his own time. Good luck, coon baby.” They crushed the pine

needles underfoot. Cholly could hear them whistling for a long

time, and then the dogs’ answer no longer a howl, but warm

excited yelps of recognition. Cholly raised himself and in

silence buttoned his trousers. Darlene did not move. Cholly

wanted to strangle her, but instead he touched her leg with his

foot. “We got to get, girl. Come on!” She reached for her

underwear with her eyes closed, and could not find them. The two

of them patted about in the moonlight for the panties. When she

found them, she put them on with the movements of an old woman.

They walked away from the pine woods toward the road. He in

front, she plopping along behind. It started to rain. “That’s

good,” Cholly thought. “It will explain away our clothes.” When

they got back to the house, some ten or twelve guests were still

there. Jake was gone, Suky too. Some people had gone back for

more helpings of food—potato pie, ribs. All were engrossed in

early-night reminiscences about dreams, figures, premonitions.

Their stuffed comfort was narcotic and had produced recollections

and fabrications of hallucinations. Cholly and Darlene’s entrance

produced only a mild stir. “Ya’ll soaked, ain’t you?” Darlene’s

mother was only vaguely fussy. She had eaten and drunk too much.

Her shoes were under her chair, and the side snaps of her dress

were opened. “Girl. Come on in here. Thought I told you …”

Some of the guests thought they would wait for the rain to

slacken. Others, who had come in wagons, thought they’d best

leave now. Cholly went into the little storeroom which had been

made into a bed

room for him. Three infants were sleeping on his cot. He took off

his rain- and pine-soaked clothes and put on his coveralls. He

didn’t know where to go. Aunt Jimmy’s room was out of the

question, and Uncle O. V. and his wife would be using it later

anyway. He took a quilt from a trunk, spread it on the floor, and

lay down. Somebody was brewing coffee, and he had a sharp craving

for it, just before falling asleep. The next day was cleaning-out

day, settling accounts, distributing Aunt Jimmy’s goods. Mouths

were set in downward crescents, eyes veiled, feet tentative.

Cholly floated about aimlessly, doing chores as he was told. All

the glamour and warmth the adults had given him on the previous

day were replaced by a sharpness that agreed with his mood. He

could think only of the flashlight, the muscadines, and Darlene’s

hands. And when he was not thinking of them, the vacancy in his

head was like the space left by a newly pulled tooth still

conscious of the rottenness that had once filled it. Afraid of

running into Darlene, he would not go far from the house, but

neither could he endure the atmosphere of his dead Aunt’s house.

The picking through her things, the comments on the “condition”

of her goods. Sullen, irritable, he cultivated his hatred of

Darlene. Never did he once consider directing his hatred toward

the hunters. Such an emotion would have destroyed him. They were

big, white, armed men. He was small, black, helpless. His

subconscious knew what his conscious mind did not guess—that

hating them would have consumed him, burned him up like a piece

of soft coal, leaving only flakes of ash and a question mark of

smoke. He was, in time, to discover that hatred of white men—but

not now. Not in impotence but later, when the hatred could find

sweet expression. For now, he hated the one who had created the

situation, the one who bore witness to his failure, his

impotence. The one whom he had not been able to protect, to

spare, to cover from the round moon glow of the flashlight. The

hee-hee-hee’s. He recalled Darlene’s dripping hair ribbon,

flapping against her face as they walked back in silence in the

rain. The

loathing that galloped through him made him tremble. There was no

one to talk to. Old Blue was too drunk too often these days to

make sense. Besides, Cholly doubted if he could reveal his shame

to Blue. He would have to lie a little to tell Blue, Blue the

woman-killer. It seemed to him that lonely was much better than

alone. The day Cholly’s uncle was ready to leave, when everything

was packed, when the quarrels about who gets what had seethed

down to a sticking gravy on everybody’s tongue, Cholly sat on the

back porch waiting. It had occurred to him that Darlene might be

pregnant. It was a wildly irrational, completely uninformed idea,

but the fear it produced was complete enough. He had to get away.

Never mind the fact that he was leaving that very day. A town or

two away was not far enough, especially since he did not like or

trust his uncle, and Darlene’s mother could surely find him, and

Uncle O. V. would turn him over to her. Cholly knew it was wrong

to run out on a pregnant girl, and recalled, with sympathy, that

his father had done just that. Now he understood. He knew then

what he must do—find his father. His father would understand.

Aunt Jimmy said he had gone to Macon. With no more thought than a

chick leaving its shell, he stepped off the porch. He had gotten

a little way when he remembered the treasure; Aunt Jimmy had left

something, and he had forgotten all about it. In a stove flue no

longer used, she had hidden a little meal bag which she called

her treasure. He slipped into the house and found the room empty.

Digging into the flue, he encountered webs and soot, and then the

soft bag. He sorted the money; fourteen one-dollar bills, two two

dollar bills, and lots of silver change … twenty-three

dollars in all. Surely that would be enough to get to Macon. What

a good, strong sounding word, Macon. Running away from home for a

Georgia black boy was not a great problem. You just sneaked away

and started walking. When night came you slept in a barn, if

there were no dogs, a cane field, or an empty sawmill. You ate

from the ground and bought root beer and licorice in little

country stores. There was always an easy tale of woe to tell

inquiring black adults, and whites didn’t care, unless they were

looking for sport. When he was several days away, he could go to

the back door of nice houses and tell the black cook or white

mistress that he wanted a job weeding, plowing, picking,

cleaning, and that he lived nearby. A week or more there, and he

could take off. He lived this way through the turn of summer, and

only the following October did he reach a town big enough to have

a regular bus station. Dry-mouthed with excitement and

apprehension, he went to the colored side of the counter to buy

his ticket. “How much to Macon, sir?” “Eleven dollars. Five-fifty

for children under twelve.” Cholly had twelve dollars and four

cents. “How old you be?” “Just on twelve, sir, but my mama only

give me ten dollars.” “You jest about the biggest twelve I ever

seed.” “Please, sir, I got to get to Macon. My mama’s sick.”

“Thought you said you mama give you ten dollars.” “That’s my play

mama. My real mama is in Macon, sir.” “I reckon I knows a lying

nigger when I sees one, but jest in case you ain’t, jest in case

one of them mammies is really dyin’ and wants to see her little

old smoke before she meets her maker, I gone do it.” Cholly heard

nothing. The insults were part of the nuisances of life, like

lice. He was happier than he had ever remembered being, except

that time with Blue and the watermelon. The bus wasn’t leaving

for four hours, and the minutes of those hours struggled like

gnats on fly paper—dying slow, exhausted with the fight to stay

alive. Cholly was afraid to stir, even to relieve himself. The

bus might leave while he was gone. Finally, rigid with

constipation, he boarded the bus to Macon. He found a window seat

in the back all to himself, and all of Georgia slid before his

eyes, until the sun shrugged out of sight. Even

in the dark, he hungered to see, and only after the fiercest

fight to keep his eyes open did he fall asleep. When he awoke it

was very well into day, and a fat black lady was nudging him with

a biscuit gashed with cold bacon. With the taste of bacon still

in his teeth, they sidled into Macon.

At the end of the alley he could see men clustered like grapes.

One large whooping voice spiraled over the heads of the bended

forms. The kneeling forms, the leaning forms, all intent on one

ground spot. As he came closer, he inhaled a rife and stimulating

man smell. The men were gathered, just as the man in the pool

hall had said, for and about dice and money. Each figure was

decorated some way with the slight pieces of green. Some of them

had separated their money, folded the bills around their fingers,

clenched the fingers into fists, so the neat ends of the money

stuck out in a blend of daintiness and violence. Others had

stacked their bills, creased them down the middle, and held the

wad as though they were about to deal cards. Still others had

left their money in loosely crumpled balls. One man had money

sticking out from under his cap. Another stroked his bills with a

thumb and forefinger. There was more money in those black hands

than Cholly had ever seen before. He shared their excitement, and

the dry-mouthed apprehension on meeting his father gave way to

the saliva flow of excitement. He glanced at the faces, looking

for the one who might be his father. How would he know him? Would

he look like a larger version of himself? At that moment Cholly

could not remember what his own self looked like. He only knew he

was fourteen years old, black, and already six feet tall. He

searched the faces and saw only eyes, pleading eyes, cold eyes,

eyes gone flat with malice, others laced with fear—all focused

on the movement of a pair of dice that one man was throwing,

snatching up, and throwing again. Chanting a kind of litany to

which the others responded, rubbing the dice as though they were

two hot coals, he whispered to them. Then with a whoop the cubes

flew from his hand to a chorus of amazements and disappointments.

Then the

thrower scooped up money, and someone shouted, “Take it and

crawl, you water dog, you, the best I know.” There was some

laughter, and a noticeable release of tension, during which some

men exchanged money. Cholly tapped an old white-haired man on

the back. “Can you tell me is Samson Fuller ‘round here

somewhere?” “Fuller?” The name was familiar to the man’s tongue.

“I don’t know, he here somewhere. They he is. In the brown

jacket.” The man pointed. A man in a light-brown jacket stood at

the far end of the group. He was gesturing in a quarrelsome,

agitated manner with another man. Both of them had folded their

faces in anger. Cholly edged around to where they stood, hardly

believing he was at the end of his journey. There was his father,

a man like any other man, but there indeed were his eyes, his

mouth, his whole head. His shoulders lurked beneath that jacket,

his voice, his hands—all real. They existed, really existed,

somewhere. Right here. Cholly had always thought of his

father as a giant of a man, so when he was very close it was with

a shock that he discovered that he was taller than his father. In

fact, he was staring at a balding spot on his father’s head,

which he suddenly wanted to stroke. While thus fascinated by the

pitiable clean space hedged around by neglected tufts of wool,

the man turned a hard, belligerent face to him. “What you want,

boy?” “Uh. I mean … is you Samson Fuller?” “Who sent you?”

“Huh?” “You Melba’s boy?” “No, sir, I’m …” Cholly blinked. He

could not remember his mother’s name. Had he ever known it? What

could he say? Whose boy was he? He couldn’t say, “I’m your boy.”

That sounded disrespectful. The man was impatient. “Something

wrong with your head? Who told you to come after me?”

“Nobody.” Cholly’s hands were sweating. The man’s eyes frightened

him. “I just thought … I mean, I was just wandering around,

and, uh, my name is Cholly….” But Fuller had turned back to

the game that was about to begin anew. He bent down to toss a

bill on the ground, and waited for a throw. When it was gone, he

stood up and in a vexed and whiny voice shouted at Cholly, “Tell

that bitch she get her money. Now, get the fuck outta my face!”

Cholly was a long time picking his foot up from the ground. He

was trying to back up and walk away. Only with extreme effort

could he get the first muscle to cooperate. When it did, he

walked back up the alley, out of its shade, toward the blazing

light of the street. As he emerged into the sun, he felt

something in his legs give way. An orange crate with a picture of

clasping hands pasted on its side was upended on the sidewalk.

Cholly sat down on it. The sunshine dropped like honey on his

head. A horse-drawn fruit wagon went by, its driver singing:

“Fresh from the vine, sweet as sugar, red as wine.” Noises seemed

to increase in volume. The clic-cloc of the women’s heels, the

laughter of idling men in doorways. There was a streetcar

somewhere. Cholly sat. He knew if he was very still he would be

all right. But then the trace of pain edged his eyes, and he had

to use everything to send it away. If he was very still, he

thought, and kept his eyes on one thing, the tears would not

come. So he sat in the dripping honey sun, pulling every nerve

and muscle into service to stop the fall of water from his eyes.

While straining in this way, focusing every erg of energy on his

eyes, his bowels suddenly opened up, and before he could realize

what he knew, liquid stools were running down his legs. At the

mouth of the alley where his father was, on an orange crate in

the sun, on a street full of grown men and women, he had soiled

himself like a baby. In panic he wondered should he wait there,

not moving until nighttime? No. His father would surely emerge

and see him and

laugh. Oh, Lord. He would laugh. Everybody would laugh. There was

only one thing to do. Cholly ran down the street, aware only of

silence. People’s mouths moved, their feet moved, a car jugged

by—but with no sound. A door slammed in perfect soundlessness.

His own feet made no sound. The air seemed to strangle him, hold

him back. He was pushing through a world of invisible pine sap

that threatened to smother him. Still he ran, seeing only silent

moving things, until he came to the end of buildings, the

beginning of open space, and saw the Ocmulgee River winding

ahead. He scooted down a gravelly slope to a pier jutting out

over the shallow water. Finding the deepest shadow under the

pier, he crouched in it, behind one of the posts. He remained

knotted there in fetal position, paralyzed, his fists covering

his eyes, for a long time. No sound, no sight, only darkness and

heat and the press of his knuckles on his eyelids. He even forgot

his messed-up trousers. Evening came. The dark, the warmth, the

quiet, enclosed Cholly like the skin and flesh of an elderberry

protecting its own seed. Cholly stirred. The ache in his head was

all he felt. Soon, like bright bits of glass, the events of that

afternoon cut into him. At first he saw only money in black

fingers, then he thought he was sitting on an uncomfortable

chair, but when he looked, it turned out to be the head of a man,

a head with a bald spot the size of an orange. When finally these

bits merged into full memory, Cholly began to smell himself. He

stood up and found himself weak, trembling, and dizzy. He leaned

for a moment on the pier post, then took off his pants,

underwear, socks, and shoes. He rubbed handfuls of dirt on his

shoes; then he crawled to the river edge. He had to find the

water’s beginning with his hands, for he could not see it

clearly. Slowly he swirled his clothes in the water and rubbed

them until he thought they were clean. Back near his post, he

took off his shirt and wrapped it around his waist, then spread

his trousers and underwear on the ground. He squatted down and

picked at the rotted wood of the pier. Suddenly he thought of his

Aunt Jimmy, her asafetida bag, her four gold teeth, and the

purple rag she

wore around her head. With a longing that almost split him open,

he thought of her handing him a bit of smoked hock out of her

dish. He remembered just how she held it—clumsy-like, in three

fingers, but with so much affection. No words, just picking up a

bit of meat and holding it out to him. And then the tears rushed

down his cheeks, to make a bouquet under his chin.

Three women are leaning out of two windows. They see the long

clean neck of a new young boy and call to him. He goes to where

they are. Inside, it is dark and warm. They give him lemonade in

a Mason jar. As he drinks, their eyes float up to him through the

bottom of the jar, through the slick sweet water. They give him

back his manhood, which he takes aimlessly. The pieces of

Cholly’s life could become coherent only in the head of a

musician. Only those who talk their talk through the gold of

curved metal, or in the touch of black-and-white rectangles and

taut skins and strings echoing from wooden corridors, could give

true form to his life. Only they would know how to connect the

heart of a red watermelon to the asafetida bag to the muscadine

to the flashlight on his behind to the fists of money to the

lemonade in a Mason jar to a man called Blue and come up with

what all of that meant in joy, in pain, in anger, in love, and

give it its final and pervading ache of freedom. Only a musician

would sense, know, without even knowing that he knew, that Cholly

was free. Dangerously free. Free to feel whatever he felt—fear,

guilt, shame, love, grief, pity. Free to be tender or violent, to

whistle or weep. Free to sleep in doorways or between the white

sheets of a singing woman. Free to take a job, free to leave it.

He could go to jail and not feel imprisoned, for he had already

seen the furtiveness in the eyes of his jailer, free to say, “No,

suh,” and smile, for he had already killed three white men. Free

to take a woman’s insults, for his body had already conquered

hers. Free even to knock her in the head, for he had already

cradled that head in his arms. Free to be gentle when she was

sick, or mop her floor, for she knew what and

where his maleness was. He was free to drink himself into a silly

helplessness, for he had already been a gandy dancer, done thirty

days on a chain gang, and picked a woman’s bullet out of the calf

of his leg. He was free to live his fantasies, and free even to

die, the how and the when of which held no interest for him. In

those days, Cholly was truly free. Abandoned in a junk heap by

his mother, rejected for a crap game by his father, there was

nothing more to lose. He was alone with his own perceptions and

appetites, and they alone interested him. It was in this godlike

state that he met Pauline Williams. And it was Pauline, or rather

marrying her, that did for him what the flashlight did not do.

The constantness, varietylessness, the sheer weight of sameness

drove him to despair and froze his imagination. To be required to

sleep with the same woman forever was a curious and unnatural

idea to him; to be expected to dredge up enthusiasms for old

acts, and routine ploys; he wondered at the arrogance of the

female. When he had met Pauline in Kentucky, she was hanging over

a fence scratching herself with a broken foot. The neatness, the

charm, the joy he awakened in her made him want to nest with her.

He had yet to discover what destroyed that desire. But he did not

dwell on it. He thought rather of whatever had happened to the

curiosity he used to feel. Nothing, nothing, interested him now.

Not himself, not other people. Only in drink was there some

break, some floodlight, and when that closed, there was oblivion.

But the aspect of married life that dumbfounded him and rendered

him totally disfunctional was the appearance of children. Having

no idea of how to raise children, and having never watched any

parent raise himself, he could not even comprehend what such a

relationship should be. Had he been interested in the

accumulation of things, he could have thought of them as his

material heirs; had he needed to prove himself to some nameless

“others,” he could have wanted them to excel in his own image and

for his own sake. He had not been alone in the world since he was

thirteen, knowing only a dying old woman who felt responsible for

him, but whose age, sex, and interests were so

remote from his own, he might have felt a stable connection

between himself and the children. As it was, he reacted to them,

and his reactions were based on what he felt at the moment.

So it was on a Saturday afternoon, in the thin light of spring,

he staggered home reeling drunk and saw his daughter in the

kitchen. She was washing dishes. Her small back hunched over the

sink. Cholly saw her dimly and could not tell what he saw or what

he felt. Then he became aware that he was uncomfortable; next he

felt the discomfort dissolve into pleasure. The sequence of his

emotions was revulsion, guilt, pity, then love. His revulsion was

a reaction to her young, helpless, hopeless presence. Her back

hunched that way; her head to one side as though crouching from a

permanent and unrelieved blow. Why did she have to look so

whipped? She was a child—unburdened—why wasn’t she happy? The

clear statement of her misery was an accusation. He wanted to

break her neck—but tenderly. Guilt and impotence rose in a

bilious duet. What could he do for her—ever? What give her? What

say to her? What could a burned-out black man say to the hunched

back of his eleven-year-old daughter? If he looked into her face,

he would see those haunted, loving eyes. The hauntedness would

irritate him—the love would move him to fury. How dare she love

him? Hadn’t she any sense at all? What was he supposed to do

about that? Return it? How? What could his calloused hands

produce to make her smile? What of his knowledge of the world and

of life could be useful to her? What could his heavy arms and

befuddled brain accomplish that would earn him his own respect,

that would in turn allow him to accept her love? His hatred of

her slimed in his stomach and threatened to become vomit. But

just before the puke moved from anticipation to sensation, she

shifted her weight and stood on one foot scratching the back of

her calf with her toe. It was a quiet and pitiful gesture. Her

hands were going around and around a frying pan, scraping flecks

of black into cold, greasy dishwater. The timid, tucked-in look

of the scratching toe—that

was what Pauline was doing the first time he saw her in Kentucky.

Leaning over a fence staring at nothing in particular. The creamy

toe of her bare foot scratching a velvet leg. It was such a small

and simple gesture, but it filled him then with a wondering

softness. Not the usual lust to part tight legs with his own, but

a tenderness, a protectiveness. A desire to cover her foot with

his hand and gently nibble away the itch from the calf with his

teeth. He did it then, and startled Pauline into laughter. He did

it now. The tenderness welled up in him, and he sank to his

knees, his eyes on the foot of his daughter. Crawling on all

fours toward her, he raised his hand and caught the foot in an

upward stroke. Pecola lost her balance and was about to careen to

the floor. Cholly raised his other hand to her hips to save her

from falling. He put his head down and nibbled at the back of her

leg. His mouth trembled at the firm sweetness of the flesh. He

closed his eyes, letting his fingers dig into her waist. The

rigidness of her shocked body, the silence of her stunned throat,

was better than Pauline’s easy laughter had been. The confused

mixture of his memories of Pauline and the doing of a wild and

forbidden thing excited him, and a bolt of desire ran down his

genitals, giving it length, and softening the lips of his anus.

Surrounding all of this lust was a border of politeness. He wanted

to fuck her—tenderly. But the tenderness would not hold. The

tightness of her vagina was more than he could bear. His soul

seemed to slip down to his guts and fly out into her, and the

gigantic thrust he made into her then provoked the only sound she

made—a hollow suck of air in the back of her throat. Like the

rapid loss of air from a circus balloon. Following the

disintegration—the falling away—of sexual desire, he was

conscious of her wet, soapy hands on his wrists, the fingers

clenching, but whether her grip was from a hopeless but stubborn

struggle to be free, or from some other emotion, he could not

tell. Removing himself from her was so painful to him he cut it

short and snatched his genitals out of the dry harbor of her

vagina. She appeared to have fainted. Cholly stood up and could

see only her grayish

panties, so sad and limp around her ankles. Again the hatred

mixed with tenderness. The hatred would not let him pick her up;

the tenderness forced him to cover her. So when the child

regained consciousness, she was lying on the kitchen floor under

a heavy quilt, trying to connect the pain between her legs with

the face of her mother looming over her.

SEETHEDOGBOWBOWGOESTHEDOGDOYOUWANTTOPL

AYDOYOUWANTTOPLAYWiTHJANESEETHEDOGRUNR

Once there was an old man who loved things, for the slightest

contact with people produced in him a faint but persistent

nausea. He could not remember when this distaste began, nor could

he remember ever being free of it. As a young boy he had been

greatly disturbed by this revulsion which others did not seem to

share, but having got a fine education, he learned, among other

things, the word “misanthrope.” Knowing his label provided him

with both comfort and courage, he believed that to name an evil

was to neutralize if not annihilate it. Then, too, he had read

several books and made the acquaintance of several great

misanthropes of the ages, whose spiritual company soothed him and

provided him with yardsticks for measuring his whims, his

yearnings, and his antipathies. Moreover, he found misanthropy an

excellent means of developing character: when he subdued his

revulsion and occasionally touched, helped, counseled, or

befriended somebody, he was able to think of his behavior as

generous and his intentions as noble. When he was enraged by some

human effort or flaw, he was able to regard himself as

discriminating, fastidious, and full of nice scruples. As in the

case of many misanthropes, his disdain for people led him into a

profession designed to serve them. He was engaged in a line of

work that was dependent solely on his ability to win the trust of

others, and one in which the most intimate relationships were

necessary. Having dallied with the priesthood in the Anglican

Church, he abandoned it to become a caseworker. Time and

misfortune, however, conspired against him, and he settled

finally on a profession that brought him both freedom and

satisfaction. He became a “Reader,

Adviser, and Interpreter of Dreams.” It was a profession that

suited him well. His hours were his own, the competition was

slight, the clientele was already persuaded and therefore

manageable, and he had numerous opportunities to witness human

stupidity without sharing it or being compromised by it, and to

nurture his fastidiousness by viewing physical decay. Although

his income was small, he had no taste for luxury—his experience

in the monastery had solidified his natural asceticism while it

developed his preference for solitude. Celibacy was a haven,

silence a shield. All his life he had had a fondness for

things—not the acquisition of wealth or beautiful objects, but a

genuine love of worn objects: a coffee pot that had been his

mother’s, a welcome mat from the door of a rooming house he once

lived in, a quilt from a Salvation Army store counter. It was as

though his disdain of human contact had converted itself into a

craving for things humans had touched. The residue of the human

spirit smeared on inanimate objects was all he could withstand of

humanity. To contemplate, for example, evidence of human

footsteps on the mat—absorb the smell of the quilt and wallow in

the sweet certainty that many bodies had sweated, slept, dreamed,

made love, been ill, and even died under it. Wherever he went, he

took along his things, and was always searching for others. This

thirst for worn things led him to casual but habitual

examinations of trash barrels in alleys and wastebaskets in

public places…. All in all, his personality was an

arabesque: intricate, symmetrical, balanced, and tightly

constructed—except for one flaw. The careful design was marred

occasionally by rare but keen sexual cravings. He could have been

an active homosexual but lacked the courage. Bestiality did not

occur to him, and sodomy was quite out of the question, for he

did not experience sustained erections and could not endure the

thought of somebody else’s. And besides, the one thing that

disgusted him more than entering and caressing a woman was

caressing and being caressed by a man. In any case, his cravings,

although intense, never relished physical contact. He abhorred

flesh on

flesh. Body odor, breath odor, overwhelmed him. The sight of

dried matter in the corner of the eye, decayed or missing teeth,

ear wax, blackheads, moles, blisters, skin crusts—all the

natural excretions and protections the body was capable

of—disquieted him. His attentions therefore gradually settled on

those humans whose bodies were least offensive—children. And

since he was too diffident to confront homosexuality, and since

little boys were insulting, scary, and stubborn, he further

limited his interests to little girls. They were usually

manageable and frequently seductive. His sexuality was anything

but lewd; his patronage of little girls smacked of innocence and

was associated in his mind with cleanliness. He was what one

might call a very clean old man. A cinnamon-eyed West Indian with

lightly browned skin. Although his given name was printed on the

sign in his kitchen window, and on the business cards he

circulated, he was called by the townspeople Soaphead Church. No

one knew where the “Church” part came from—perhaps somebody’s

recollection of his days as a guest preacher—those reverends who

had been called but who had no flock or coop, and were constantly

visiting other churches, sitting on the altar with the host

preacher. But everybody knew what “Soaphead” meant—the tight,

curly hair that took on and held a sheen and wave when pomaded

with soap lather. A sort of primitive process. He had been reared

in a family proud of its academic accomplishments and its mixed

blood—in fact, they believed the former was based on the latter.

A Sir Whitcomb, some decaying British nobleman, who chose to

disintegrate under a sun more easeful than England’s, had

introduced the white strain into the family in the early 1800’s.

Being a gentleman by order of the King, he had done the civilized

thing for his mulatto bastard—provided it with three hundred

pounds sterling, to the great satisfaction of the bastard’s

mother, who felt that fortune had smiled on her. The bastard too

was grateful, and regarded as his life’s goal the hoarding of

this white strain. He bestowed his favors on a fifteen-year-old

girl of similar parentage. She, like a good Victorian parody,

learned from her husband all that was worth learning—to separate

herself in body, mind, and spirit from all that suggested Africa;

to cultivate the habits, tastes, preferences that her absent

father-in-law and foolish mother-in-law would have approved. They

transferred this Anglophilia to their six children and sixteen

grandchildren. Except for an occasional and unaccountable

insurgent who chose a restive black, they married “up,”

lightening the family complexion and thinning out the family

features. With the confidence born of a conviction of

superiority, they performed well at schools. They were

industrious, orderly, and energetic, hoping to prove beyond a

doubt De Gobineau’s hypothesis that “all civilizations derive

from the white race, that none can exist without its help, and

that a society is great and brilliant only so far as it preserves

the blood of the noble group that created it.” Thus, they were

seldom overlooked by schoolmasters who recommended promising

students for study abroad. The men studied medicine, law,

theology, and emerged repeatedly in the powerless government

offices available to the native population. That they were

corrupt in public and private practice, both lecherous and

lascivious, was considered their noble right, and thoroughly

enjoyed by most of the less gifted population. As the years

passed, due to the carelessness of some of the Whitcomb brothers,

it became difficult to maintain their whiteness, and some distant

and some not so distant relatives married each other. No

obviously bad effects were noticed from these ill-advised unions,

but one or two old maids or gardener boys marked a weakening of

faculties and a disposition toward eccentricity in some of the

children. Some flaw outside the usual alcoholism and lechery.

They blamed the flaw on intermarriage with the family, however,

not on the original genes of the decaying lord. In any case,

there were flukes. No more than in any other family, to be sure,

but more dangerous because more powerful. One of them was a

religious fanatic who founded his own secret sect and fathered

four sons, one of whom became a schoolmaster

known for the precision of his justice and the control in his

violence. This schoolmaster married a sweet, indolent

half-Chinese girl for whom the fatigue of bearing a son was too

much. She died soon after childbirth. Her son, named Elihue Micah

Whitcomb, provided the schoolmaster with ample opportunity to

work out his theories of education, discipline, and the good

life. Little Elihue learned everything he needed to know well,

particularly the fine art of self-deception. He read greedily but

understood selectively, choosing the bits and pieces of other

men’s ideas that supported whatever predilection he had at the

moment. Thus he chose to remember Hamlet’s abuse of Ophelia, but

not Christ’s love of Mary Magdalene; Hamlet’s frivolous politics,

but not Christ’s serious anarchy. He noticed Gibbon’s acidity,

but not his tolerance, Othello’s love for the fair Desdemona, but

not Iago’s perverted love of Othello. The works he admired most

were Dante’s; those he despised most were Dostoyevsky’s. For all

his exposure to the best minds of the Western world, he allowed

only the narrowest interpretation to touch him. He responded to

his father’s controlled violence by developing hard habits and a

soft imagination. A hatred of, and fascination with, any hint of

disorder or decay. At seventeen, however, he met his Beatrice,

who was three years his senior. A lovely, laughing big-legged

girl who worked as a clerk in a Chinese department store. Velma.

So strong was her affection and zest for life, she did not

eliminate the frail, sickly Elihue from it. She found his

fastidiousness and complete lack of humor touching, and longed to

introduce him to the idea of delight. He resisted the

introduction, but she married him anyway, only to discover that

he was suffering from and enjoying an invincible melancholy. When

she learned two months into the marriage how important his

melancholy was to him, that he was very interested in altering

her joy to a more academic gloom, that he equated lovemaking with

communion and the Holy Grail, she simply left. She had not lived

by the sea all those years, listened to the

wharfman’s songs all that time, to spend her life in the

soundless cave of Elihue’s mind. He never got over her desertion.

She was to have been the answer to his unstated, unacknowledged

question—where was the life to counter the encroaching nonlife?

Velma was to rescue him from the nonlife he had learned on the

flat side of his father’s belt. But he resisted her with such

skill that she was finally driven out to escape the inevitable

boredom produced by such a dainty life. Young Elihue was saved

from visible shattering by the steady hand of his father, who

reminded him of the family’s reputation and Velma’s questionable

one. He then pursued his studies with more vigor than before and

decided at last to enter the ministry. When he was advised that

he had no avocation, he left the island, came to America to study

the then budding field of psychiatry. But the subject required

too much truth, too many confrontations, and offered too little

support to a failing ego. He drifted into sociology, then

physical therapy. This diverse education continued for six years,

when his father refused to support him any longer, until he

“found” himself. Elihue, not knowing where to look, was thrown

back on his own devices, and “found” himself quite unable to earn

money. He began to sink into a rapidly fraying gentility,

punctuated with a few of the white-collar occupations available

to black people, regardless of their noble bloodlines, in

America: desk clerk at a colored hotel in Chicago, insurance

agent, traveling salesman for a cosmetics firm catering to

blacks. He finally settled in Lorain, Ohio, in 1936, palming

himself off as a minister, and inspiring awe with the way he

spoke English. The women of the town early discovered his

celibacy, and not being able to comprehend his rejection of them,

decided that he was supernatural rather than unnatural. Once he

understood their decision, he quickly followed through, accepting

the name (Soaphead Church) and the role they had given him. He

rented a kind of back-room apartment from a deeply religious old

lady named Bertha Reese. She was clean, quiet, and very close to

total

deafness. The lodgings were ideal in every way but one. Bertha

Reese had an old dog, Bob, who, although as deaf and quiet as

she, was not as clean. He slept most of his days away on the back

porch, which was Elihue’s entrance. The dog was too old to be of

any use, and Bertha Reese had not the strength or presence of

mind to care for him properly. She fed him, and watered him, left

him alone. The dog was mangy; his exhausted eyes ran with a

sea-green matter around which gnats and flies clustered. Soaphead

was revolted by Bob and wished he would hurry up and die. He

regarded this wish for the dog’s death as humane, for he could

not bear, he told himself, to see anything suffer. It did not

occur to him that he was really concerned about his own

suffering, since the dog had adjusted himself to frailty and old

age. Soaphead finally determined to put an end to the animal’s

misery, and bought some poison with which to do it. Only the

horror of having to go near him had prevented Soaphead from

completing his mission. He waited for rage or blinding revulsion

to spur him. Living there among his worn things, rising early

every morning from dreamless sleeps, he counseled those who

sought his advice. His business was dread. People came to him in

dread, whispered in dread, wept and pleaded in dread. And dread

was what he counseled. Singly they found their way to his door,

wrapped each in a shroud stitched with anger, yearning, pride,

vengeance, loneliness, misery, defeat, and hunger. They asked for

the simplest of things: love, health, and money. Make him love

me. Tell me what this dream means. Help me get rid of this woman.

Make my mother give me back my clothes. Stop my left hand from

shaking. Keep my baby’s ghost off the stove. Break so-and-so’s

fix. To all of these requests he addressed himself. His practice

was to do what he was bid—not to suggest to a party that perhaps

the request was unfair, mean, or hopeless. With only occasional,

and increasingly rare, encounters with the little girls he could

persuade to be entertained by him, he lived rather peaceably

among his things, admitting to no regrets. He was aware, of

course, that something was awry in his life, and all lives, but

put the

problem where it belonged, at the foot of the Originator of Life.

He believed that since decay, vice, filth, and disorder were

pervasive, they must be in the Nature of Things. Evil existed

because God had created it. He, God, had made a sloven and

unforgivable error in judgment: designing an imperfect universe.

Theologians justified the presence of corruption as a means by

which men strove, were tested, and triumphed. A triumph of cosmic

neatness. But this neatness, the neatness of Dante, was in the

orderly sectioning and segregating of all levels of evil and

decay. In the world it was not so. The most exquisite-looking

ladies sat on toilets, and the most dreadful-looking had pure and

holy yearnings. God had done a poor job, and Soaphead suspected

that he himself could have done better. It was in fact a pity

that the Maker had not sought his counsel. Soaphead was

reflecting once again on these thoughts one late hot afternoon

when he heard a tap on his door. Opening it, he saw a little

girl, quite unknown to him. She was about twelve or so, he

thought, and seemed to him pitifully unattractive. When he asked

her what she wanted, she did not answer, but held out to him one

of his cards advertising his gifts and services: “If you are

overcome with trouble and conditions that are not natural, I can

remove them; Overcome Spells, Bad Luck, and Evil Influences.

Remember, I am a true Spiritualist and Psychic Reader, born with

power, and I will help you. Satisfaction in one visit. During

many years of practice I have brought together many in marriage

and reunited many who were separated. If you are unhappy,

discouraged, or in distress, I can help you. Does bad luck seem

to follow you? Has the one you love changed? I can tell you why.

I will tell you who your enemies and friends are, and if the one

you love is true or false. If you are sick, I can show you the

way to health. I locate lost and stolen articles. Satisfaction

guaranteed.” Soaphead Church told her to come in. “What can I do

for you, my child?” She stood there, her hands folded across her

stomach, a little protruding pot of tummy. “Maybe. Maybe you can

do it for me.”

“Do what for you?” “I can’t go to school no more. And I thought

maybe you could help me.” “Help you how? Tell me. Don’t be

frightened.” “My eyes.” “What about your eyes?” “I want them

blue.” Soaphead pursed his lips, and let his tongue stroke a gold

inlay. He thought it was at once the most fantastic and the most

logical petition he had ever received. Here was an ugly little

girl asking for beauty. A surge of love and understanding swept

through him, but was quickly replaced by anger. Anger that he was

powerless to help her. Of all the wishes people had brought

him—money, love, revenge—this seemed to him the most poignant

and the one most deserving of fulfillment. A little black girl

who wanted to rise up out of the pit of her blackness and see the

world with blue eyes. His outrage grew and felt like power. For

the first time he honestly wished he could work miracles. Never

before had he really wanted the true and holy power—only the

power to make others believe he had it. It seemed so sad, so

frivolous, that mere mortality, not judgment, kept him from it.

Or did it? With a trembling hand he made the sign of the cross

over her. His flesh crawled; in that hot, dim little room of worn

things, he was chilled. “I can do nothing for you, my child. I am

not a magician. I work only through the Lord. He sometimes uses

me to help people. All I can do is offer myself to Him as the

instrument through which he works. If He wants your wish granted,

He will do it.” Soaphead walked to the window, his back to the

girl. His mind raced, stumbled, and raced again. How to frame the

next sentence? How to hang on to the feeling of power. His eye

fell on old Bob sleeping on the porch. “We must make, ah, some

offering, that is, some contact with nature. Perhaps some simple

creature might be the vehicle through which He will speak. Let us

see.” He knelt down at the window, and moved his lips. After what

seemed a suitable length of time, he rose and went to the icebox

that stood near the other window. From it he removed a small

packet wrapped in pinkish butcher paper. From a shelf he took a

small brown bottle and sprinkled some of its contents on the

substance inside the paper. He put the packet, partly opened, on

the table. “Take this food and give it to the creature sleeping

on the porch. Make sure he eats it. And mark well how he behaves.

If nothing happens, you will know that God has refused you. If

the animal behaves strangely, your wish will be granted on the

day following this one.” The girl picked up the packet; the odor

of the dark, sticky meat made her want to vomit. She put a hand

on her stomach. “Courage. Courage, my child. These things are not

granted to faint hearts.” She nodded and swallowed visibly,

holding down the vomit. Soaphead opened the door, and she stepped

over the threshold. “Good-bye, God bless,” he said and quickly

shut the door. At the window he stood watching her, his eyebrows

pulled together into waves of compassion, his tongue fondling the

worn gold in his upper jaw. He saw the girl bending down to the

sleeping dog, who, at her touch, opened one liquid eye, matted in

the corners with what looked like green glue. She reached out and

touched the dog’s head, stroking him gently. She placed the meat

on the floor of the porch, near his nose. The odor roused him; he

lifted his head, and got up to smell it better. He ate it in

three or four gulps. The girl stroked his head again, and the dog

looked up at her with soft triangle eyes. Suddenly he coughed,

the cough of a phlegmy old man—and got to his feet. The girl

jumped. The dog gagged, his mouth chomping the air, and promptly

fell down. He tried to raise himself, could not, tried again, and

half-fell down the steps. Choking, stumbling, he moved like a

broken toy around the yard. The girl’s mouth was open, a little

petal of

tongue showing. She made a wild, pointless gesture with one hand

and then covered her mouth with both hands. She was trying not to

vomit. The dog fell again, a spasm jerking his body. Then he was

quiet. The girl’s hands covering her mouth, she backed away a few

feet, then turned, ran out of the yard and down the walk.

Soaphead Church went to the table. He sat down, with folded hands

balancing his forehead on the balls of his thumbs. Then he rose

and went to a tiny night table with a drawer, from which he took

paper and a fountain pen. A bottle of ink was on the same shelf

that held the poison. With these things he sat again at the

table. Slowly, carefully, relishing his penmanship, he wrote the

following letter:

Att: TO HE WHO GREATLY ENNOBLED HUMAN NATURE BY CREATING IT Dear

God: The Purpose of this letter is to familiarize you with facts

which either have escaped your notice, or which you have chosen

to ignore. Once upon a time I lived greenly and youngish on one

of your islands. An island of the archipelago in the South

Atlantic between North and South America, enclosing the Caribbean

Sea and the Gulf of Mexico: divided into the Greater Antilles,

the Lesser Antilles, and the Bahama Islands. Not the Windward or

Leeward Island colonies, mark you, but within, of course, the

Greater of the two Antilles (while the precision of my prose may

be, at times, laborious, it is necessary that I identify myself

to you clearly). Now. We in this colony took as our own the most

dramatic, and the most obvious, of our white master’s

characteristics, which were, of course, their worst. In retaining

the identity of our race, we held fast to those characteristics

most gratifying to sustain and least troublesome to maintain.

Consequently we were not royal but snobbish, not aristocratic but

class-conscious; we believed authority was cruelty to our

inferiors, and education was being at school. We mistook violence

for passion, indolence for leisure, and thought recklessness was

freedom. We raised our children and reared our crops; we let

infants grow, and property develop. Our manhood was denned by

acquisitions. Our womanhood by acquiescence. And the smell of

your fruit and the labor of your days we abhorred. This morning,

before the little black girl came, I cried—for Velma. Oh, not

aloud. There is no wind to carry, bear, or even refuse to bear, a

sound so heavy with regret. But in my silent own lone way, I

cried— for Velma. You need to know about Velma to understand

what I did today. She (Velma) left me the way people leave a

hotel room. A hotel room is a place to be when you are doing

something else. Of itself it is of no consequence to one’s major

scheme. A hotel room is convenient. But its convenience is

limited to the time you need it while you are in that particular

town on that particular business; you hope it is comfortable, but

prefer, rather, that it be anonymous. It is not, after all, where

you live. When you no longer need it, you pay a little something

for its use; say, “Thank you, sir,” and when your business in

that town is over, you go away from that room. Does anybody

regret leaving a hotel room? Does anybody, who has a home, a real

home somewhere, want to stay there? Does anybody look back with

affection, or even disgust, at a hotel room when they leave it?

You can only love or despise whatever living was done in that

room. But the room itself? But you take a souvenir. Not, oh, not,

to remember the room. To remember, rather, the time and the place

of your business, your adventure. What can anyone feel for a

hotel room? One doesn’t any more feel for a hotel room than one

expects a hotel room to feel for its occupant. That, heavenly,

heavenly Father, was how she left me; or rather, she never left

me, because she was never ever there. You remember, do you, how

and of what we are made? Let me tell you now about the breasts of

little girls. I apologize for the inappropriateness (is that

it?), the imbalance of loving them at

awkward times of day, and in awkward places, and the

tastelessness of loving those which belonged to members of my

family. Do I have to apologize for loving strangers? But you too

are amiss here, Lord. How, why, did you allow it to happen? How

is it I could lift my eyes from the contemplation of Your Body

and fall deeply into the contemplation of theirs? The buds. The

buds on some of these saplings. They were mean, you know, mean

and tender. Mean little buds resisting the touch, springing like

rubber. But aggressive. Daring me to touch. Commanding me to

touch. Not a bit shy, as you’d suppose. They stuck out at me, oh

yes, at me. Slender chested, finger-chested lassies. Have you

ever seen them, Lord? I mean, really seen them? One could not see

them and not love them. You who made them must have considered

them lovely even as an idea— how much more lovely is the

manifestation of that idea. I couldn’t, as you must recall, keep

my hands, my mouth, off them. Salt-sweet. Like not quite ripe

strawberries covered with the light salt sweat of running days

and hopping, skipping, jumping hours. The love of them—the

touch, taste, and feel of them—was not just an easy luxurious

human vice; they were, for me, A Thing To Do Instead. Instead of

papa, instead of the Cloth, instead of Velma, and I chose not to

do without them. But I didn’t go into the church. At least I

didn’t do that. As to what I did do? I told people I knew all

about You. That I had received Your Powers. It was not a complete

lie; but it was a complete lie. I should never have, I admit, I

should never have taken their money in exchange for well-phrased,

well-placed, well-faced lies. But, mark you, I hated it. Not for

a moment did I love the lies or the money. But consider: The

woman who left the hotel room. Consider: The greentime, the

noontime of the archipelago. Consider: Their hopeful eyes that

were outdone only by their hoping breasts. Consider: How I needed

a comfortable evil to prevent my knowing what I could not bear to

know.

Consider: How I hated and despised the money. And now, consider:

Not according to my just deserts, but according to my mercy, the

little black girl that came a-looning at me today. Tell me, Lord,

how could you leave a lass so long so lone that she could find

her way to me? How could you? I weep for you, Lord. And it is

because I weep for You that I had to do your work for You. Do you

know what she came for? Blue eyes. New, blue eyes, she said. Like

she was buying shoes. “I’d like a pair of new blue eyes.” She

must have asked you for them for a very long time, and you hadn’t

replied. (A habit, I could have told her, a long-ago habit broken

for Job—but no more.) She came to me for them. She had one of

my cards. (Card enclosed.) By the way, I added the Micah—Micah

Elihue Whitcomb. But I am called Soaphead Church. I cannot

remember how or why I got the name. What makes one name more a

person than another? Is the name the real thing, then? And the

person only what his name says? Is that why to the simplest and

friendliest of questions: “What is your name?” put to you by

Moses, You would not say, and said instead “I am who I am.” Like

Popeye? I Yam What I Yam? Afraid you were, weren’t you, to give

out your name? Afraid they would know the name and then know you?

Then they wouldn’t fear you? It’s quite all right. Don’t be

vexed. I mean no offense. I understand. I have been a bad man

too, and an unhappy man too. But someday I will die. I was always

so kind. Why do I have to die? The little girls. The little girls

are the only things I’ll miss. Do you know that when I touched

their sturdy little tits and bit them—just a little—I felt I

was being friendly? I didn’t want to kiss their mouths or sleep

in the bed with them or take a child bride for my own. Playful, I

felt, and friendly. Not like the newspapers said. Not like the

people whispered. And they didn’t mind at all. Not at all.

Remember how so many of them came back? No one would even try to

understand that. If I’d been hurting them, would they have come

back? Two of them, Doreen and Sugar Babe, they’d come together. I

gave them mints, money, and they’d eat ice cream with their legs

open while I played with them. It

was like a party. And there wasn’t nastiness, and there wasn’t

any filth, and there wasn’t any odor, and there wasn’t any

groaning—just the light white laughter of little girls and me.

And there wasn’t any look— any long funny look—any long funny

Velma look afterward. No look that makes you feel dirty

afterward. That makes you want to die. With little girls it is

all clean and good and friendly. You have to understand that,

Lord. You said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and harm

them not.” Did you forget? Did you forget about the children?

Yes. You forgot. You let them go wanting, sit on road shoulders,

crying next to their dead mothers. I’ve seen them charred, lame,

halt. You forgot, Lord. You forgot how and when to be God. That’s

why I changed the little black girl’s eyes for her, and I didn’t

touch her; not a finger did I lay on her. But I gave her those

blue eyes she wanted. Not for pleasure, and not for money. I did

what You did not, could not, would not do: I looked at that ugly

little black girl, and I loved her. I played You. And it was a

very good show! I, I have caused a miracle. I gave her the eyes.

I gave her the blue, blue, two blue eyes. Cobalt blue. A streak

of it right out of your own blue heaven. No one else will see her

blue eyes. But she will. And she will live happily ever after. I,

I have found it meet and right so to do. Now you are jealous. You

are jealous of me. You see? I, too, have created. Not

aboriginally, like you, but creation is a heady wine, more for

the taster than the brewer. Having therefore imbibed, as it were,

of the nectar, I am not afraid of You, of Death, not even of

Life, and it’s all right about Velma; and it’s all right about

Papa; and it’s all right about the Greater and the Lesser

Antilles. Quite all right. Quite. With kindest regards, I remain,

Your, Micah Elihue Whitcomb

Soaphead Church folded the sheets of paper into three equal parts

and slipped them into an envelope. Although he had no seal, he

longed for sealing wax. He removed a cigar box from under the bed

and rummaged about in it. There were some of his most precious

things: a sliver of jade that had dislodged from a cufflink at

the Chicago hotel; a gold pendant shaped like a Y with a piece of

coral attached to it that had belonged to the mother he never

knew; four large hairpins that Velma had left on the rim of the

bathroom sink; a powder blue grosgrain ribbon from the head of a

little girl named Precious Jewel; a blackened faucet head from

the sink in a jail cell in Cincinnati; two marbles he had found

under a bench in Morningside Park on a very fine spring day; an

old Lucky Hart catalog that smelled still of nut-brown and mocha

face powder, and lemon vanishing cream. Distracted by his things,

he forgot what he had been looking for. The effort to recall was

too great; there was a buzzing in his head, and a wash of fatigue

overcame him. He closed his box, eased himself out on the bed,

and slipped into an ivory sleep from which he could not hear the

tiny yelps of an old lady who had come out of her candy store and

found the still carcass of an old dog named Bob.

Summer

I have only to break into the tightness of a strawberry, and I

see summer—its dust and lowering skies. It remains for me a

season of storms. The parched days and sticky nights are

undistinguished in my mind, but the storms, the violent sudden

storms, both frightened and quenched me. But my memory is

uncertain; I recall a summer storm in the town where we lived and

imagine a summer my mother knew in 1929. There was a tornado that

year, she said, that blew away half of south Lorain. I mix up her

summer with my own. Biting the strawberry, thinking of storms, I

see her. A slim young girl in a pink crepe dress. One hand is on

her hip; the other lolls about her thigh—waiting. The wind swoops

her up, high above the houses, but she is still standing, hand on

hip. Smiling. The anticipation and promise in her lolling hand

are not altered by the holocaust. In the summer tornado of 1929,

my mother’s hand is unextinguished. She is strong, smiling, and

relaxed while the world falls down about her. So much for memory.

Public fact becomes private reality, and the seasons of a

Midwestern town become the Moirai of our small lives. The summer

was already thick when Frieda and I received our seeds. We had

waited since April for the magic package containing the packets

and packets of seeds we were to sell for five cents each, which

would entitle us to a new bicycle. We believed it, and spent a

major part of every day trooping about the town selling them.

Although Mama had restricted us to the homes of people she knew

or the neighborhoods familiar to us, we knocked on all doors, and

floated in and out of every house that opened to us: twelve-room

houses that sheltered half as many families, smelling of grease

and urine; tiny wooden four-room houses tucked into bushes near

the railroad tracks; the up-over places—apartments up over fish

markets, butcher shops,

furniture stores, saloons, restaurants; tidy brick houses with

flowered carpets and glass bowls with fluted edges. During that

summer of the seed selling we thought about the money, thought

about the seeds, and listened with only half an ear to what

people were saying. In the houses of people who knew us we were

asked to come in and sit, given cold water or lemonade; and while

we sat there being refreshed, the people continued their

conversations or went about their chores. Little by little we

began to piece a story together, a secret, terrible, awful story.

And it was only after two or three such vaguely overheard

conversations that we realized that the story was about Pecola.

Properly placed, the fragments of talk ran like this: “Did you

hear about that girl?” “What? Pregnant?” “Yas. But guess who?”

“Who? I don’t know all these little old boys.” “That’s just it.

Ain’t no little old boy. They say it’s Cholly.” “Cholly? Her

daddy?” “Uh-huh” “Lord. Have mercy. That dirty nigger.”

“‘Member that time he tried to burn them up? I knew he was crazy

for sure then.” “What’s she gone do? The mama?” “Keep on like she

been, I reckon. He taken off.” “County ain’t gone let her

keep that baby, is they?” “Don’t know.” “None of them

Breedloves seem right anyhow. That boy is off somewhere every

minute, and the girl was always foolish.” “Don’t nobody know

nothing about them anyway. Where they come from or nothing. Don’t

seem to have no people.” “What you reckon make him do a thing

like that?” “Beats me. Just nasty.” “Well, they ought to take her

out of school.”

“Ought to. She carry some of the blame.” “Oh, come on. She ain’t

but twelve or so.” “Yeah. But you never know. How come she didn’t

fight him?” “Maybe she did.” “Yeah? You never know.” “Well, it

probably won’t live. They say the way her mama beat her she lucky

to be alive herself.” “She be lucky if it don’t live. Bound to be

the ugliest thing walking.” “Can’t help but be. Ought to be a

law: two ugly people doubling up like that to make more ugly. Be

better off in the ground.” “Well, I wouldn’t worry none. It be a

miracle if it live.” Our astonishment was short-lived, for it

gave way to a curious kind of defensive shame; we were

embarrassed for Pecola, hurt for her, and finally we just felt

sorry for her. Our sorrow drove out all thoughts of the new

bicycle. And I believe our sorrow was the more intense because

nobody else seemed to share it. They were disgusted, amused,

shocked, outraged, or even excited by the story. But we listened

for the one who would say, “Poor little girl,” or, “Poor baby,”

but there was only head-wagging where those words should have

been. We looked for eyes creased with concern, but saw only

veils. I thought about the baby that everybody wanted dead, and

saw it very clearly. It was in a dark, wet place, its head

covered with great O’s of wool, the black face holding, like

nickels, two clean black eyes, the flared nose, kissing-thick

lips, and the living, breathing silk of black skin. No synthetic

yellow bangs suspended over marble-blue eyes, no pinched nose and

bowline mouth. More strongly than my fondness for Pecola, I felt

a need for someone to want the black baby to live—just to

counteract the universal love of white baby dolls, Shirley

Temples, and Maureen Peals. And Frieda must have felt the same

thing. We did not think of the fact that Pecola was not married;

lots of girls had babies who were not married. And we did not

dwell on the fact that the baby’s father was Pecola’s father too;

the process of having a baby

by any male was incomprehensible to us—at least she knew her

father. We thought only of this overwhelming hatred for the

unborn baby. We remembered Mrs. Breedlove knocking Pecola down

and soothing the pink tears of the frozen doll baby that sounded

like the door of our icebox. We remembered the knuckled eyes of

schoolchildren under the gaze of Meringue Pie and the eyes of

these same children when they looked at Pecola. Or maybe we

didn’t remember; we just knew. We had defended ourselves since

memory against everything and everybody, considered all speech a

code to be broken by us, and all gestures subject to careful

analysis; we had become headstrong, devious, and arrogant. Nobody

paid us any attention, so we paid very good attention to

ourselves. Our limitations were not known to us—not then. Our

only handicap was our size; people gave us orders because they

were bigger and stronger. So it was with confidence, strengthened

by pity and pride, that we decided to change the course of events

and alter a human life. “What we gone do, Frieda?” “What can we

do? Miss Johnson said it would be a miracle if it lived.” “So

let’s make it a miracle.” “Yeah, but how?” “We could pray.”

“That’s not enough. Remember last time with the bird?” “That was

different; it was half-dead when we found it.” “I don’t care, I

still think we have to do something really strong this time.”

“Let’s ask Him to let Pecola’s baby live and promise to be good

for a whole month.” “O.K. But we better give up something so

He’ll know we really mean it this time.” “Give up what? We ain’t

got nothing. Nothing but the seed money, two dollars.”

“We could give that. Or, you know what? We could give up the

bicycle. Bury the money and … plant the seeds.” “All of the

money?” “Claudia, do you want to do it or not?” “O.K. I just

thought … O.K.” “We have to do it right, now. We’ll bury the

money over by her house so we can’t go back and dig it up, and

we’ll plant the seeds out back of our house so we can watch over

them. And when they come up, we’ll know everything is all right.

All right?” “All right. Only let me sing this time. You say the

magic words.”

LOOKLOOKHERECOMESAFRIENDTHEFRIENDWILLPLAY

WITHJANETHEYWILLPLAYAGOODGAMEPLAYJANEPLA

How many times a minute are you going to look inside that old

thing? I didn’t look in a long time. You did too. So what? I can

look if I want to. I didn’t say you couldn’t. I just don’t know

why you have to look every minute. They aren’t going anywhere.

I know it. I just like to look. You scared they might go away? Of

course not. How can they go away? The others went away. They

didn’t go away. They changed. Go away. Change. What’s the

difference? A lot. Mr. Soaphead said they would last forever.

Forever and ever Amen? Yes, if you want to know. You don’t have

to be so smarty when you talk to me. I’m not being smarty. You

started it. I’d just like to do something else besides watch you

stare in that mirror. You’re just jealous. I am not. You are. You

wish you had them. Ha. What would I look like with blue eyes?

Nothing much. If you’re going to keep this up, I may as well go

on off by myself. No. Don’t go. What you want to do? We could go

outside and play, I guess. But it’s too hot.

You can take your old mirror. Put it in your coat pocket, and you

can look at yourself up and down the street. Boy! I never would

have thought you’d be so jealous. Oh, come on! You are. Are what?

Jealous. O.K. So I’m jealous. See. I told you. No. I told you.

Are they really nice? Yes. Very nice. Just “very nice”? Really,

truly, very nice. Really, truly, bluely nice? Oh, God. You are

crazy. I am not! I didn’t mean it that way. Well, what did you

mean? Come on. It’s too hot in here. Wait a minute. I can’t find

my shoes. Here they are. Oh. Thank you. Got your mirror? Yes

dearie…. Well, let’s go then…. Ow! What’s the matter? the

sun is too bright. It hurts my eyes. Not mine. I don’t even

blink. Look. I can look right at the sun. Don’t do that. Why not?

It doesn’t hurt. I don’t even have to blink. Well, blink anyway.

You make me feel funny, staring at the sun like that. Feel funny

how?

I don’t know. Yes, you do. Feel funny how? I told you, I don’t

know. Why don’t you look at me when you say that? You’re looking

drop-eyed like Mrs. Breedlove. Mrs. Breedlove look drop-eyed at

you? Yes. Now she does. Ever since I got my blue eyes, she look

away from me all of the time. Do you suppose she’s jealous too?

Could be. They are pretty, you know. I know. He really did a good

job. Everybody’s jealous. Every time I look at somebody, they

look off. Is that why nobody has told you how pretty they are?

Sure it is. Can you imagine? Something like that happening to a

person, and nobody but nobody saying anything about it? They all

try to pretend they don’t see them. Isn’t that funny? … I said,

isn’t that funny? Yes. You are the only one who tells me how

pretty they are. Yes. You are a real friend. I’m sorry about

picking on you before. I mean, saying you were jealous and all.

That’s all right. No. Really. You are my very best friend. Why

didn’t I know you before? You didn’t need me before. Didn’t

need you? I mean … you were so unhappy before. I guess you

didn’t notice me before. I guess you’re right. And I was so

lonely for friends. And you were right here. Right before my

eyes. No, honey. Right after your eyes. What? What does Maureen

think about your eyes?

She doesn’t say anything about them. Has she said anything to you

about them? No. Nothing. Do you like Maureen? Oh. She’s all

right. For a half-white girl, that is. I know what you mean. But

would you like to be her friend? I mean, would you like to go

around with her or anything? No. Me neither. But she sure is

popular. Who wants to be popular? Not me. Me neither. But you

couldn’t be popular anyway. You don’t even go to school. You

don’t either. I know. But I used to. What did you stop for? They

made me. Who made you? I don’t know. After that first day at

school when I had my blue eyes. Well, the next day they had Mrs.

Breedlove come out. Now I don’t go anymore. But I don’t care. You

don’t? No, I don’t. They’re just prejudiced, that’s all. Yes,

they sure are prejudiced. Just because I got blue eyes, bluer

than theirs, they’re prejudiced. That’s right. They are bluer,

aren’t they? Oh, yes. Much bluer. Bluer than Joanna’s? Much bluer

than Joanna’s. And bluer than Michelena’s? Much bluer than

Michelena’s. I thought so. Did Michelena say anything to you

about my eyes?

No. Nothing. Did you say anything to her? No. How come? How come

what? How come you don’t talk to anybody? I talk to you. Besides

me. I don’t like anybody besides you. Where do you live? I told

you once. What is your mother’s name? Why are you so busy

meddling me? I just wondered. You don’t talk to anybody. You

don’t go to school. And nobody talks to you. How do you know

nobody talks to me? They don’t. When you’re in the house with me,

even Mrs. Breedlove doesn’t say anything to you. Ever. Sometimes

I wonder if she even sees you. Why wouldn’t she see me? I don’t

know. She almost walks right over you. Maybe she doesn’t feel too

good since Cholly’s gone. Oh, yes. You must be right. She

probably misses him. I don’t know why she would. All he did was

get drunk and beat her up. Well, you know how grown-ups are.

Yes. No. How are they? Well, she probably loved him anyway. HIM? Sure. Why not? Anyway, if she didn’t love him, she sure

let him do it to her a lot. That’s nothing.

How do you know? I saw them all the time. She didn’t like it.

Then why’d she let him do it to her? Because he made her. How

could somebody make you do something like that? Easy. Oh, yeah?

How easy? They just make you, that’s all. I guess you’re right.

And Cholly could make anybody do anything. He could not. He made

you, didn’t he? Shut up! I was only teasing. Shut up! O.K. O.K.

He just tried, see? He didn’t do anything. You hear me? I’m

shutting up. You’d better. I don’t like that kind of talk. I said

I’m shutting up. You always talk so dirty. Who told you about

that, anyway? I forget. Sammy? No. You did. I did not. You did.

You said he tried to do it to you when you were sleeping on the

couch. See there! You don’t even know what you’re talking about.

It was when I was washing dishes. Oh, yes. Dishes. By myself. In

the kitchen. Well, I’m glad you didn’t let him. Yes. Did you?

Did I what? Let him. Now who’s crazy? I am, I guess. You sure

are. Still … Well. Go ahead. Still what? I wonder what it

would be like. Horrible. Really? Yes. Horrible. Then why didn’t

you tell Mrs. Breedlove? I did tell her! I don’t mean about the

first time. I mean about the second time, when you were sleeping

on the couch. I wasn’t sleeping! I was reading! You don’t have to

shout. You don’t understand anything, do you? She didn’t even

believe me when I told her. So that’s why you didn’t tell her

about the second time? She wouldn’t have believed me then either.

You’re right. No use telling her when she wouldn’t believe you.

That’s what I’m trying to get through your thick head. O.K. I

understand now. Just about. What do you mean, just about? You

sure are mean today. You keep on saying mean and sneaky things. I

thought you were my friend. I am. I am. Then leave me alone about

Cholly. OK. There’s nothing more to say about him, anyway. He’s

gone, anyway. Yes. Good riddance.

Yes. Good riddance. And Sammy’s gone too. And Sammy’s gone too.

So there’s no use talking about it. I mean them. No. No use at

all. It’s all over now. Yes. And you don’t have to be afraid of

Cholly coming at you anymore. No. That was horrible, wasn’t it?

Yes. The second time too? Yes. Really? The second time too? Leave

me alone! You better leave me alone. Can’t you take a joke? I was

only funning. I don’t like to talk about dirty things. Me

neither. Let’s talk about something else. What? What will we talk

about? Why, your eyes. Oh, yes. My eyes. My blue eyes. Let me

look again. See how pretty they are. Yes. They get prettier each

time I look at them. They are the prettiest I’ve ever seen.

Really? Oh, yes. Prettier than the sky? Oh, yes. Much prettier

than the sky. Prettier than Alice-and-Jerry Storybook eyes? Oh,

yes. Much prettier than Alice-and-Jerry Storybook eyes. And

prettier than Joanna’s? Oh, yes. And bluer too. Bluer than

Michelena’s?

Yes. Are you sure? Of course I’m sure. You don’t sound sure….

Well, I am sure. Unless…. Unless what? Oh, nothing. I was

just thinking about a lady I saw yesterday. Her eyes sure were

blue. But no. Not bluer than yours. Are you sure? Yes. I remember

them now. Yours are bluer. I’m glad. Me too. I’d hate to think

that there was anybody around with bluer eyes than yours. I’m

sure there isn’t. Not around here, anyway. But you don’t know, do

you? You haven’t seen everybody, have you? No. I haven’t. So

there could be, couldn’t there? Not hardly. But maybe. Maybe. You

said “around here.” Nobody “around here” probably has bluer eyes.

What about someplace else? Even if my eyes are bluer than

Joanna’s and bluer than Michelena’s and bluer than that lady’s

you saw, suppose there is somebody way off somewhere with bluer

eyes than mine? Don’t be silly. There could be. Couldn’t there?

Not hardly. But suppose. Suppose a long way off. In Cincinnati,

say, there is somebody whose eyes are bluer than mine? Suppose

there are two people with bluer eyes? So what? You asked for blue

eyes. You got blue eyes. He should have made them bluer. Who? Mr.

Soaphead.

Did you say what color blue you wanted them? No. I forgot. Oh.

Well. Look. Look over there. At that girl. Look at her eyes. Are

they bluer than mine? No, I don’t think so. Did you look real

good? Yes. Here comes someone. Look at his. See if they’re bluer.

You’re being silly. I’m not going to look at everybody’s eyes.

You have to. No I don’t. Please. If there is somebody with bluer

eyes than mine, then maybe there is somebody with the bluest

eyes. The bluest eyes in the whole world. That’s just too bad,

isn’t it? Please help me look. No. But suppose my eyes aren’t

blue enough? Blue enough for what? Blue enough for … I don’t

know. Blue enough for something. Blue enough … for you! I’m not

going to play with you anymore. Oh. Don’t leave me. Yes. I am.

Why? Are you mad at me?

Yes. Because my eyes aren’t blue enough? Because I don’t have the

bluest eyes? No. Because you’re acting silly. Don’t go. Don’t

leave me. Will you come back if I get them? Get what? The bluest

eyes. Will you come back then?

Of course I will. I’m just going away for a little while. You

promise? Sure. I’ll be back. Right before your very eyes.

So it was. A little black girl yearns for the blue eyes of a

little white girl, and the horror at the heart of her yearning is

exceeded only by the evil of fulfillment. We saw her sometimes,

Frieda and I—after the baby came too soon and died. After the

gossip and the slow wagging of heads. She was so sad to see.

Grown people looked away; children, those who were not frightened

by her, laughed outright. The damage done was total. She spent

her days, her tendril, sap green days, walking up and down, up

and down, her head jerking to the beat of a drummer so distant

only she could hear. Elbows bent, hands on shoulders, she flailed

her arms like a bird in an eternal, grotesquely futile effort to

fly. Beating the air, a winged but grounded bird, intent on the

blue void it could not reach—could not even see— but which

filled the valleys of the mind. We tried to see her without

looking at her, and never, never went near. Not because she was

absurd, or repulsive, or because we were frightened, but because

we had failed her. Our flowers never grew. I was convinced that

Frieda was right, that I had planted them too deeply. How could I

have been so sloven? So we avoided Pecola Breedlove—forever.

And the years folded up like pocket handkerchiefs. Sammy left

town long ago; Cholly died in the workhouse; Mrs. Breedlove still

does housework. And Pecola is somewhere in that little brown

house she and her mother moved to on the edge of town, where you

can see her even now, once in a while. The birdlike gestures are

worn away to a mere picking and plucking her way between the tire

rims and the sunflowers, between Coke bottles and milkweed, among

all the waste and beauty of the world—which is what she herself

was. All of our waste

which we dumped on her and which she absorbed. And all of our

beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us. All of

us—all who knew her—felt so wholesome after we cleaned

ourselves on her. We were so beautiful when we stood astride her

ugliness. Her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us,

her pain made us glow with health, her awkwardness made us think

we had a sense of humor. Her inarticulateness made us believe we

were eloquent. Her poverty kept us generous. Even her waking

dreams we used—to silence our own nightmares. And she let us,

and thereby deserved our contempt. We honed our egos on her,

padded our characters with her frailty, and yawned in the fantasy

of our strength. And fantasy it was, for we were not strong, only

aggressive; we were not free, merely licensed; we were not

compassionate, we were polite; not good, but well behaved. We

courted death in order to call ourselves brave, and hid like

thieves from life. We substituted good grammar for intellect; we

switched habits to simulate maturity; we rearranged lies and

called it truth, seeing in the new pattern of an old idea the

Revelation and the Word. She, however, stepped over into madness,

a madness which protected her from us simply because it bored us

in the end. Oh, some of us “loved” her. The Maginot Line. And

Cholly loved her. I’m sure he did. He, at any rate, was the one

who loved her enough to touch her, envelop her, give something of

himself to her. But his touch was fatal, and the something he

gave her filled the matrix of her agony with death. Love is never

any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent

people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people

love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is

no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of

love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of

the lover’s inward eye.

And now when I see her searching the garbage—for what? The thing

we assassinated? I talk about how I did not plant the seeds too

deeply, how it was the fault of the earth, the land, of our town.

I even think now that the land of the entire country was hostile

to marigolds that year. This soil is bad for certain kinds of

flowers. Certain seeds it will not nurture, certain fruit it will

not bear, and when the land kills of its own volition, we

acquiesce and say the victim had no right to live. We are wrong,

of course, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. At least on the

edge of my town, among the garbage and the sunflowers of my town,

it’s much, much, much too late.

Afterword

We had just started elementary school. She said she wanted blue

eyes. I looked around to picture her with them and was violently

repelled by what I imagined she would look like if she had her

wish. The sorrow in her voice seemed to call for sympathy, and I

faked it for her, but, astonished by the desecration she

proposed, I “got mad” at her instead. Until that moment I had

seen the pretty, the lovely, the nice, the ugly, and although I

had certainly used the word “beautiful,” I had never experienced

its shock—the force of which was equaled by the knowledge that no

one else recognized it, not even, or especially, the one who

possessed it. It must have been more than the face I was

examining: the silence of the street in the early afternoon, the

light, the atmosphere of confession. In any case it was the first

time I knew beautiful. Had imagined it for myself. Beauty was not

simply something to behold; it was something one could do. The

Bluest Eye was my effort to say something about that; to say

something about why she had not, or possibly

ever would have, the experience of what she possessed and also

why she prayed for so radical an alteration. Implicit in her

desire was racial self-loathing. And twenty years later I was

still wondering about how one learns that. Who told her? Who made

her feel that it was better to be a freak than what she was? Who

had looked at her and found her so wanting, so small a weight on

the beauty scale? The novel pecks away at the gaze that condemned

her. The reclamation of racial beauty in the sixties stirred

these thoughts, made me think about the necessity for the claim.

Why, although reviled by others, could this beauty not be taken

for granted within the community? Why did it need wide public

articulation to exist? These are not clever questions. But in

1962 when I began this story, and in 1965 when it began to be a

book, the answers were not as obvious to me as they quickly

became and are now. The assertion of racial beauty was not a

reaction to the self-mocking, humorous critique of

cultural/racial foibles common in all groups, but against the

damaging internalization of assumptions of immutable inferiority

originating in an outside gaze. I focused, therefore, on how

something as grotesque as the demonization of an entire race

could take root inside the most delicate member of society: a

child; the most vulnerable member: a female. In trying to

dramatize the devastation that even casual racial contempt can

cause, I chose a unique situation, not a representative one. The

extremity of Pecola’s case stemmed largely from a crippled and

crippling family—unlike the average black family and unlike the

narrator’s. But singular as Pecola’s life was, I believed some

aspects of her woundability were lodged in all young girls. In

exploring the social and domestic aggression that could cause a

child to literally fall apart, I mounted a series of

rejections, some routine, some exceptional, some monstrous, all

the while trying hard to avoid complicity in the demonization

process Pecola was subjected to. That is, I did not want to

dehumanize the characters who trashed Pecola and contributed to

her collapse. One problem was centering: the weight of the

novel’s inquiry on so delicate and vulnerable a character could

smash her and lead readers into the comfort of pitying her rather

than into an interrogation of themselves for the smashing. My

solution—break the narrative into parts that had to be

reassembled by the reader—seemed to me a good idea, the

execution of which does not satisfy me now. Besides, it didn’t

work: many readers remain touched but not moved. The other

problem, of course, was language. Holding the despising glance

while sabotaging it was difficult. The novel tried to hit the raw

nerve of racial self-contempt, expose it, then soothe it not with

narcotics but with language that replicated the agency I

discovered in my first experience of beauty. Because that moment

was so racially infused (my revulsion at what my school friend

wanted: very blue eyes in a very black skin; the harm she was

doing to my concept of the beautiful), the struggle was for

writing that was indisputably black. I don’t yet know quite what

that is, but neither that nor the attempts to disqualify an

effort to find out keeps me from trying to pursue it. Some time

ago I did the best job I could of describing strategies for

grounding my work in race-specific yet race free prose. Prose

free of racial hierarchy and triumphalism. Parts of that

description are as follows. The opening phrase of the first

sentence, “Quiet as it’s kept,” had several attractions for me.

First, it was a familiar

phrase, familiar to me as a child listening to adults; to black

women conversing with one another, telling a story, an anecdote,

gossip about some one or event within the circle, the family, the

neighborhood. The words are conspiratorial. “Shh, don’t tell

anyone else,” and “No one is allowed to know this.” It is a

secret between us and a secret that is being kept from us. The

conspiracy is both held and withheld, exposed and sustained. In

some sense it was precisely what the act of writing the book was:

the public exposure of a private confidence. In order to

comprehend fully the duality of that position, one needs to be

reminded of the political climate in which the writing took

place, 1965-69, a time of great social upheaval in the lives of

black people. The publication (as opposed to the writing)

involved the exposure; the writing was the disclosure of secrets,

secrets “we” shared and those withheld from us by ourselves and

by the world outside the community. “Quiet as it’s kept” is also

a figure of speech that is written, in this instance, but clearly

chosen for how speakerly it is, how it speaks and bespeaks a

particular world and its ambience. Further, in addition to its

“back fence” connotation, its suggestion of illicit gossip, of

thrilling revelation, there is also, in the “whisper,” the

assumption (on the part of the reader) that the teller is on the

inside, knows something others do not, and is going to be

generous with this privileged information. The intimacy I was

aiming for, the intimacy between the reader and the page, could

start up immediately because the secret is being shared, at best,

and eavesdropped upon, at the least. Sudden familiarity or

instant intimacy seemed crucial to me. I did not want the reader

to have time to wonder, “What do I have to do, to give up, in

order to read this? What defense do I need, what

distance maintain?” Because I know (and the reader does not—he

or she has to wait for the second sentence) that this is a

terrible story about things one would rather not know anything

about. What, then, is the Big Secret about to be shared? The

thing we (reader and I) are “in” on? A botanical aberration.

Pollution, perhaps. A skip, perhaps, in the natural order of

things: a September, an autumn, a fall without marigolds. Bright,

common, strong and sturdy marigolds. When? In 1941, and since

that is a momentous year (the beginning of World War II for the

United States), the “fall” of 1941, just before the declaration

of war, has a “closet” innuendo. In the temperate zone where

there is a season known as “fall” during which one expects

marigolds to be at their peak, in the months before the beginning

of U.S. participation in World War II, something grim is about to

be divulged. The next sentence will make it clear that the sayer,

the one who knows, is a child speaking, mimicking the adult black

women on the porch or in the backyard. The opening phrase is an

effort to be grown-up about this shocking information. The point

of view of a child alters the priority an adult would assign the

information. “We thought … it was because Pecola was having her

father’s baby that the marigolds did not grow” foregrounds the

flowers, backgrounds illicit, traumatic, incomprehensible sex

coming to its dreaded fruition. This forgrounding of “trivial”

information and backgrounding of shocking knowledge secures the

point of view but gives the reader pause about whether the voice

of children can be trusted at all or is more trustworthy than an

adult’s. The reader is thereby protected from a confrontation too

soon with the painful details, while simultaneously provoked into

a desire to know them. The novelty, I thought, would be in having

this story of female violation revealed from the vantage point of

the victims or could-be victims of rape—the persons no one

inquired of (certainly not in 1965): the girls themselves. And

since the victim does not have the vocabulary to understand the

violence or its context, gullible, vulnerable girlfriends,

looking back as the knowing adults they pretended to be in the

beginning, would have to do that for her, and would have to fill

those silences with their own reflective lives. Thus, the opening

provides the stroke that announces something more than a secret

shared, but a silence broken, a void filled, an unspeakable thing

spoken at last. And it draws the connection between a minor

destabilization in seasonal flora and the insignificant

destruction of a black girl. Of course “minor” and

“insignificant” represent the outside world’s view—for the

girls, both phenomena are earthshaking depositories of

information they spend that whole year of childhood (and

afterward) trying to fathom, and cannot. If they have any

success, it will be in transferring the problem of fathoming to

the presumably adult reader, to the inner circle of listeners. At

the least they have distributed the weight of these problematical

questions to a larger constituency, and justified the public

exposure of a privacy. If the conspiracy that the opening words

announce is entered into by the reader, then the book can be seen

to open with its close: a speculation on the disruption of

“nature” as being a social disruption with tragic individual

consequences in which the reader, as part of the population of

the text, is implicated. However, a problem lies in the central

chamber of the novel. The shattered world I built (to complement

what is

happening to Pecola), its pieces held together by seasons in

childtime and commenting at every turn on the incompatible and

barren white-family primer, does not in its present form handle

effectively the silence at its center: the void that is Pecola’s

“unbeing.” It should have had a shape—like the emptiness left by

a boom or a cry. It required a sophistication unavailable to me,

and some deft manipulation of the voices around her. She is not

seen by herself until she hallucinates a self. And the fact of

her hallucination becomes a kind of outside-the-book

conversation. Also, although I was pressing for a female

expressiveness, it eluded me for the most part, and I had to

content myself with female personae because I was not able to

secure throughout the work the feminine subtext that is present

in the opening sentence (the women gossiping, eager and aghast in

“Quiet as it’s kept”). The shambles this struggle became is most

evident in the section on Pauline Breedlove, where I resorted to

two voices, hers and the urging narrator’s, both of which are

extremely unsatisfactory to me. It is interesting to me now that

where I thought I would have the most difficulty subverting the

language to a feminine mode, I had the least: connecting Cholly’s

“rape” by the whitemen to his own of his daughter. This most

masculine act of aggression becomes feminized in my language,

“passive,” and, I think, more accurately repellent when deprived

of the male “glamour of shame” rape is (or once was) routinely

given. My choices of language (speakerly, aural, colloquial), my

reliance for full comprehension on codes embedded in black

culture, my effort to effect immediate co-conspiracy and intimacy

(without any distancing, explanatory fabric), as

well as my attempt to shape a silence while breaking it are

attempts to transfigure the complexity and wealth of Black

American culture into a language worthy of the culture. Thinking

back now on the problems expressive language presented to me, I

am amazed by their currency, their tenacity. Hearing “civilized”

languages debase humans, watching cultural exorcisms debase

literature, seeing oneself preserved in the amber of

disqualifying metaphors—I can say that my narrative project is

as difficult today as it was thirty years ago. With very few

exceptions, the initial publication of The Bluest Eye was like

Pecola’s life: dismissed, trivialized, misread. And it has taken

twenty-five years to gain for her the respectful publication this

edition is.

Princeton, New Jersey November, 1993