Chapter 8 Part One-8

Mick put the picture back on the closet shelf. None of them were any good much. The people didnt have fingers and some of the arms were longer than the legs. The class had been fun, though. her head without reason—and in her heart it didn't give her near the same feeling that music did. Nothing was really as good as music. Mick knelt down on the floor and quickly lifted the top of the big hatbox. Inside was a cracked ukulele strung with two violin strings, a guitar string and a banjo string. The crack on the back of the ukulele had been neatly mended with sticking plaster and the round hole in the middle was covered by a piece of wood. The bridge of a violin held up the strings at the end and some sound-holes had been carved on either side.

Mick was making herself a violin. She held the violin in her lap. She had the feeling she had never really looked at it before. Some time ago she made Bubber a little play mandolin out of a cigar box with rubber bands, and that put the idea into her head. Since that she had hunted all over everywhere for the different parts and added a little to the job every day. It seemed to her she had done everything except use her head. Bill, this dont look like any real violin I ever saw. He was still reading—Yeah—?' It just dont look right. It just dont------' She had planned to tune the fiddle that day by screwing the pegs. But since she had suddenly realized how all the work had turned out she didnt want to look at it. Slowly she plucked one string after another. -sounding ping.

How anyway will I ever get a bow? Are you sure they have to be made out of just horses hair? Yeah, said Bill impatiently. Nothing like thin wire or human hair strung on a limber stick would do?' Bill rubbed his feet against each other and didnt answer. Anger made beads of sweat come out on her forehead. Her voice was hoarse. Its not even a bad violin. Its onlya cross between a mandolin and a ukulele. And I hatethem. I hate them------' Bill turned around. Its all turned out wrong. It wont do. Its no good. Tipe down, said Bill. Are you just carrying on about that old broken ukulele you've been fooling with? I could have told you at first it was crazy to think you could make any violin. Thats one thing you dont sit down and make —you got to buy them. I

thought anybody would know a thing like that. But I figured it wouldn't hurt yon if you found out for yourself.' Sometimes she hated Bill more than anyone else in the world. He was different entirely from what he used to be. She started to slam the violin down on the floor and stomp on it, but instead she put it back roughly into the hatbox. The tears were hot in her eyes as fire. box a kick and ran from the room without looking at Bill. As she was dodging through the hall to get to the back yard she ran into her Mama. Whats the matter with you? What have you been into now?'

Mick tried to jerk loose, but her Mama held on to her arm. Sullenly she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. Her Mama had been in the kitchen and she wore her apron and house-shoes. As usual she looked as though she had a lot on her mind and didnt have time to ask her any more questions. Mr. Jackson has brought his two sisters to dinner and there wont be but just enough chairs, so today youre to eat in the kitchen with Bubber.' That*s hunky-dory with me, Mick said. Her Mama let her go and went to take off her apron. From the dining-room there came the sound of the dinner bell and a sudden glad outbreak of talking. She could hear her Dad saying how much he had lost by not keeping up his accident insurance until the time he broke bis hip. That was one thing her Dad could never get off his mind —ways he could have made money and didnt. There was a clatter of dishes, and after a while the talking stopped.

Mick leaned on the banisters of the stairs. The sudden crying had started her with the hiccups. It seemed to her as she thought back over the last month that she had never really believed in her mind that the violin would work. But in her heart she had kept making herself believe. And even now it was hard not to believe a little. She was tired out. Bill wasn't ever a help with anything now. She used to think Bill was the grandest person in the world. after him every place he went— out fishing in the woods, to the clubhouses he built with other boys, to the slot machine in the back of Mr. Bran-nons restaurant—everywhere. Maybe he hadn't meant to let her down like this. they could never be good buddies again.

In the hall there was the smell of cigarettes and Sunday dinner. Mick took a deep breath and walked back toward the kitchen. The dinner began to smell good and she was hungry. She could hear Portias voice as she talked to Bubber, and it was like she was half-singing something or telling him a story. And that is the various reason why Im a whole lot more fortunate than most colored girls, Portia said as she opened the door. Why? asked Mick. Portia and Bubber were sitting at the kitchen table eating their dinner. Portias green print dress was cool-looking against her dark brown skin. She had on green earrings and her hair was combed very tight and neat.

You all time pounce in on the very tail of what somebody say and then want to know all about it, Portia said. She got up and stood over the hot stove, putting dinner on Micks plate. Bubber and me was just talking about my Grandpapas home out on the Old Sardis Road. I was telling Bubber how he and my uncles owns the whole place themselves. Fifteen and a half acre. They always plants four of them in cotton, some years swapping back to peas to keep the dirt rich, and one acre on a hill is just for peaches. They have a mule and a breed sow and all the time from twenty to twenty-five laying hens and fryers. They have a vegetable patch and two pecan trees and plenty figs and plums and berries. This here is the truth. Not many white farms has done with their land good as my Grandpapa.'

Mick put her elbows on the table and leaned over her plate. Portia had always rather talk about the farm than anything else, except about her husband and brother. To hear her tell it you would think that colored farm was the very White House itself. The home started with just one little room. And through the years they done built on until theres space for my Grandpapa, his four sons and their wives and chil-drens, and my brother Hamilton. In the parlor they have a real organ and a gramophone. And on the wall they have a large picture of my Grandpapa taken in his lodge uniform. They cans all the fruit and vegetables and no matter how cold and rainy the winter turns they pretty near always have plenty to eat.'

How come you don't go live with them, then? Mick asked. Portia stopped peeling her potatoes and her long, brown fingers tapped on the table in time to her words. "This here the way it is. See—each person done built on his room for his fambly. They all done worked hard during all these years. And of course times is hard for ever-body now. But see—I lived with my Grandpapa when I were a little girl. But I have never done any work out there since. Any time, though, if me and Willie and Highboy gets in bad trouble us can always go back.' Didn't your Father build on a room?'

Portia stopped chewing. Whose Father? You mean my Father?' "Sure, said Mick. You know good and well my Father is a colored doctor right here in town.' Mick had heard Portia say that before, but she had thought it was a tale. How could a colored man be a doctor? ?This here the way it is. Before the tune my Mama married my Father she had never known anything but real kindness. My Grandpa is Mister Kind himself. But my Father is different from him as day is from night.' Mean? asked Mick. "No, he not a mean man, Portia said slowly. It just that something is the matter. My Father not like other colored mens. This here is hard to explain. My Father all the time studying by himself. And a long time ago he took up all these notions about how a fambly ought to be. He bossed over ever little thing in the house and at night he tried to teach us children lessons.' "That don't sound so bad to me, said Mick. listen here. You see most of the time he were very quiet. But then some nights he would break out hi a kind of fit. He could get madder than any man I ever seen. Everbody who know my Father say that he was a sure enough crazy man. He done wild, crazy things and our Mama quit him. I were ten years old at the time. Our Mama took us children with her to Grandpapas farm and us were raised out there. Our Father all the time wanted us to come back. our Mama died us children never did go home to live. And now my Father stay all by himself.' Mick went to the stove and filled her plate a second time. Portias voice was going up and down like a song, and nothing could stop her now. I doesnt see my Father much—maybe once a week— but I done a lot of thinking about him. I feel sorrier for Ihim than anybody I know. I expect he done read more books than any white man in this town. He done read more books and he done worried about more things. He full of books and worrying. He done lost God and turned his back to religion. All his troubles come down just to that.' Portia was excited. Whenever she got to talking about God—or Willie, her brother, or Highboy, her husband—she got excited. Now, I not a big shouter. I belong to the Presbyterian Church and us dont hold with all this rolling on the floor and talking in tongues. Us dont get sanctified ever week and wallow around together. In our church we sings and lets the preacher do the preaching. And tell you the truth I dont think a little singing and a little preaching would hurt you, Mick. You ought to take your little brother to the Sunday School and also you plenty big enough to sit in church. From the biggity way you been acting lately it seemed to me like you already got one toe in the pit.' Nuts, Mick said. Now Highboy he were Holiness boy before us were married. He loved to get the spirit ever Sunday and shout and sanctify himself. But after us were married I got him to join with me, and although it kind of hard to keep him quiet sometime I think he doing right well.' I don't believe in God any more than I do Santa Oaus, Mick said. You wait a minute! Thats why it sometimes seems to me you favor my Father more than any person I ever knew.' Me? You say / favor him?' I dont mean in the face or in any kind of looks. I was speaking about the shape and color of your souls.' Bubber sat looking from one to the other. His napkin was tied around his neck and in his hand he still held his empty spoon. What all does God eat? he asked. Mick got up from the table and stood in the doorway, ready to leave. Sometimes it was fun to devil Portia. She started on the same tune and said the same thing over and over—like that was all she knew. Folks like you and my Father who dont attend the church cant never have nair peace at all. Now take me here—I believe and I have peace. And Bubber, he has his peace too. And my Highboy and my Willie likewise. to me just from looking at him this here Mr. Singer has peace too. I done felt that the first time I seen him.' Have it your own way, Mick said. Youre crazier than any father of yours could ever be.' But you havent never loved God nor even nair person. You hard and tough as cowhide. But just the same I know you. This afternoon you going to roam all over the place without never being satisfied. You going to traipse all arpund like you haves to find something lost. You going to work yourself up with excitement Your heart going to beat hard enough to kill you because you dont love and dont have peace. And then some day you going to bust loose and be ruined. Wont nothing help you then.' What, Portia? Bubber asked. What kind of things does He eat?' Mick laughed and stamped out of the room.