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If Beale Street Could Talk, by James Baldwin (part 1)

Author: James Baldwin

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for YORAN

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Mary, Mary,
What you going to name
That pretty little baby?

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ONE: Troubled About My Soul

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I look at myself in the mirror. I know that I was christened Clementine, and so it would make sense if people called me Clem, or even, come to think of it, Clementine, since that’s my name: but they don’t. People call me Tish. I guess that makes sense, too. I’m tired, and I’m beginning to think that maybe everything that happens makes sense. Like, if it didn’t make sense, how could it happen? But that’s really a terrible thought. It can only come out of trouble – trouble that doesn’t make sense.

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Today, I went to see Fonny. That’s not his name, either, he was christened Alonzo: and it might make sense if people called him Lonnie. But, no, we’ve always called him. Fonny. Alonzo Hunt, that’s his name. I’ve known him all my life, and I hope I’ll always know him. But I only call him Alonzo when I have to break down some real heavy shit to him.

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Today, I said, “-Alonzo-?”

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And he looked at me, that quickening look he has when I call him by his name.

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He’s in jail. So where we were, I was sitting on a bench in front of a board, and he was sitting on a bench in front of a board. And we were facing each other through a wall of glass between us. You can’t hear anything through this glass, and so you both have a little telephone. You have to talk through that. I don’t know why people always look down when they talk through a telephone, but they always do. You have to remember to look up at the person you’re talking to.

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I always remember now, because he’s in jail and I love his eyes and every time I see him I’m afraid I’ll never see him again. So I pick up the phone as soon as I get there and I just hold it and I keep looking up at him.

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So, when I said, “-Alonzo-?” he looked down and then he looked up and he smiled and he held the phone and he waited.

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I hope that nobody has ever had to look at anybody they love through glass.

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And I didn’t say it the way I meant to say it. I meant to say it in a very offhand way, so he wouldn’t be too upset, so he’d understand that I was saying it without any kind of accusation in my heart.

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You see: I know him. He’s very proud, and he worries a lot, and, when I think about it, I know – he doesn’t – that that’s the biggest reason he’s in jail. He worries too much already, I don’t want him to worry about me.In fact, I didn’t want to say what I had to say. But I know I had to say it. He had to know.

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And I thought, too, that when he got over being worried, when he was lying by himself at night, when he was all by himself, in the very deepest part of himself, maybe, when he thought about it, he’d be glad. And that might help him.

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I said, “Alonzo, were going to have a baby.”

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I looked at him. I know I smiled. His face looked as though it were plunging into water. I couldn’t touch him. I wanted so to touch him. I smiled again and my hands got wet on the phone and then for a moment I couldn’t see him at all and I shook my head and my face was wet and I said, “I’m glad. I’m glad. Don’t you worry. I’m glad.”

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But he was far away from me now, all by himself. I waited for him to come back. I could see it flash across his face: my baby? I knew that he would think that. I don’t mean that he doubted me: but a man thinks that.And for those few seconds while he was out there by himself, away from me, the baby was the only real thing in the world, more real than the person, more real than me.

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I should have said already: we’re not married. That means more to him than it does to me, but I understand how he feels. We were going to get married, but then he went to jail.

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Fonny is twenty-two. I am nineteen.

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He asked the ridiculous question: “Are you sure?”

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“No. I ain’t sure. I’m just trying to mess with your mind.”

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Then he grinned. He grinned because, then, he knew.

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‘What we going to do?” he asked me – just like a little boy.

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“Well, we ain’t going to drown it. So, I guess we’ll have to raise it”

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Fonny threw back his head, and laughed, he laughed till tears come down his face. So, then, I felt that the first part, that I’d been so frightened of, would be all right.

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“Did you tell Frank?” he asked me.

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Frank is his father.

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I said, “Not yet.”

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“You tell your folks?”

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“Not yet. But don’t worry about them. I just wanted to tell you first.”

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‘Well,” he said, “I guess that makes sense. A baby.”

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He looked at me, then he looked down. “What you going to do, for real?”

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“I’m going to do just like I been doing. I’ll work up to just about the last month. And then, Mama and Sis will take care for me, you ain’t got to worry. And anyway we have you out of here before then.”

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“You sure about that?” With his litte smile.

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“Of course I’m sure about that. I’m always sure about that.”

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I knew what he was thinking, but I can’t let myself think about it – not now, watching him. I must be sure. The man came up behind Fonny, and it was time to go. Fonny smiled and raised his fist, like always, and I raised mine and he stood up. I’m always kind of surprised when I see him in here, at how tall he is. Of course, he’s lost weight and that may make him seem taller.

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He turned around and went through the door and the door closed behind him.

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I felt dizzy. I hadn’t eaten much all day, and now it was getting late.

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I walked out, to cross these big, wide corridors I’ve come to hate, corridors wider than all the Sa­hara desert. The Sahara is never empty; these corridors are never empty. If you cross the Sahara, and you fall, by and by vultures circle around you, smelling, sensing, your death. They circle low­er and lower: they wait. They know. They know exactly when the flesh is ready, when the spirit cannot fight back. The poor are always crossing the Sahara. And the lawyers and bondsmen and all that crowd circle around the poor, exactly like vultures. Of course, they’re not any richer than the poor, really, that’s why they’ve turned into vultures, scavengers, indecent garbage men, and I’m talking about the black cats, too, who, in so many ways, are worse. I think that, personally, I would be ashamed. But I’ve had to think about it and now I think that maybe not. I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to get Fonny out of jail. I’ve never come across any shame down here, except shame like mine, except the shame of the hardworking black ladies, who call me Daughter, and the shame of proud Puerto Ricans, who don’t understand what’s happened – no one who speaks to them speaks Spanish, for example – and who are ashamed that they have loved ones in jail. But they are wrong to be ashamed. The people responsible for these jails should be ashamed.

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And I’m not ashamed of Fonny. If anything, I’m proud. He’s a man. You can tell by the way he’s taken all this shit that he’s a man. Sometimes, I admit, I’m scared – because nobody can take the shit they throw on us forever. But, then, you just have to somehow fix your mind to get from one day to the next. If you think too far ahead, if you even try to think too far ahead, you’ll never make it.

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Sometimes I take the subway home, sometimes I take the bus. Today, I took the bus because it takes a little longer and I had a lot on my mind.

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Being in trouble can have a funny effect on the mind. I don’t know if I can explain this. You go through some days and you seem to be hearing people and you seem to be talking to them and you seem to be doing your work, or, at least, your work gets done; but you haven’t seen or heard a soul and if someone asked you what you have done that day you’d have to think awhile before you could answer. But, at the same time, and even on the self-same day – and this is what is hard to explain – you see people like you never saw them before. They shine as bright as a razor. Maybe it’s because you see people differently than you saw them before your trouble started. Maybe you wonder about them more, but in a different way, and this makes them very strange to you. Maybe you get stared and numb, because you don’t know if you can depend on people for anything, an­ymore.

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And, even if they wanted to do something, what could they do? I can’t say to anybody in this bus, Look, Fonny is in trouble, he’s in jail – can you imagine what anybody on this bus would say to me if they knew, from my mouth, that I love somebody in jail? – and I know he’s never commit­ted any crime and he’s a beautiful person, please help me get him out. Can you imagine what any­body on this bus would say? What wouldyou say? I can’t say, I’m going to have this baby and I’m scared, too, and I don’t want anything to happen to my baby’s father, don’t let him die in prison, please, oh, please! You can’t say that. That means you can’t really say anything. Trouble means you’re alone. You sit down, and you look out the window and you wonder if you’re going to spend the rest of your life going back and forth on this bus. And if you do, what’s going to happen to your baby? What’s going to happen to Fonny?

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And if you ever did like the city, you don’t like it anymore. If I ever get out of this, if we ever get out of this, I swear I’ll never set foot in downtown New York again.

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Maybe I used to like it, a long time ago, when Daddy used to bring me and Sis here and we’d watch the people and the buildings and Daddy would point out different sights to us and we might stop in Battery Park and have ice cream and hot dogs. Those were great days and we were always very happy – but that was because of our father, not because of the city. It was because we knew our father loved us. Now, I can say, because I certainly know it now, the city didn’t. They looked at us as though we were zebras – and, you know, some people like zebras and some people don’t. But nobody ever asks the zebra.

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It’s true that I haven’t seen much of other cities, only Philadelphia and Albany, but I swear that New York must be the ugliest and the dirtiest city in the world. It must have the ugliest buildings and the nastiest people.It’s got to have the worst cops. If any place is worse, it’s got to be so close to hell that you can smell the people frying. And, come to think of it, that’s exactly the smell of New York in the summertime.

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I met Fonny in the streets of this dty. I was little, he was not so little. I was around six – some­where around there – and he was around nine. They lived across the street, him and his family, his mother and two older sisters and his father, and his father ran a tailor shop. Looking back, now, I kind of wonder who he ran the tailor shop for: we didn’t know anybody who had money to take clothes to the tailor – well, maybe once in a great while. But I don’t think we could have kept him in business. Of course, as I’ve been told, people, colored people, weren’t as poor then as they had been when my Mama and Daddy were trying to get it together.They weren’t as poor then as we had been in the South. But we were certainly poor enough, and we still are.

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I never really noticed Fonny until once we got into a fight, after school. This fight didn’t really have anything to do with Fonny and me at all. I had a girl friend, nawed Geneva, a kind of loud, raunchy girl, with her hair plaited tight on her head, with big, ashy knees and long legs and big feet; and she was always into something. Naturally she was my best friend, since I was never into anything. I was skinny and scared and so I followed her and got into all her shit. Nobody else wanted me, really, and you know that nobody else wanted her. Well, she said that she couldn’t stand Fonny. Every time she looked at him, it just made her sick. She was always telling me how ugly he was, with skin just like raw, wet potato rinds and eyes like a Chinaman and all that nappy hair and them thick lips. And so bowlegged he had bunions on his ankle bones; and the way his behind stuck out, his mother must have been a gorilla. I agreed with her because I had to, but I didn’t really think he was as bad as all that. I kind of liked his eyes, and, to tell the truth, I thought that if people in China had eyes like that, I wouldn’t mind going to China. I had never seen a goril­la, so his behind looked perfectly normal to me, and wasn’t, really, when you had to think about it, as big as Geneva’s; and it wasn’t until much later that I realized that he was, yes, a little bow­legged. But Geneva was always up in Fonny’s face. I don’t think he ever noticed her at all. He was always too busy with his friends, who were the worst boys on the block. They were always coming down the street, in rags, bleeding, full of lumps, and, just before this fight, Fonny had lost a tooth.

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Fonny had a friend named Daniel, a big, black boy, and Daniel had a thing about Geneva some­thing like the way Geneva had a thing about Fonny. And I don’t remember how it all started, but, finally, Daniel had Geneva down on the ground, the two of them rolling around, and I was trying to pull Daniel off her and Fonny was pulling on me. I turned around and hit him with the only thing I could get my hands on, I grabbed it out of the garbage can. It was only a stick; but it had a nail in it. The nail raked across his cheek and it broke the skin and the blood started dripping. I couldn’t believe my eyes, I was so stared. Fonny put his hand to his face and then looked at me and then looked at his hand and I didn’t have any better sense than to drop the stick and run. Fon­ny ran after me and, to make matters worse, Geneva saw the blood and she started screaming that I’d killed him, I’d killed him! Fonny caught up to me in no time and he grabbed me tight and he spit at me through the hole where his tooth used to be. He caught me right on the mouth, and – it so humiliated me, I guess – because he hadn’t hit me, or hurt me – and maybe because I sensed what he had not done – that I screamed and started to cry. It’s funny. Maybe my life changed in that very moment when Fonny’s spit hit me in the mouth. Geneva and Daniel, who had started the whole thing, and didn’t have a scratch on them, both began to scream at me. Geneva said that I’d killed him for sure, yes, I’d killed him, people caught the lockjaw and died from rusty nails. And Daniel said, Yes, he knew, he had a uncle down home who died like that. Fonny was listening to all this, while the blood kept dripping and I kept crying.Finally, he must have realized that they were talking about him, and that he was a dead man – or boy – because he started crying, too, and then Daniel and Geneva took him between them and walked off, leaving me there, alone.

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And I didn’t see Fonny for a couple of days. I was sure he had the lockjaw, and was dying; and Geneva said that just as soon as he was dead, which would be any minute, the police would come and put me in the electric chair. I watched the tailor shop, but everything seemed normal. Mr. Hunt was there, with his laughing, light-brown-skinned self, pressing pants, and telling jokes to whoever was in the shop – there was always someone in the shop – and every once in a while,

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Mrs. Hunt would come by. She was a Sanctified woman, who didn’t smile much, but, still, neither of them acted as if their son was dying.

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So, when I hadn’t seen Fonny for a couple of days, I waited until the tailor shop seemed empty, when Mr. Hunt was in there by himself, and I went over there. Mr, Hunt knew me, then, a little, like we all knew each other on the block.

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“Hey, Tish,” he said, “how you doing? How’s the family?”

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I said, “Just fine, Mr. Hunt.” I wanted to say, How’s your family? which I always did say and had planned to say, but I couldn’t.

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“How you doing in school?” he asked me, after a minute: and I thought he looked at me in a real strange way.

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“Oh, all right,” I said, and my heart started to beating like it was going to jump out of my chest.

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Mr. Hunt pressed down that sort of double ironing board they have in tailor shops – like two ironing boards facing each other – he pressed that down, and he looked at me for a minute and then he laughed and said, “Reckon that big-headed boy of mine be back here pretty soon.”

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I heard what he said, and I understood – something; but I didn’t know what it was I understood.

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I walked to the door of the shop, making like I was going out, and then I turned and I said, “What’s that, Mr. Hunt?”

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Mr. Hunt was still smiling. He pulled the presser down and turned over the pants or whatever it was he had in there, and said, “Fonny. His Mama sent him down to her folks in the country for a little while. Claim he get into too much trouble up here.”

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He pressed the presser down again. “She don’t know what kind of trouble he like to get in down there.” Then he looked up at me and he smiled. When I got to know Fonny and I got to know Mr. Hunt better, I realized that Fonny has his smile. “Oh, I’ll tell him you come by,” he said.

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I said, “Say hello to the family for me, Mr. Hunt,” and I ran across the street.

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Geneva was on my stoop and she told me I looked like a fool and that I’d almost got run over.

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I stopped and said, “You a liar, Geneva Braithwaite. Fonny ain’t got the lockjaw and he ain’t going to die. And I ain’t going to jail. Now, you just go and ask his Daddy.” And then Geneva gave me such a funny look that I ran up my stoop and up the stairs and I sat down on the fire escape, but sort of in the window, where she couldn’t see me.

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Fonny came back, about four or five days later, and he came over to my stoop. He didn’t have a scar on him. He had two doughnuts. He sat down on my stoop. He said, “I’m sorry I spit in your face.” And he gave me one of his doughnuts.

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I said, “I’m sorry I hit you.” And then we didn’t say anything. He ate his doughnut and I ate mine. People don’t believe it about boys and girls that age – people don’t believe much and I’m be­ginning to know why – but, then, we got to be friends. Or, maybe, and it’s really the same thing – something else people don’t want to know – I got to be his little sister and he got to be my big brother. He didn’t like his sisters and I didn’t have any brothers. And so we got to be, for each oth­er, what the other missed.

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Geneva got mad at me and she stopped being my friend; though, maybe, now that I think about it, without even knowing it, I stopped being her friend; because, now – and without knowing what that meant – I had Fonny. Daniel got mad at Fonny, he called him a sissy for fooling around with girls, and he stopped being Fonny’s friend – for a long time; they even had a fight and Fonny lost another tooth. I think that anyone watching Fonny then was sure that he’d grow up without a sin­gle tooth in his head. I remember telling Fonny that I’d get my mother’s scissors from upstairs and go and kill Daniel, but Fonny said I wasn’t nothing but a girl and didn’t have nothing to do with it.

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Fonny had to go to church on Sundays – and I mean, he had to go: though he managed to outwit his mother more often than she knew, or cared to know. His mother -1 got to know her better, too, later on, and we’re going to talk about her in a minute – was, as I’ve said, a Sanctified woman and if she couldn’t save her husband, she was damn sure going to save her child. Because it was her child; it wasn’t their child.

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I think that’s why Fonny was so bad. And I think that’s why he was, when you got to know him, so nice, a really nice person, a really sweet man, with something very sad in him: when you got to know him. Mr. Hunt, Frank, didn’t try to claim him but he loved him – loves him. The two older sisters weren’t Sanctified exactly, but they might as well have been, and they certainly took after their mother. So that left just Frank and Fonny. In a way, Frank had Fonny all week long, Fonny had Frank all week long. They both knew this and that was why Frank could give Fonny to his mother on Sundays. What Fonny was doing in she street was just exactly what Frank was doing in the tailor shop and in the house. He was being bad. That’s why he hold on to that tailor shop as long as he could. That’s why, when Fonny came home bleeding, Frank could tend to him; that’s why they could, both the father and the son, love me. It’s not really a mystery except it’s always a mystery about people. I used to wonder, later, if Fonny’s mother and father ever made love to­gether. I asked Fonny. And Fonny said:

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“Yeah. But not like you and me. I used to hear them. She’d come home from church, wringing wet and funky. She’d act like she was so tired she could hardly move and she’d just fall across she bed with her clothes on – she’d maybe had enough strength to take off her shoes. And her hat. And she’d always lay her handbag down someplace. I can still hear that sound, like something heavy, with silver inside it, dropping heavy wherever she laid it down. I’d hear her say, The Lord sure blessed my soul this evening. Honey, when you going to give your life to she Lord? And, baby, he’d say, and I swear to you he was lying there with his dick getting hard, and, excuse me, baby, but her condition weren’t no better, because this, you dig? was like she game you hear two alley cats playing in she alley. Shit. She going to whelp and mee-e-ow till times get better, she going to get that cat, she going to run him all over the alley, she going run him till he bite her by the neck – by this time he just want to get some sleep really, but she got her chorus going, he’s got to stop the music and ain’t but one way to do it – he going to bite her by the neck and then she got him. So, my Daddy just lay there, didn’t have no clothes on, with his dick getting harder and harder, and my Daddy would say, About the time, I reckon, that the Lord gives his life to me. And she’d say, Oh, Frank, let me bring you to the Lord. And he’d say, Shit, woman, I’m going to bring the Lord to you. I’m the Lord. And she’d start to crying, and she’d moan, Lord, help me help this man. You give him to me. I can’t do nothing about it. Oh, Lord, help me. And he’d say, The Lord’s going to help you, sugar, just as soon as you get to be a little child again, naked, like a little child. Come on, come to the Lord. And she’d start to crying and calling on Jesus while he started taking all her clothes off – I could hear them kind of rustling and whistling and tearing and falling to the floor and sometimes I’d get my foot caught in one of them things when I was coming through their room in the morning on my way to school – and when he got her naked and got on top of her and she was still crying, Jesus! help me, Lord! my Daddy would say, You got the Lord now, right here. Where you want your blessing? Where do it hurt? Where you want the Lord’s hands to touch you? here? here? or here?Where you want his tongue? Where you want the Lord to enter you, you dir­ty, dumb black bitch? you bitch. You bitch. You bitch. And he’d slap her, hard, loud. And she’d say, Oh, Lord, help me to bear my burden.And he’d say, Here it is, baby, you going to bear it all right, I know it. You got a friend in Jesus, and I’m going to tell you when he comes. The first time. We don’t know nothing about the second coming. Yet. And the bed would shake and she would moan and moan and moan. And, in the morning, was just like nothing never happened. She was just like she had been. She still belonged to Jesus and he went off down the street, to the shop.”

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And then Fonny said, “Hadn’t been for me, I believe the cat would have split the scene. I’ll al­ways love my Daddy because he didn’t leave me.” I’ll always remember Fonny’s face when he talked about his Daddy.

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Then, Fonny would turn to me and take me in his arms and laugh and say, “You remind me a lot of my mother, you know that? Come on, now, and let’s sing together, Sinner, do you love my Lord? – And if I don’t hear no moaning, I’ll know you ain’t been saved.”

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I guess it can’t be too often that two people can laugh and make love, too, make love because they are laughing, laugh because they’re making love. The love and the laughter come from the same place: but not many people go there.

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Fonny asked me, one Saturday, if I could come to church with him in the morning and I said, Yes, though we were Baptists and weren’t supposed to go to a Sanctified church. But, by this time, everybody knew that Fonny and I were friends, it was just simply a fact. At school, and all up and down the block, they called us Romeo and Juliet, though this was not because they’d read the play, and here Fonny came, looking absolutely miserable, with his hair all slicked and shining, with the part in his hair so cruel that it looked like it had been put there with a tomahawk or a razor, wear­ing his blue suit and Sis had got me dressed and so we went. It was like, when you think about it, our first date. His mother was waiting downstairs.

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It was just before Easter, so it wasn’t cold but it wasn’t hot.

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Now, although we were littte and I certainly couldn’t be dreaming of taking Fonny from her or anything like that, and although she didn’t really love Fonny, only thought that she was supposed to because she had spasmed him into this world, already, Fonny’s mother didn’t like me. I could tell from lots of things, such as, for example, I hardly ever went to Fonny’s house but Fonny was always at mine; and this wasn’t because Fonny and Frank didn’t want me in their house. It was because the mother and them two sisters didn’t want me. In one way, as I realized later, they didn’t think that I was good enough for Fonny – which really means that they didn’t think that I was good enough for them – and in another way, they felt that I was maybe just exactly what Fon­ny deserved. Well, I’m dark and my hair is just plain hair and there is nothing very outstanding about me and not even Fonny bothers to pretend I’m pretty, he just says that pretty girls are a ter­rible drag.

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When he says this, I know that he’s thinking about his mother – that’s why, when he wants to tease me, he tells me I remind him of his mother. I don’t remind him of his mother at all, and he knows that, but he also knows that I know how much he loved her: how much he wanted to love her, to be allowed to love her, to have that translation read.

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Mrs. Hunt and the girls are fair; and you could see that Mrs. Hunt had been a very beautiful girl down there in Atlanta, where she comes from. And she still had – has – that look, that don’t-you- touch-me look, that women who were beautiful carry with them to the grave. The sisters weren’t as beautiful as the mother and, of course, they’d never been young, in Atlanta, but they were fair skinned – and their hair was long. Fonny is lighter than me but much darker than they, his hair is just plain nappy and all the grease his mother put into it every Sunday couldn’t take out the naps.

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Fonny really takes after his father: so, Mrs. Hunt gave me a real sweet patient smile as Fonny brought me out the house that Sunday morning.

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“I’m mighty pleased you coming to the house of the Lord this morning, Tish,” she said. “My, you look pretty this morning!”

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The way she said it made me know what I have must looked like other mornings: it made me know what I looked like.

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I said, “Good-morning, Mrs. Hunt,” and we started down the street.

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It was the Sunday morning street. Our streets have days, and even hours. Where I was bom, and where my baby will be born, you look down the street and you can almost see what’s happening in the house: like, say, Saturday, at three in the afternoon, is a very bad hour. The kids are home from school. The men are home from work. You’d think that this might be a very happy get together, but it isn’t. The kids see the men.The men see the kids. And this drives the women, who are cook­ing and cleaning and straightening hair and who see what men won’t see, almost crazy. You can see it in the streets, you can hear it in the way the women yell for their children. You can see it in the way they come down out of the house – in a rush, like a storm – and slap the children and drag them upstairs, you can hear it in the child, you can see it in the way the men, ignoring all this, stand together in front of a railing, sit together in the barbershop, pass a bottle between them, walk to the corner to the bar, tease the girl behind the bar, fight with each other, and get very busy, later, with their vines. Saturday afternoon is like a cloud hanging over, it’s like waiting for a storm to break.

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But, on Sunday mornings the clouds have lifted, the storm has done its damage and gone. No matter what the damage was, everybody’s clean now. The women have somehow managed to get it all together, to hold everything together. So, here everybody is, cleaned, scrubbed, brushed, and greased. Later, they’re going to eat ham hocks or chitterlings or fried or roasted chicken, with yams and rice and greens or combread or biscuits. They’re going to come home and fall out and be friendly: and some men wash their cars, on Sundays, more carefully than they wash their fo­reskins. Walking down the street that Sunday morning, with Fonny walking beside me like a pris­oner and Mrs. Hunt on the other side of me, like a queen making great strides into the kingdom, was like walking through a fair. But now I think that it was only Fonny – who didn’t say a word – that made it seem like a fair.

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We heard the church tambourines from a block away. “Sure wish we could get your father to come out to the Lord’s house one of these mornings,” said Mrs. Hunt. Then she looked at me. “What church do you usually go to, Tish?”

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Well, as I’ve said, we were Baptists. But we didn’t go to church very often – maybe Christmas or Easter, days like that. Mama didn’t dig the church sisters, who didn’t dig her, and Sis kind of takes after Mama, and Daddy didn’t see any point in running after the Lord and he didn’t seem to have very much respect for him.

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I said, “We go to Abyssinia Baptist,” and looked at the cracks in the sidewalk.

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“That’s a very handsome church,” said Mrs. Hunt – as though that was the best thing that could possibly be said about it and that that certainly wasn’t much.

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It was eleven in the morning. Service had just begun. Actually, Sunday school had begun at nine and Fonny was usually supposed to be in church for that; but on this Sunday morning he had been given a special dispensation because of me. And the truth is, too, that Mrs. Hunt was kind of lazy and didn’t really like getting up that early to make sure Fonny was in Sunday school. In Sunday school, there wasn’t anybody to admire her – her carefully washed and covered body and her snow-white soul. Frank was not about to get up and take Fonny off to Sunday school and the sis­ters didn’t want to dirty their hands on their nappy-headed brother. So, Mrs. Hunt, sighing deeply and praising the Lord, would have to get up and get Fonny dressed. But, of course, if she didn’t take him to Sunday school by the hand, he didn’t usually get there.And, many times, that woman fell out happy in church without knowing the whereabouts of her only son: “Whatever Alice don’t feel like being bothered with,” Frank was to say to me, much later, “she leaves in the hands of Lord.”

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The church had been a post office. I don’t know how come the building had had to be sold, or why, come to that, anybody had wanted to buy it, because it still looked like a post office, long and dark and low. They had knocked down some walls and put in some benches and put up the church signs and the church schedules; but the ceiling was that awful kind of wrinkled tin, and they had either painted it brown or they had left it unpainted. When you came in, the pulpit looked a mighty long ways off. To tell the truth, I think the people in the church were just proud that their church was so big and that they had somehow got their hands on it. Of course I was (more or less) used to Abyssinia. It was brighter, and had a balcony. I used to sit in that balcony, on Mama’s knees. Every time I think of a certain song, “Uncloudy Day,” I’m back in that balcony again, on Mama’s knees. Every time I hear “Blessed Quietness,” I think of Fonny’s church and Fon­ny’s mother. I don’t mean that either the song or the church was quiet. But I don’t remember ever hearing that song in our church. I’ll always associate that song with Fonny’s church because when they sang it on that Sunday morning, Fonny’s mother got happy.

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Watching people get happy and fall out under the Power is always something to see, even if you see it all the time. But people didn’t often get happy in our church: we were more respectable, more civilized, than sanctified. I still find something in it very frightening: but I think this is be­cause Fonny hated it.

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That church was so wide, it had three aisles. Now, just to the contrary of what you might think, it’s much harder to find the central aisle than it is when there’s just one aisle down the middle. You have to have an instinct for it. We entered that church and Mrs. Hunt led us straight down the aisle which was farthest to the left, so that everybody from two aisles over had to turn and watch us. And – frankly – we were something to watch. There was black, long-legged me, in a blue dress, with my hair straightened and with a blue ribbon in it. There was Fonny, who held me by the hand, in a kind of agony, in his white shirt, blue suit, and blue tie, his hair grimly, despairingly shining not so much from the Vaseline in his hair as from the sweat in his scalp; and there was Mrs. Hunt, who, somehow, I don’t know how, from the moment we walked through the church doors, became filled with a stern love for her two little heathens and marched us before her to the mercy seat. She was wearing something pink or beige, I’m not quite sure now, but in all that gloom, it showed. And she was wearing one of those awful hats women used to wear which have a veil on them which stops at about the level of the eyebrow or the nose and which always makes you look like you have some disease. And she wore high heels, too, which made a certain sound, something like pistols, and she carried her head very high and noble. She was saved the moment she entered the church, she was Sanctified holy, and I even remember until today how much she made me tremble, all of a sudden, deep inside. It was like there was nothing, nothing, nothing you could ever hope to say to her unless you wanted to pass through the hands of the living God: and He would check it out with her before He answered you. The mercy seat: she led us to the front row and sat us down before it. She made us sit but she knelt, on her knees, I mean, in front of her seat, and bowed her head and covered her eyes, making sure she didn’t fuck with that veil. I stole a look at Fonny, but Fonny wouldn’t look at me. Mrs. Hunt rose, she faced the entire congregation for a moment and then she, modestly, sat down.

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Somebody was testifying, a young man with kind of reddish hair, he was talking about the Lord and how the Lord had dyed all the spots out of his soul and taken all the lust out of his flesh. When I got older, I used to see him around. His name was George: I used to see him nodding on the stoop or on the curb, and he died of an overdose. The congregation amened him to death, a big sister, in the pulpit, in her long white robe, jumped up and did a little shout; they cried, Help him, Lord Jesus, help him! and the moment he sat down, another sister, her name was Rose and not much later she was going to disappear from the church and have a baby – and I still remember the last time I saw her, when I was about fourteen, walking the streets in the snow with her face all marked and her hands all swollen and a rag around her head and her stockings falling down, sing­ing to herself – stood up and started singing, How did you feel when you come out the wilderness, lean­ing on the Lord? Then Fonny did look at me, just for a second. Mrs. Hunt was singing and clapping her hands. And a kind of fire in the congregation mounted.

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Now, I began to watch another sister, seated on the other side of Fonny, darker and plainer than Mrs. Hunt but just as well dressed, who was throwing up her hands and crying, Holy! Holy! Holy! Bless your name, Jesus! Bless your name, Jesus! And Mrs. Hunt started crying out and seemed to be answering her: it was like they were trying to outdo each other. And the sister was dressed in blue, dark, dark blue and she was wearing a matching blue hat, the kind of hat that sits back – like a skull cap – and the hat had a white rose in it and every time she moved it moved, every time she bowed the white rose bowed. The white rose was like some weird kind of light, especially since she was so dark and in such a dark dress. Fonny and I just sat there between them, while the voic­es of the congregation rose and rose and rose around us, without any mercy at all. Fonny and I weren’t touching each other and we didn’t look at each other and yet we were holding on to each other, like children in a rocking boat. A boy in the back, I got to know him later, too, his name was Teddy, a big brown-skinned boy, heavy everywhere except just where he should have been, thighs, hands, behind, and feet, something like a mushroom turnel upside down, started singing, “Blessed quietness, holy quietness.”

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“What assurance in my soul,” sang Mrs. Hunt.

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“On the stormy sea,” sang the dark sister, on the other side of Fonny.

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“Jesus speaks to me,” sang Mrs. Hunt.

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“And the billows cease to roll!” sang the dark sister.

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Teddy had the tambourine, and this gave the cue to the piano player – I never got to know him: a long dark, evil-looking brother, with hands made for strangling; and with these hands he at­tacked the keyboard like he was beating the brains out of someone he remembered. No doubt, the congregation had their memories, too, and they went to pieces. The church began to rock. And rocked me and Fonny, too, though they didn’t know it, and in a very different way. Now, we knew that nobody loved us: or, now, we knew who did. Whoever loved us was not here.

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It’s funny what you hold on to to get through terror when terror surrounds you. I guess I’ll re­member until I die that black lady’s white rose. Suddenly, it seemed to stand straight up, in that awful place, and I grabbed Fonny’s hand – I didn’t know I’d grabbed it; and, on either side of us, all of a sudden, the two woman were dancing – shouting: the holy dance. The lady with the rose had her head forward and the rose moved like lightning around her head, our heads, and the lady with the veil had her head back: the veil which was now far above her forehead, which framed that forehead, seemed like the sprinkling of black water, baptizing us and sprinkling her. People moved around us, to give them room, and they danced into the middle aisle. Both of them held their handbags. Both of them wore high heels.

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Fonny and I never went to church again. We have never talked about our first date. Only, when I first had to go and see him in the Tombs, and walked up those steps and into those halls, it was just like walking into church.

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Now that I had told Fonny about the baby, I knew I had to tell: Mama and Sis – but her real name is Ernestine, she’s four years older than me – and Daddy and Frank. I got off the bus and I didn’t know which way to go – a few blocks west, to Frank’s house, or one block east, to mine. But I felt so funny, I thought I’d better get home. I really wanted to tell Frank before I told Mama. But I didn’t think I could walk that far.

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My Mama’s a kind of strange woman – so people say – and she was twenty-four when I was born, so she’s past forty now. I must tell you, I love her. I think she’s a beautiful woman. She may not be beautiful to look at whatever the fuck that means, in this kingdom of the blind. Mama’s started to put on a little weight. Her hair is turning gray, but only way down on the nape of her neck, in what her generation called the “kitchen,” and in the very center of her head – so she’s gray, visibly, only if she bows her head or turns her back, and God knows she doesn’t often do either. If she’s facing you, she’s black on black. Her name is Sharon. She used to try to be a singer, and she was born in Birmingham; she managed to get out of that corner of hell by the time she was nine­teen, running away with a traveling band, but, more especially, with the drummer.That didn’t work out, because, as she says,

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“I don’t know if I ever loved him, really. I was young but I think now that I was younger than I should have been, for my age. If you see what I mean. Anyway, I know I wasn’t woman enough to help the man, to give him what he needed.”

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He went one way and she went another and she ended up in Albany, of all places, working as a barmaid. She was twenty and had come to realize that, though she had a voice, she wasn’t a singer; that to endure and embrace the life of a singer demands a whole lot more than a voice. This meant that she was kind of lost. She felt herself going under; people were going under around her, every day; and Albany isn’t exactly God’s gift to black folks, either.

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Of course, I must say that I don’t think America is God’s gift to anybody – if it is, God’s days have got to be numbered. That God these people say they serve – and do serve, in ways that they don’t know – has got a very nasty sense of humor. Like you’d beat the shit out of Him, if He was a man. Or: if you were.

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In Albany, she met Joseph, my father, and she met him in the bus stop. She had just quit her job and he had just quit his. He’s five years older than she is and he had been a porter in the bus sta­tion. He had come from Boston and he was really a merchant seaman; but he had sort of got him­self trapped in Albany mainly because of this older woman he was going with then, who really just didn’t dig him going on sea voyages.By the time Sharon, my mother, walked into that bus sta­tion with her little cardboard suitcase and her big scared eyes, things were just about ending be­tween himself and this woman – Joseph didn’t like bus stations – and it was the time of the Korean war, so he knew that if he didn’t get back to sea soon, he’d be in the army and he certainly would not have dug that. As sometimes happens in life, everything came to a head at the same time: and here came Sharon.

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He says, and I believe him, that he knew he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight the moment he save her walk away from the ticket window and sit down by herself on a bench and look around her. She was trying to look tough and careless, but she just looked scared. He says he wanted to laugh, and, at the same time, something in her frightened eyes made him want to cry.

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He walked over to her, and he wasted no time.

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“Excuse me, Miss. Are you going to the city?”

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“To New York City, you mean?”

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“Yes, Miss. To New York – city.”

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“Yes,” she said, staring at him.

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“I am too,” he said, having just at that minute decided it, but being pretty sure that he had the money for a ticket on him, “but I don’t know the city real well. Do you know it?”

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“Why, no, not too well,” she said, looking more scared than ever because she really didn’t have any idea who this nut could be, or what he was after. She’d been to New York a few times, with her drummer.

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“Well, I’ve got a uncle lives these,” he said, “and he give me his address and I just wonder if you know where it is.” He hardly knew New York at all, he’d always worked mainly out of San Fran­cisco, and he gave Mama an address just off the top of his head, which made her look even more frightened. It was an address somewhere down off Wall Street.

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“Why, yes,” she raid, “but I don’t know if any colored people live down there.” She didn’t dare tell this maniac that nobody lived down there, there wasn’t a damn thing down there but cafeterias, warehouses, and office buildings. “Only white people,” she said, and she was kind of looking for a place to run.

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“That’s right,” he said, “my uncle’s a white man,” and he sat down next to her.

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He had to go to the ticket window to get his ticket, but he was afraid to walk away from her yet, he was afraid she’d disappear. And now the bus came, and she stood up. So he stood up and picked up her bag and said, “Allow me,” and took her by the elbow and marched her over to the ticket window and she stood next to him while he bought his ticket. There really wasn’t anything else that she could do, unless she wanted to start screaming for help; and she couldn’t, anyway, stop him from getting on the bus. She hoped she’d figure out something before they got to New York.

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Well, that was the last time my Daddy ever saw that bus station, and the very last time he car­ried a stranger’s bags.

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She hadn’t got rid of him by the time they got to New York, of course; and he didn’t seem to be in any great hurry to find his white uncle. They got to New York and he helped her get settled in a rooming house, and he went to the Y. And he came to get her the next morning, for breakfast. Within a week, he had married her and gone back to sea and my mother, a little stunned, settled down to live.

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She’ll take the news of the baby all right, I believe, and so will Sis Ernestine. Daddy may take it kind of rough but that’s just because he doesn’t know as much about his daughter as Mama and Ernestine do. Well.He’ll be worried, too, in another way, and he’ll show it more.

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Nobody was home when I finally made it up to that top floor of ours. We’ve lived here for about five years, and it’s not a bad apartment, as housing projects go. Fonny and I had been planning to fix up a loft down in the East Village, and we’d looked at quite a few. It just seemed better for us because we couldn’t really afford to live in a project, and Fonny hates them and there’d be no place for Fonny to work on his sculpture.The other places in Harlem are even worse than the projects. You’d never be able to start your new life in those places, you remember them too well, and you’d never want to bring up your baby there. But it’s something, when you think about it, how many babies were brought into those places, with rats as big as cats, roaches the size of mice, splinters the size of a man’s finger, and somehow survived it. You don’t want to think about those who didn’t; and, to tell the truth, there’s always something very sad in those who did, or do.

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I hadn’t been home more than five minutes when Mama walked through the door. She was car­rying a shopping bag and she was wearing what I call her shopping hat, which is a kind of floppy beige beret.

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“How you doing, Little One?” she smiled, but she gave me a sharp look, too. “How’s Fonny?”

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“He’s just the same. He’s fine. He sends his love.”

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“Good. You see the lawyer?”

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“Not today. I have to go on Monday – you know – after work.”

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“He been to see Fonny?”

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“No.”

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She sighed and took off her hat, and put it on the TV set. I picked up the shopping bag and we walked into the kitchen. Mama started putting things away.

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I half sat, half leaned, on the sink, and I watched her. Then, for a minute there, I got scared and my belly kind of turned over. Then, I realized that I’m into my third month, I’ve got to tell. Noth­ing shows yet, but one day Mama’s going to give me another sharp look.

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And then, suddenly, half leaning, half sitting there, watching her – she was at the refrigerator, she looked critically at a chicken and put it away, she was kind of humming under her breath, but the way you hum when your mind is concentrated on something, something painful, just about to come around the corner, just about to hit you – I suddenly had this feeling that she already knew, had known all along, had only been waiting for me to tell her.

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I said, “Mama-?”

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“Yeah, Little Bit?” Still humming.

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But I didn’t say anything. So, after a minute, she closed the refrigerator door and turned and looked at me.

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I started to cry. It was her look.

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She stood there for a minute. She came and put a hand on my forehead and then a hand on my shoulder. She said, “Come on in my room. Your Daddy and Sis be here soon.”

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We went into her room and sat down on the bed and Mama closed the door. She didn’t touch me. She just sat very still. It was like she had to be very together because I had gone to pieces.

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She said, “Tish, I declare. I don’t think you got nothing to cry about.” She moved a little. “You tell Fonny?”

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“I just told him today. I figured I should tell him first.”

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“You did right. And I bet he just grinned all over his face, didn’t he?”

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I kind of stole a look at her and I laughed, “Yes. He sure did.”

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“You must – let’s see – you about three months gone?”

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“Almost.”

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‘What you crying about?”

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Then she did touch me, she took me in her arms and she rocked me and I cried.

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She got me a handkerchief and I blew my nose. She walked to the window and she blew hers.

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“Now, listen,” she said, “you got enough on your mind without worrying about being a bad girl and all that jive-ass shit. I sure hope I raised you better than that. If you was a bad girl, you wouldn’t be sitting on that bed, you’d long been turning tricks for the warden.”

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She came back to the bed and sat down. She seemed to be raking her mind for the right words.

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“Tish,” she said, “when we was first brought here, the white man he didn’t give us no preachers to say words over us before we had our babies. And you and Fonny be together right now, mar­ried or not, wasn’t for that same damn white man. So, let me tell you what you got to do. You got to think about that baby. You got to hold on to that baby, don’t care what else happens or don’t happen. You got to do that. Can’t nobody else do that for you. And the rest of us, well, we going to hold on to you. And we going to get Fonny out. Don’t you worry. I know it’s hard – but don’t you worry. And that baby be the best thing that ever happened to Fonny. He needs that baby. It going to give him a whole lot of courage.”

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She put one finger under my chin, a trick she has sometimes, and looked me in the eyes, smiling.

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“Am I getting through to you, Tish?”

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“Yes, Mama. Yes.”

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“Now, when your Daddy and Ernestine get home, we going to sit at the table together, and I’ll make the family announcement. I think that might be easier, don’t you?”

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“Yes. Yes.”

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She got up from the bed.

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“Take off them streets clothes and lie down for a minute. I’ll come get you.”

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She opened the door.

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“Yes, Mama – Mama?”

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“Yes, Tish?”

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“Thank you, Mama.”

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She laughed. “Well, Tish, daughter, I do not know what you thanking me for, but you surely more than welcome.”

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She closed the door and I heard her in the kitchen. I took off my coat and my shoes and lay back on the bed. It was the hour when darkness begins, when the sounds of the night begin.

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