OCTOBER 1955
OCTOBER 1955
On Sunday the family
had dinner together
like always.
No one dropped by
which wasn’t
like always.
On Monday,
went to school,
came home,
did chores.
Percy Fortune
dropped the boys off.
Just my brothers.
No Richard.
Tuesday,
went to school,
came home,
started chores.
Washing greens at the well,
I hear tires on gravel.
Look up,
green DeSoto rolls in.
Richard slides out.
I say,
“The boys still out workin’.”
car door still open.
I stand here,
hands full of drippin’ collards—
just lookin’ at each other.
A smile creeps across his face.
He closes the car door,
walks toward me,
slow,
says,
“I’m not here to see them.”
I still stand here
not sure what
to say.
He says,
“I’m here to see you.”
When he’s right in front
of me
I figure out what to say.
“What took so long?”
And he starts some slow
rumbling in his throat
which gets louder,
rhythmic,
then breaks into almost
a howl
of laughter.
Like he can’t stop himself
he reaches round my waist
but I don’t think my mama
would like that
so I side-step him,
I laugh
so he knows I don’t
really mind.
Very next day
I’m waiting on the steps
at school—
waiting for Richard to pick me up
like he said
he would.
Garnet and everybody else climbs
into Percy’s car.
“Comin’?” they yell to me.
I say, “No. No thanks, I’m waitin’.”
They shrug and drive off.
Fifteen minutes later
I’m feeling foolish—
then scared.
After four o’clock—
almost an hour late—
Richard rolls up.
I get in—don’t say a thing.
Richard says,
“The boss stopped in,
started talking ’bout bricks.
You know, bricking.”
What I’m thinking is,
it’s a long way home
on foot—
like fifteen miles or more.
Richard says, “Bean, I’m sorry.
He’s the boss.”
I find words. “Yeah,
I guess you couldn’t help that.”
He sighs, starts driving, says,
“You afraid I wouldn’t show up?”
“Yeah.”
He says, “Won’t happen again,”
and looks over at me.
“Ever walk home before?”
I say, “Nope, never walked home.
Always somebody driving.”
“What if nobody picks you up in the morning?”
“Then we don’t go to school.”
It happens.
There’s always chores to do.
“You angry at me?”
angry at him—
smiling all crooked
the way he does.
He’s got as many smiles
as he’s got laughs.
Am I angry at him?
“I don’t rightly know. Yeah. No.
Maybe I was worried.
I know you didn’t do it on purpose—
to be mean.”
I roll down the window all the way,
let the breeze blow
through the car.
He looks at me, says,
“You look pretty, Bean.”