The Last Leaf of Harlem Page 7

  When she had quieted, she rose and bathed her heated face. She got together her little pile of books, set her cap on her tousled hair, slung her thick sweater over her arm, and went down the stairs.

  The aunts had preceded her. They sat at the kitchen table drinking black coffee. The large and lovely yellow mother was eating heartily ham and eggs.

  That strengthened Judy. She sat down and smiled.

  “Don’t you be late,” said the mother.

  The familiar greeting shut the door fast on Uncle Eben. The aunts were simply in dark clothes. This was the usual Tuesday morning.

  “Can I have two pieces of cake in my lunch?” Judy asked.

  Presently she was doing down the long hill to the schoolhouse. She walked in the sun and lifted her face to the intermittent calls of wooing birds. Spring was just around the nearest corner, and Judy was glad.

  She shot into her seat as the last bell rang.

  Eulalie whispered to the back of her head: “I spent two hours on this beastly history.”

  Judy’s mind raced back to the schoolroom. “I’ve not studied it!”

  “Oh, Judy! First period, too!”

  “I went and forgot! What on earth made me go and forget? I always do it first thing every morning.” She thought sharply. “It was my uncle’s dying! My Uncle Even died, Eulalie.”

  “Oh!” said Eulalie, looking sorry.

  Nora leaned out into the aisle. Her eyes were wide with sympathy. “Is there death in your family Judy?”

  A thrill of price ran down Judy’s spine. Her breath quickened. Her eyes were like stars.

  “It’s my Uncle Even who lived in a Home on account of being blind.”

  “Did he die on account of being blind?” Eulalie ventured.

  “I expect,” quoted July glibly, “ he had another stroke.”

  “But why did you come to school?” Nora wanted to know. “Deaths very sad. My mummy puts away all our toys and pulls down the shades.”

  “I think,” advised Eulalie, “you ought to tell the teacher.”

  Judy was suddenly shy. She had not thought of Uncle Eben’s death quite warranted her telling Miss Doran. It was strange and thrilling to her, because she had never before known death in its immediacy. It would embarrass her acutely if Miss Doran stared coldly and questioningly. Still, Eulalie had spoken with some authority. And Judy liked to watch the transformation of people’s faces.

  She got up from her seat, flung up her small head, and went down the aisle. The class with one accord straightened and craned. Judy, under this undeviating concentration, felt that her head was wagging, and was conscious of her isolated darkness.

  Miss Doran looked up, frowned, and laid down her pen. At a glance Judy saw that she had been preparing a history quiz. She grew panicky, and this nervousness sent quick tears to her eyes. Miss Doran’s face smoothed and softened. The unexpected gentleness further confused her. She said miserably, with a catch in her voice, “My Uncle Eben’s dead.”

  Her words rang out clearly in the quiet room. There was an audible gasp. Then Judy could hear the triumphant whispering of Eulalie and Nora.

  Miss Doran’s arms went about her. “Judy, dear child, I’m sorry. Shall you want to return home, darling, or did your mother think it best to get you away from it all this morning?”

  Judy was ashamed. She did not know how to tell Miss Doran that the momentous thing was not lying importantly in her mother’s pallor, but was somewhere in a vast hospital whose name she could not remember. She dreaded Miss Doran’s jerking away from her in scorn. After all, families were huge affairs. Perhaps, to an experienced woman like Miss Doran, only death in the house really mattered.

  Judy could not lie. No’m,” she said unhappily.

  Miss Doran did not understand. “Then, of course, I excuse you, Judy. I can not expect you to have your mind on your studies. Stay out in the open as much as you can. You need not return until after the funeral.”

  With a gentle pat she sent the child out. The class stared after her as one might stare after a favorite heroine.

  Judy went racing down the corridor; her mind caught away to the adventure. She knew that tomorrow her mother would pack her off to school again. But today was hers. And she had a quarter in her pocket. For the first time in her ten years, she was out on her own. She would poke her nose down various streets and browse in the library. She would rise to the end of the car line and back. If she dared, she would even venture into an inexpensive movie. Death in the family was a holiday.

  II

  The exciting morning passed.

  Father continually flipped out an enormous black-bordered handkerchief. He had on a black tie and an uncomfortable collar. He also had on Uncle Eben’s shoes and hat and overcoat. Mother had said that with Uncle Eben closet full of good black clothes simply hanging in the Home, it was foolish of father to buy a funeral outfit. Father had called a cab. Judy had begged the ride. They had come back frailly sitting on top of Uncle Eben’s belongings.

  The aunts were shrouded in long black veils. Only the whites of their eyes glimmered, and their sparse teeth when they talked.

  The lovely, flushed mother had flung back her becoming short veil. Judy thought her mother was beautiful. They smiled at each other.

  Judy had on the dark dress that she wore on rainy days. The favorite aunt had brought her a pair of black silk stockings. When she passed the hall mirror, she shyly admired them.

  Somebody rang the bell. The father said meaningfully: It’s the automobile, I guess.” The mother, with an apologetic look, pulled down her veil.

  Judy did not want to get out of the car. She wished that she were a baby and could kick and scream or that she were nearer the mother and could wheedle. But then she remembered that she meant to be a great writer and must welcome every experience. She got out bravely.

  A light-skinned lady in a crumpled frock led them into a parlor. She made little noises in her throat and told them she was sorry. Judy caught the terrifying word body, and went and cowered against the window. The father and the mother and the aunts disappeared.

  But in a moment the favorite aunt was back and beckoning her. “You must come and look at him, Judy. He’s beautiful.” Judy prayed, God, don’t let his teeth click,” and crossed the threshold.

  A dozen familiar and unfamiliar people sat in a small room on insecure chairs. A pretty woman peered into an open box and made the sign of the cross. About the box were unattractive bunches of fresh and wilted flowers. Judy knew suddenly that this was a coffin and that Uncle Eben was in it. She trailed after the favorite aunt like a young lamb to the slaughter.

  “Smile down at him, Judy.”

  A curious thing made in the image of an unhappy man lay in a satin-lined casket. If Judy dared touch the smooth, dark cheek, she would find if a brown clay in her hand. She wished she could ask her mother, who alone might understand, whether Uncle Eben was somewhere else and this was a plaster cast. “Go sit by your mother,” whispered the favorite aunt.

  Judy tiptoed to the uncertain seat in the front row and sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap and her ankles crossed.

  Slowly she became aware that the dim blob protruding above the rim of the casket was the tip of a nose. She was bewitched and held and gradually horrified. But her horror was caught away by the violent sound of the father’s sobs. She jerked up her head and stared at him.

  In all of her life she had never seen a man cry. To her tears were the weakness of children and women, who had not the courage of men. She was fascinated and appalled. The father’s head wobbled weakly. He made strangled snorts in his throat. Tears streamed down his cheeks and ran into the corners of his mouth. His nose dripped.

  She was ashamed, Her own eyes filled with tears. Her body burned. She thought in extremist torture, “My father is weak, and I am the child of my father.”

  The mother bent to her. “Judy, comfort your father.”

  She swayed as if she had been struck.

&nbs
p; “He musn’t cry like that, Judy.”

  She raised her sick eyes to her mother’s face. Mummy, what do I do.”

  “Just slip your hand into his. He loves you, Judy.”

  That did not move her. A stranger wept beside her. She felt her stomach collapse. With a great effort she kept herself steady. Had the father’s life depended upon it, she could not have stretched out a soothing hand. “Mummy,” she cried, “I can’t,” and burrowed against her.

  An oily yellow man in a tight frock coat leaned down to the mother.

  “Are you pleased with the body?”

  “He’s beautiful,” said the mother.

  “For much or little I turned ’em out the same. I’d appreciate your coming to me whenever -- God forbid! -- You have to.”

  He swung out a heavy watch and said humorously, “Our kind of people!”

  “Yes. Service was set for three,” said the mother primly.

  “Our kind of people,” he repeated. “That culled preacher is probably somewhere chewing the rag with Sister Fullbosom.”

  The mother and the undertaker laughed softly.

  There was a small stir in the back of the room. Somebody importantly rushed down the length of it. The undertaker bustled to the newcomer’s side and led him to the small pulpit. With a careless glance at the body, the young preacher shifted out of his coat, glanced at his watch, cleared his throat, and plunged into a wailing spiritual that grew in volume and poignancy as the rest of the mourners joined in.

  The aunts, too, swayed and moaned in unison. Presently, the father lifted his head and keened. But Judy did not want the mother to sing. She did not want to feel the swell of song from stomach to bosom and throat. She held her head tight against the mother to stem the rise of it.

  The song hushed at the last stanza. The chorus whimpered out in a muted medley of unmusical voices. The preacher fumbled in his pocket, took out several soiled bits of paper, extracted and unfolded a rumpled sheet, and clamped on his glasses.

  He stared at the illegible name of the deceased and slurred over it. He read automatically: “Born March 2, 1868, in Charleston, South Carolina. Died April 3, 1919, in this county. He rounded fifty-one years. Professed religion at the age of eighteen. Married wife, Mary, who died in childbirth in 1894. Came North, entered Pullman service, and was faithful servitor for twenty years. Was retired and pensioned, after total blindness, in 1914. He was never known to touch liquor cards. He lived humble, and served his God, and died in the arms of Jesus at two a.m. Tuesday morning. He leaves a sorrowing brother and his wife, and two sorrowing sisters, and a sorrowing niece to mourn their loss.”

  Judy pulled at her mother. “Mums, why did he read that? What did he say it for? What did he mean about our sorrowing?”

  The mother shrugged impatiently, thought a bit, and yielded kindly: “It’s an obituary, Judy, and God knows we are sorry.”

  Suddenly to Judy this word that she had never heard before became a monstrous symbol, not of life but of one’s living. She drew away from her mother. Her mind strained toward the understanding of this new discovery. She must think it through like a woman.

  She thought with shame: I have not really cried for Uncle Eben. I am not really a sorrowing niece … She shut her eyes against the unreality of the casket. And then she was a little girl again, just five, and had on Uncle Eben’s glasses, and was bounding on his knee. But she found herself sliding to the floor. The ludicrous glasses fell from her nose and shattered. She pricked her finger, blood spurted, and she screamed. Above her scream rose Uncle Eben’s tortured wail: “God in heaven, I’m blind!” Then the blood did not matter. She tried to piece together Uncle Eben’s glasses, in panic that she would be blamed for his blindness.

  Later there was the strange Uncle Eben with bandages over his eyes, and pain on his mouth, and hot, trembling hands that went ceaselessly over her face. And there was the sightless Uncle Eben, very old and shriveled and shaky, going uncertainly on a cane that tapped and tapped and tapped. Then there was the mother with a pursed mouth, and the father gesturing angrily, and the mother’s unforgettable words: “I married you, not your whole helpless family.” Then Uncle Eben went off to a Home on a cane that tapped and tapped.

  Judy cried now, unchildishly and terribly, in regret that Uncle Even had ever lived. She had the sharp thought: Uncle Eben’s life and Uncle Eben’s death do not really matter … She was no longer a small child reasoning. Even her word images were mature. She was seeing deeply the tragedy of commonplace existence.

  Her attention was acute now. She was keenly aware of her own absorption. The egotism that at all times swayed her was compelling her to store up impressions. She knew with bitterness that when she was older and abler, the events of this day would crowd into her mind with the utmost clearness and find release through her own particular medium of words. Only as it might serve her as a plot for a story -- and the horror of this overwhelmed her -- had the poor life and death of Uncle Eben any meaning.

  III

  A big black many was shyly speaking. He called Uncle Eben a brother worker. He said that he was glad to b e here to represent the Pullman company, and pointed out their unlovely flowers. He made a large gesture of introducing his wife, and sat down relieved.

  She advanced toward the casket. She was brown and buxom and soiled. Her voice was not beautiful.

  “I never knew our dear brother personally, but I feel very close to all Pullman porters on account of my husband’s being one of the head ones. I tries to come to their funerals as often as I can. I am proud to say that last year I didn’t miss one.

  “I’m mot much on pome writing, but most people seems to like these little verses which I composed for Pullman Brother Jessey’s death in 1916. I generally reads it a funerals. With your kind indulgence, “I’ll read this one.”

  She ducked her head as a child might, and recited in an unmusical tremolo:

  “My tears overflow as I look upon our dear brother.

  The eyes that could open are shut.

  The tongue that could speak is mute.

  The feet that traversed over the earth are still by our Maker’s will.

  We weep beside this casket, we the wife we the children, we the sorrowing friends.

  We cannot realize that this is but the shell.

  Already in spirit our dear brother stands before his Maker.

  And god sits on His golden throne passing judgement.

  We who knew this dear man know with confidence that the gates have been opened to him.

  He lived clean and died humble, and that counts.

  Do not take it too much to heart, dear relatives and friends.

  We all got a time to go, and some go soon, and some go late.

  Just lay your burden on the Lord, and he will gladly lighten your load.

  The Devil is a toad.

  She went and sat down.

  Judy could hear little sputters of praise. The aunts were pressing the soiled lady’s hands. Over her head the father bent to the mother and said earnestly” “Real sad and appropriate.”

  The young preacher went to stand above the body. He was suddenly so wild-eyed that Judy thought he must be drunk.

  He said heatedly: “This man ain’t happy. This boor brother died in despair. No undertaker’s art could smooth out all his suffering. He was worried to death, that’s what. Why ain’t he having a big funeral in some ‘dicty church ‘stead of you asking somebody you never seen before to come round here? ‘Cause none of you thought he was wroth a high falutin’ funeral. I feels for this man.

  The preacher went on: “I didn’t come here to preach this funeral in hopes of getting five or ten dollars. I don’t want no money. Get this straight. I wouldn’t take it. I ain’t doing a bit more for this dead brother than I want somebody, out of the kindness of his heart, to do some day for me.”

  Judy thought that rather admirable.

  “You all been bragging ‘bout him being a Pullman porter. That’s first cousin to
being a slave. Why ain’t you put it right? For twenty years our dead brother’s been an ‘amble cog in a wheel.

  “The trouble with our kind of people is we don’t stick together. The white man does, and the white man rules the world. We got to organize! Us that is on top has got to help us that is at the bottom. But what uppity Negro will? But don’t you all get me started. I never know when to stop. Jesus, guide this soul over Jordan. Amen.”

  He practically leaped into his coat and came to shake hands with the mother. “Thank you sister,” Judy heard, as he patted her hat and passed on to the father.

  Judy tugged at her mother. “Mums, why did he thank you? Oughtn’t you have thanked him?

  “Ssh ! For the money, child. Stop asking questions.”

  “What money, mums? Did you give him money?”

  “Judy, I’m warning you! For the funeral, child. You got to give them a little something.”

  Judy was simply struck. “But, mummy, he said he wouldn’t take it.”

  The mother whispered wearily: “They got to say something, child.”

  Two efficient men came to close the casket. The father was led by the light-skinned lady to take a last look. He came back considerably stricken and leaned against Judy. She slipped her arm around him. Through her small body wave upon wave of maternal passion surged. She was no longer contemptuous. Her heart swelled with compassion.

  The efficient men trundled the box out on castors. The father and the mother followed. Judy went between the aunts into the sunny street.

  The casket went neatly into a wooden box in the hearse. The flowers were piled around it. The door would not shut, and the undertaker fiddled and frowned. Judy thought in alarm: I couldn’t bear it if Uncle Even spilled in the street…

  But presently the door banged shut. Judy followed the family into the first car. The mother immediately flung back her veil. Her lovely face was flushed and excited. The father squirmed in his shoes. The aunts tried hard to go on with their weeping, but could not.

  The undertaker poked in his head. “We’re ready to start. Mister and Missus Tilly, and Missus Mamie Wickes, and Miss Eva Jenkins are following in the second car. It’ll be quite a ride, so you all settle comfortable. “He made a gesture. “That little thing there is an ashtray. Ashes to ashes.” He laughed kindly and shut them in.