Hager had risen at sunrise. On Thursday she did the Reinharts’ washing, on Fridays she ironed it, and on Saturdays she sent it home, clean and beautifully white, and received as pay the sum of seventy-five cents. During the winter Hager usually did half a dozen washings a week, but during the hot season her customers had gone away, and only the Reinharts, on account of an invalid grandmother with whom they could not travel, remained in Stanton.

Wednesday afternoon Sandy, with a boy named Jimmy Lane, called at the back door for their soiled clothes. Each child took a handle and between them carried the large wicker basket seven blocks to Aunt Hager’s kitchen. For this service Jimmy Lane received five cents a trip, although Sister Lane had repeatedly said to Hager that he needn’t be given anything. She wanted him to learn his Christian duties by being useful to old folks. But Jimmy was not inclined to be Christian. On the contrary, he was a very bad little boy of thirteen, who often led Sandy astray. Sometimes they would run with the basket for no reason at all, then stumble and spill the clothes out on the sidewalk⁠—Mrs. Reinhart’s summer dresses, and drawers, and Mr. Reinhart’s extra-large B.V.D.’s lying generously exposed to the public. Sometimes, if occasion offered, the youngsters would stop to exchange uncouth epithets with strange little white boys who called them “niggers.” Or, again, they might neglect their job for a game of marbles, or a quarter-hour of scrub baseball on a vacant lot; or to tease any little colored girl who might tip timidly by with her hair in tight, well-oiled braids⁠—while the basket of garments would be left forlornly in the street without guardian. But when the clothes were safe in Aunt Hager’s kitchen, Jimmy would usually buy candy with his nickel and share it with Sandy before he went home.

After soaking all night, the garments were rubbed through the suds in the morning; and in the afternoon the colored articles were on the line while the white pieces were boiling seriously in a large tin boiler on the kitchen-stove.

“They sho had plenty this week,” Hager said to her grandson, who sat on the stoop eating a slice of bread and apple butter. “I’s mighty late gettin’ ’em hung out to dry, too. Had no business stoppin’ this mawnin’ to go see sick folks, and me here got all I can do maself! Looks like this warm weather old Mis’ Reinhart must change ever’ piece from her dress to her shimmy three times a day⁠—sendin’ me a washin’ like this here!” They heard the screen-door at the front of the house open and slam. “It’s a good thing they got me to do it fo’ ’em!⁠ ⁠… Sandy, see who’s that at de do’.”

It was Harriett, home from the country club for the afternoon, cool and slender and pretty in her black uniform with its white collar, her smooth black face and neck powdered pearly, and her crinkly hair shining with pomade. She smelled nice and perfumy as Sandy jumped on her like a dog greeting a favorite friend. Harriett kissed him and let him hang to her arm as they went through the bedroom to the kitchen. She carried a brown cardboard suitcase and a wide straw hat in one hand.

“Hello, mama,” she said.

Hager poked the boiling clothes with a vigorous splash of her round stick. The steam rose in clouds of soapy vapor.

“I been waitin’ for you, madam!” her mother replied in tones that were not calculated to welcome pleasantly an erring daughter. “I wants to know de truth⁠—was you in town last Monday night or not?”

Harriett dropped her suitcase against the wall. “You seem to have the truth,” she said carelessly. “How’d you get it?⁠ ⁠… Here, Sandy, take this out in the yard and eat it, seed and all.” She gave her nephew a plum she had brought in her pocket. “I was in town, but I didn’t have time to come home. I had to go to Maudel’s because she’s making me a dress.”

“To Maudel’s!⁠ ⁠… Unhuh! An’ to de Waiters’ Ball, besides galavantin’ up an’ down Pearl Street after ten o’clock! I wouldn’t cared so much if you’d told me beforehand, but you said you didn’t come in town ’ceptin’ Thursday afternoon, an’ here I was believing yo’ lies.”

“It’s no lies! I haven’t been in town before.”

“Who brung you here at night anyhow⁠—an’ there ain’t no trains runnin’.”

“O, I came in with the cook and some of the boys, mama, that’s who! They hired an auto for the dance. What would be the use coming home, when you and Annjee go to bed before dark like chickens?”

“That’s all right, madam! Annjee’s got sense⁠—savin’ her health an’ strength!”

Harriett was not impressed. “For what? To spend her life in Mrs. Rice’s kitchen?” She shrugged her shoulders.

“What you bring yo’ suitcase home fo’?”

“I’m quitting the job Saturday,” she said. “I’ve told them already.”

“Quitting!” her mother exclaimed. “What fo’? Lawd, if it ain’t one thing, it’s another!”

“What for?” Harriett retorted angrily. “There’s plenty what for! All that work for five dollars a week with what little tips those pikers give you. And white men insulting you besides, asking you to sleep with ’em. Look at my fingernails, all broke from scrubbing that dining-room floor.” She thrust out her dark slim hands. “Waiting table and cleaning silver, washing and ironing table-linen, and then scrubbing the floor besides⁠—that’s too much of a good thing! And only three waitresses on the job. That old steward out there’s a regular white folks’ nigger. He don’t care how hard he works us girls. Well, I’m through with the swell new Stanton County Country Club this coming Saturday⁠—I’m telling everybody!” She shrugged her shoulders again.

“What you gonna do then?”

“Maudel says I can get a job with her.”

“Maudel?⁠ ⁠… Where?” The old woman had begun to wring the clothes dry and pile them in a large dishpan.

“At the Banks Hotel, chambermaid, for pretty good pay.”

Hager stopped again and turned decisively towards her daughter. “You ain’t gonna work in no hotel. You hear me! They’s dives o’ sin, that’s what they is, an’ a child o’ mine ain’t goin’ in one. If you was a boy, I wouldn’t let you go, much less a girl! They ain’t nothin’ but strumpets works in hotels.”

“Maudel’s no strumpet.” Harriett’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know if she is or ain’t, but I knows I wants you to stop runnin’ with her⁠—I done tole you befo’.⁠ ⁠… Her mammy ain’t none too straight neither, raisin’ them chillen in sin. Look at Sammy in de reform school ’fore he were fifteen for gamblin’. An’ de oldest chile, Essie, done gone to Kansas City with that yaller devil she ain’t married. An’ Maudel runnin’ de streets night an’ day, with you tryin’ to keep up with her!⁠ ⁠… Lawd a mercy!⁠ ⁠… Here, hang up these clothes!”

Her mother pointed to the tin pan on the table filled with damp, twisted, white underwear. Harriett took the pan in both hands. It was heavy and she trembled with anger as she lifted it to her shoulders.

“You can bark at me if you want to, mama, but don’t talk about my friends. I don’t care what they are! Maudel’d do anything for me. And her brother’s a good kid, whether he’s been in reform school or not. They oughtn’t to put him there just for shooting dice. What’s that? I like him, and I like Mrs. Smothers, too. She’s not always scolding people for wanting a good time and for being lively and trying to be happy.”

Hot tears raced down each cheek, leaving moist lines in the pink powder. Sandy, playing marbles with Buster under the apple-tree, heard her sniffling as she shook out the clothes and hung them on the line in the yard.

“You, Sandy,” Aunt Hager called loudly from the kitchen-door. “Come in here an’ get me some water an’ cut mo’ firewood.” Her black face was wet with perspiration and drawn from fatigue and worry. “I got to get the rest o’ these clothes out yet this evenin’.⁠ ⁠… That Chile Harriett’s aggravatin’ me to death! Help me, Sandy, honey.”

They ate supper in silence, for Hager’s attempts at conversation with her young daughter were futile. Once the old woman said: “That onery Jimboy’s comin’ home Saturday,” and Harriett’s face brightened a moment.

“Gee, I’m glad,” she replied, and then her mouth went sullen again. Sandy began uncomfortably to kick the tableleg.

“For Christ’s sake!” The girl frowned, and the child stopped, hurt that his favorite aunt should yell at him peevishly for so slight an offense.

“Lawd knows, I wish you’d try an’ be mo’ like yo’ sisters, Annjee an’ Tempy,” Hager began as she washed the dishes, while Harriett stood near the stove, cloth in hand, waiting to dry them. “Here I is, an old woman, an’ you tries ma soul! After all I did to raise you, you don’t even hear me when I speak.” It was the old theme again, without variation. “Now, there’s Annjee, ain’t a better chile livin’⁠—if she warn’t crazy ’bout Jimboy. An’ Tempy married an’ doin’ well, an’ respected ever’where.⁠ ⁠… An’ you runnin’ wild!”

“Tempy?” Harriett sneered suddenly, pricked by this comparison. “So respectable you can’t touch her with a ten-foot pole, that’s Tempy!⁠ ⁠… Annjee’s all right, working herself to death at Mrs. Rice’s, but don’t tell me about Tempy. Just because she’s married a mail-clerk with a little property, she won’t even see her own family any more. When niggers get up in the world, they act just like white folks⁠—don’t pay you no mind. And Tempy’s that kind of a nigger⁠—she’s up in the world now!”

“Close yo’ mouth, talking that way ’bout yo’ own sister! I ain’t asked her to be always comin’ home, is I, if she’s satisfied in her own house?”

“No, you aren’t asking her, mama, but you’re always talking about her being so respectable.⁠ ⁠… Well, I don’t want to be respectable if I have to be stuck up and dicty like Tempy is.⁠ ⁠… She’s colored and I’m colored and I haven’t seen her since before Easter.⁠ ⁠… It’s not being black that matters with her, though, it’s being poor, and that’s what we are, you and me and Annjee, working for white folks and washing clothes and going in back doors, and taking tips and insults. I’m tired of it, mama! I want to have a good time once in a while.”

“That’s ’bout all you does have is a good time,” Hager said. “An’ it ain’t right, an’ it ain’t Christian, that’s what it ain’t! An’ de Lawd is takin’ notes on you!” The old woman picked up the heavy iron skillet and began to wash it inside and out.

“Aw, the church has made a lot of you old Negroes act like Salvation Army people,” the girl returned, throwing the dried knives and forks on the table. “Afraid to even laugh on Sundays, afraid for a girl and boy to look at one another, or for people to go to dances. Your old Jesus is white, I guess, that’s why! He’s white and stiff and don’t like niggers!”

Hager gasped while Harriett went on excitedly, disregarding her mother’s pain: “Look at Tempy, the highest-class Christian in the family⁠—Episcopal, and so holy she can’t even visit her own mother. Seems like all the good-time people are bad, and all the old Uncle Toms and mean, dried-up, long-faced niggers fill the churches. I don’t never intend to join a church if I can help it.”

“Have mercy on this chile! Help her an’ save her from hellfire! Change her heart, Jesus!” the old woman begged, standing in the middle of the kitchen with uplifted arms. “God have mercy on ma daughter.”

Harriett, her brow wrinkled in a steady frown, put the dishes away, wiped the table, and emptied the water with a splash through the kitchen-door. Then she went into the bedroom that she shared with her mother, and began to undress. Sandy saw, beneath her thin white underclothes, the soft black skin of her shapely young body.

“Where you goin’?” Hager asked sharply.

“Out,” said the girl.

“Out where?”

“O, to a barbecue at Willow Grove, mama! The boys are coming by in an auto at seven o’clock.”

“What boys?”

“Maudel’s brother and some fellows.”

“You ain’t goin’ a step!”

A pair of curling-irons swung in the chimney of the lighted lamp on the dresser. Harriett continued to get ready. She was making bangs over her forehead, and the scent of scorching hair-oil drifted by Sandy’s nose.

“Up half de night in town Monday, an’ de Lawd knows how late ever’ night in de country, an’ then you comes home to run out agin!⁠ ⁠… You ain’t goin’!” continued her mother.

Harriett was pulling on a pair of red silk stockings, bright and shimmering to her hips.

“You quit singin’ in de church choir. You say you ain’t goin’ back to school. You won’t keep no job! Now what is you gonna do? Yo’ pappy said years ago, ’fore he died, you was too purty to ’mount to anything, but I ain’t believed him. His last dyin’ words was: ‘Look out fo’ ma baby Harriett.’ You was his favourite chile.⁠ ⁠… Now look at you! Runnin’ de streets an’ wearin’ red silk stockings!” Hager trembled. “Spose yo’ pappy was to come back an’ see you?”

Harriett powdered her face and neck, pink on ebony, dashed white talcum at each armpit, and rubbed her ears with perfume from a thin bottle. Then she slid a light-blue dress of many ruffles over her head. The skirt ended midway between the ankle and the knee, and she looked very cute, delicate, and straight, like a black porcelain doll in a Vienna toy shop.

“Some o’ Maudel’s makin’s, that dress⁠—anybody can tell,” her mother went on quarrelling. “Short an’ shameless as it can be! Regular bad gal’s dress, that’s what ’tis.⁠ ⁠… What you puttin’ it on fo’ anyhow, an’ I done told you you ain’t goin’ out? You must think I don’t mean ma words. Ain’t more’n sixteen last April an’ runnin’ to barbecues at Willer Grove! De idee! When I was yo’ age, wasn’t up after eight o’clock, ’ceptin’ Sundays in de church house, that’s all.⁠ ⁠… Lawd knows where you young ones is headin’. An’ me prayin’ an’ washin’ ma fingers to de bone to keep a roof over yo’ head.”

The sharp honk of an automobile horn sounded from the street. A big red car, full of laughing brown girls gaily dressed, and coatless, slick-headed black boys in green and yellow silk shirts, drew up at the curb. Somebody squeezed the bulb of the horn a second time and another loud and saucy honk! struck the ears.

“You, Sandy,” Hager commanded. “Run out there an’ tell them niggers to leave here, ’cause Harriett ain’t goin’ no place.”

But Sandy did not move, because his young and slender aunt had gripped him firmly by the collar while she searched feverishly in the dresser-drawer for a scarf. She pulled it out, long and flame-colored, with fiery, silky fringe, before she released the little boy.

“You ain’t gwine a step this evenin’!” Hager shouted. “Don’t you hear me?”

“O, no?” said Harriett coolly, in a tone that cut like knives. “You’re the one that says I’m not going⁠—but I am!”

Then suddenly something happened in the room⁠—the anger fell like a veil from Hager’s face, disclosing aged, helpless eyes full of fear and pain.

“Harriett, honey, I wants you to be good,” the old woman stammered. The words came pitiful and low⁠—not a command any longer⁠—as she faced her terribly alive young daughter in the ruffled blue dress and the red silk stockings. “I just wants you to grow up decent, chile. I don’t want you runnin’ to Willer Grove with them boys. It ain’t no place fo’ you in the nighttime⁠—an’ you knows it. You’s mammy’s baby girl. She wants you to be good, honey, and follow Jesus, that’s all.”

The baritone giggling of the boys in the auto came across the yard as Hager started to put a timid, restraining hand on her daughter’s shoulder⁠—but Harriett backed away.

“You old fool!” she cried. “Lemme go! You old Christian fool!”

She ran through the door and across the sidewalk to the waiting car, where the arms of the young men welcomed her eagerly. The big machine sped swiftly down the street and the rapid sput! sput! sput! of its engine grew fainter and fainter. Finally, the auto was only a red taillight in the summer dusk. Sandy, standing beside his grandmother in the doorway, watched it until it disappeared.