XV

It happened the next morning that Linda ran out of sugar, discovering her predicament only a few minutes before Miss Cramp’s breakfast was to be served. There were, of course, no grocery stores within three blocks of exclusive Court Avenue, and while ordinarily Miss Cramp would have waited without complaint till the errand was run, today the situation was awkward: Miss Cramp had company, a lady from Baltimore, Maryland; a friend, to be sure, but a friend whose breakfast must not be delayed by the delinquencies of a colored maid.

Linda, therefore, following professional tradition, resolved to borrow sufficient from her next-door neighbor to tide over the temporary lack, and was already on the kitchen-porch going to the Irish girl next door, when she saw a Negro woman beating rugs in the back yard of the second house. She had her own curiosity about that particular house, because she had overheard Miss Cramp and the present guest discussing it, and she decided that this was her chance at an opening that would satisfy that curiosity. She would borrow the sugar from the colored woman.

It was thus that she made the acquaintance of Fred Merrit’s housekeeper, Mrs. Arabella Fuller.

“Drop in any time,” invited Mrs. Fuller, who was a genial, lonesome soul, not too insistent on the social distinctions between housekeepers and maids, and who would apparently have had more to say had Linda been less obviously pressed for time.

“Thanks,” smiled Linda. “This afternoon. My folks are going to a show.”

And so that afternoon found her and Mrs. Fuller conversing in the Merrit kitchen with all the ease and confidence of a much more extended friendship.

Without conscious effort Mrs. Arabella Fuller would have arrested any cartoonist’s attention. Her profile was a series of adjoining semicircles⁠—a large one for the bulbous forehead, then a succession of smaller, approximately equal ones, forming from above downward nose, upper lip, lower lip, first chin, and second chin. From above downward, moreover, this series slanted unanimously rearward, so that the forehead bulged and the chins receded, and the general attitude was that of one caught in the act of swallowing half a banana.

This profile only stated the motif on which Mrs. Fuller as a whole was composed. Every outline of every part was a perfect semicircle, and so on integration she naturally became a cluster of hemispheres. There were, to be sure, unanticipatedly sudden constrictions about her at points: between chins, for example, at wrists, at waist, and at ankles. But these repressions were futile, for on either side of each constriction the flesh triumphantly bulged. They simply heightened the lady’s agglomerate bulbosity.

Out of the midst of this there escaped on occasion, an asthmatic wheeze. This confab was such an occasion, and it revealed at once that the asthma in no wise discouraged Mrs. Fuller’s flow of language.

“Yes, indeed, chile. Any time you want anything like that jes’ come right on over and get it⁠—we always has plenty ev’ything on hand. Thass one thing about Mr. Merrit⁠—he sho believes in eatin’. Reckon thass why he so thin. And it makes him mad as a wet hen to run out’n anything and thass why I always has plenty ev’ything on hand. So anytime you run out, jes’ come on over and I’ll trust you to keep ’count o’ ev’ything you get.” She fanned her shining round brown face with a limp dishcloth and smiled as she paused for breath. The smile revealed a shining row of white teeth, each of them just half a circle.

“It’s nice here,” Linda observed, looking about.

“ ’Deed it is. And Mr. Merrit’s such a nice man to work fo’. ’Cose he have his big times and so on, and he like his toddy now’n then a little too good, and ev’y once in a while he gets tied up with some woman ’nother, but ’cose thass natural, him bein’ a bachelor and havin’ so much money. I jes’ shets my eyes and says nothin’, ’cause ’tain’t none my business, and he ain’ never said nothin’ out the way to me, y’ understand, so I jes’ do my work and go on. You know how ’tis⁠—you mus’ see and don’ see.” There was another reluctant pause.

“Indeed so,” agreed Linda, already somewhat apprehensive at the conflict in Mrs. Fuller’s speech. It appeared that while Mrs. Fuller’s labored respiration sought to shorten her sentences, her sentences had a will of their own and simply refused to be shortened. Linda already found herself drawing deep sympathetic, but wholly useless breaths.

“ ’Cose there’s a lot o’ folks what don’ like to work fo’ colored, I understand that, and I don’ know as I would myse’f if it had to be some these uppity colored women what ain’ never been used to nothin’ and jes’ now got sump’n and think they so much mo’ n’ eve’ybody else. Take fo’ ’n instant that Sarah Bell Long, what’s always ridin’ ’round in Cornelia Bond’s auto. I knowed her when she was a baby⁠—knowed her father and mother before ’er. Neither one of ’em wasn’t nothin’. Ole man Bell run a saloon in Augusta till he made enough to buy up half the black belt; then he retired, got religious, gave d’ church a lot o’ money and got hisse’f preached into d’ kingdom and his wife along with ’im. Then this Sarah gal married this young doctor⁠—least, he was then⁠—and set him up in business, and when they got tired livin’ down there ’cause some them women liked his treatment too well, why they up and comes to New York. And havin’ plenty money natchelly they starts right out at the top. But I always say the top ain’ but a little way from the bottom⁠—can’t be⁠—’tain’ been risin’ long enough. And ain’ none of us so much better’n the rest of us that we can afford to get uppity ’bout it⁠—And thass why I jes’ couldn’ stand workin’ ’round nobody that act that way. Ain’ no sense in it. But Mr. Fred ain’ like that. Ain’ nobody in Harlem got no better things ’n Mr. Fred is, and some them things up in the country he brought back with ’im all the way from Europe and France and them places ’way yonder ’cross the water. You’ll see ’em when they get hyeh⁠—he always have ’em sent in town fo’ the winter. An ain’ nobody in New York got nothin’ no better, but it don’t turn his head none. Look like he jes’ buy things to spend his money on and when he get ’em that ends it. All ’ceptin’ one thing⁠—a picture of his mother. Least, I think it mus’ be his mother, though he ain’ never tole me so, but he stands and looks at that picture fo’ hours at a time, seems like. I b’lieve ’twould near ’bout kill ’im to lose it. But he sho’ is a nice man to work fo’⁠—don’ never bother you ’bout nothin’.”

Linda decided it would be less exhausting to do some of the talking herself. She hastened to inject at this pause, “I should think it would be nice, working for a man, anyhow. Bet he isn’t fussy ’n’ everything like an old woman⁠—specially an old maid. Gee!”

“Yo’ madam ain’ never had a husband of her own?”

“Uh-uh.”

“How come she ain’t?”

“Guess she never knew whether a man wanted her or her money.”

“What diff’runce that make?”

“Well, I guess she figured if he did want it, she didn’t want him, and if he didn’t want it, there must be something wrong with him. That just made the whole thing sorter hopeless.”

“She nice to work fo’?”

Linda saw that the way to prevent Mrs. Fuller from talking herself to death was to keep her asking questions. “Well,” she answered, “she could be worse. Nicest part is she lives all alone and that makes the work light. But she get sick over the least little thing and she spends a lot o’ time in bed. She just got over a three weeks’ spell yesterday⁠—only reason she got up was because this friend from Baltimore was coming last night. You can’t imagine what made her sick this time.”

“Is this visitor a gen’leman friend?”

“Nope.”

“Then what?” Linda could sense that Mrs. Fuller was merely nosing for an opening through which she could break for a long unobstructed run of speech.

“She found out that your boss was a jig, and it put her in bed for three weeks. I didn’t know what the trouble was till last night and I heard her talking to this Baltimore woman. The way she’s carrying on you’d think the house had turned to a hospital for smallpox. ’Deed it wouldn’t surprise me to see it burnt down any time.”

“What you mean, chile?”

“Well, you know how much fays like to have jigs move in next door to ’em.”

“Deed I do. I remember years ago⁠—”

“Specially if it’s a nice neighborhood. They’d do most anything to get ’em out. Look at what they did to that man in Staten Island last fall. Ku-Kluxed him. It was even in the fay papers, how they burnt the man’s house down while he was out. I believe Miss Cramp is wild enough to do the selfsame thing⁠—or have it done.”

“Have it done⁠—how you mean?”

“Pay somebody to do it.”

“No!”

“Bet she’d offer to pay you to do it.”

“And I bet I’d smack her from hyeh to yonder, too!”

“Well, there’s plenty of fay toughs around here⁠—not right on this street but near enough⁠—and I bet she could get somebody to get them. Then she wouldn’t be suspected. Everybody’d think it was like that house on 149th Street somebody put dynamite under.”

“What!”

“Didn’t you read about it?”

“No!”

“It was in The Black Issue⁠—oh, a long time ago now. Man bought a house on 149th Street and they dared him to move in. Sent letters and all. But he went on in. And less’n a week after he moved in, they blew him out⁠—bajooey!⁠—just like that.”

“Well I never in all my life!”

“Deed they did. And Miss Cramp is worried and mad and everything. You ought to ’ve heard her last night talking to this southern woman.”

Linda decidedly had the floor now and she did not intend to relinquish it.

“She’s from some little dump in Maryland, but she swears she lives in Baltimore⁠—as if even that was anything to brag about. She’s just like Miss Cramp, only more so. Well, you know one time Miss Cramp asked me a lot o’ dumb questions about shines and I gave her a lot o’ dumb answers and she went and joined the G.I.A. to find out for herself. And for doing it!”

“Say what?”

“Last night she was telling this other one all about it, and I mean they just carried on. Miss Cramp says, ‘My dear, I’m in the most awful trouble⁠—you simply must tell me what to do.’

“This other one is the funniest thing⁠—talks like a jig fresh from down home. First time I ever heard a fay talk like a shine⁠—I was never so surprised⁠—She says, ‘Deed, honey, with all yo’ money Ah cain’t imagine what could worry you.’

“Then Miss Cramp says, ‘If something isn’t done pretty quick this whole neighborhood’s going black!’

“ ‘What?’ says this Mrs. Parmalee⁠—that’s the other one.

“ ‘And that isn’t the worst of it,’ Miss Cramp sniffles. ‘The worst of it is that I’ll get the blame for it.’

“ ‘You’ll get the blame fo’ it?’

“ ‘I’m not responsible, really. But I got int’rested in the welfare of Negroes and joined a mixed organization for the improvement of conditions among them, you know. Well, naturally, I had to go about among them⁠—’

“ ‘Ah’ve always tole yuh yo’ cha’ity’d get y’ in trouble.’

“ ‘Well it certainly has. I went, on a friend’s advice too, to see how they acted in their own surroundings and there were both white and colored people in the box with me⁠—’

“ ‘What!’

“ ‘And one of them was the man that has bought a house almost next door to me here on Court Avenue⁠—and Irene, he intends to live in it!’

“And Irene says, just like a jig for the world⁠—‘Well, bless mah soul!’

“ ‘But my dear,’ says Miss Cramp, ‘that isn’t the worst of it. You can’t imagine. My dear, I asked him to call!’

“ ‘You what!’

“ ‘I thought he was white. He looked like it. He’s blonder than I am.’

“ ‘How’d you find out he wasn’t?’ says Irene.

“ ‘Someone else told me after he’d gone.’

“ ‘Well, Agatha,’ says Irene, ‘if you didn’t have no better sense’n to invite a strange man to call⁠—’

“ ‘But he was so nice, Irene⁠—’

“ ‘Agatha!’ ”

“ ‘I mean⁠—you wouldn’t have suspected, yourself. And, Irene, he swore he was coming, too.’ ”

“ ‘You don’ mean you ackshally think he will?’ ”

“ ‘Why won’t he?’ ”

“ ‘A nigger ought to know better.’ ”

“ ‘Well, this is New York, you know.’ ”

“ ‘Ah don’ care what this is⁠—’ ”

“ ‘Anyway, suppose neighbors of mine see my name on the literature of this organization. As soon as this man moves in, I’ll be accused.’ ”

“Then Mrs. Parmalee looks real evil and says, ‘He wouldn’t move in down in Balt’mo’ City, I bet y’.’ ”

“ ‘He will here though,’ Miss Cramp says. ‘And if he does, I declare I’ll move out. I couldn’t bear the shame.’

“ ‘Thought you so anxious t’ uplift ’em?’ Irene says, and I nearly split.

“ ‘Well,’ answers Agatha, ‘it’s one thing to help them and quite another to live beside them as equals. And to have everyone in the street blaming me⁠—I simply couldn’t bear it.’

“ ‘Mean to move?’

“ ‘What else⁠—?’

“ ‘Move all these hyeh beautiful old things you’ve accumulated and yo’ daddy befo’ yuh? Leave this house he left yuh, where you’ve lived all yo’ life? Mean to jes’ get up and walk out and do nothin’ else at all?’

“ ‘But that’s why I’m telling you, Irene. What else can I do?’

“ ‘Ah’ll tell yuh what else you can do. You can⁠—’ Then she stops a minute and says in a lower voice, ‘That maid o’ yours likely to be eavesdroppin’⁠—?’

“So of course then I had to catch air. Certainly wish I knew what she told her to do.”

The oppression of Mrs. Fuller’s compulsory silence together with the emotions excited by what she had heard by this time had her in the throes of dyspnea. She panted and gasped while Linda paused to look on with curiosity and some alarm. The girl’s apprehension cost her the floor.

“Know what you ought to do?” Mrs. Fuller managed to get in; to which there was but one thing to say:

“What?”

“You ought to refuse to stay in that woman’s house another minute. You ought to up and leave.”

“And go where?”

“Ain’t you got⁠—” Mrs. Fuller stopped short, struck with a notion. The notion flowered into an idea. She grinned a half-moon grin, scalloped with tiny lesser half-moons, drew breath prodigiously, and delivered herself:

“Chile, I’m go’n’ need a maid right hyeh. I done told Mr. Merrit already, and he say soon’s he come in town it’d be all right. Y’see we been livin’ in a ’partment all along and ’twasn’t but six rooms and I could take care of everything with a little day help, but now with all this house it’s go’n’ be too much for one pair of hands to tend too much fo’ me and I don’ feel none too good nohow so Mr. Merrit say it’ll be fine and to get a good girl and make sho’ she ain’t too ugly ’cause he didn’ want his stomach turned, and bless my soul if I ain’t forgot all about it till this very minute. Now if you ain’ got no objection to workin’ fo’ y’own people, he’s a fine man to work fo’ and’ll never give you no trouble⁠—least, not about yo’ work. ’Cose you kinda pretty fo’ a maid, but I reckon you can take good care o’ yo’se’f, and anyhow he’s a gen’leman. So hyeh’s a job ready and waitin’ fo’ you if you want it.”

“How much?” said Linda. “I’m getting eighteen⁠—that’s pretty good, you know.”

“Shuh, chile, he’d give you twenty⁠—jes’ to be givin’ you mo’n you been gettin’. He pays me twenty-five⁠—and says it’s a heap cheaper’n marryin’, but I jes’ tells ’im he needn’ hint at me like that ’cause they’s some things he couldn’ pay me to do⁠—”

“Twenty dollars!”

“Sho, chile. All I got to do is tell ’im⁠—”

Linda jumped up. “You mean it?”

“Mean ev’ry word of it and you’d have lots mo’ time to yo’se’f, too.”

“Honest? Do you think⁠—” An old ambition raised its head⁠—“Do you think maybe I could go to night school sometimes and learn to run a typewriter?”

This time Mrs. Fuller stopped breathing altogether. “Do which?”

“I don’t want to be a K.M. all my life.”

“Aimin’ to better yo’se’f, huh?”

Linda was afraid she had made the wrong move here, but it was too late to change. She nodded with exaggerated vigor.

“Glory be!” was Mrs. Fuller’s surprising comment. “Glad to see it, chile, glad to see it. Does me good to see one our young girls what wants to better herse’f. Our girls ain’t got no ambition, no ambition ’tall, ’ceptin’ to go on the stage or dance in a cabaret or some such thing as that.”

There followed a lengthy dissertation on the laziness of “our” girls, to which Linda listened, eagerly impatient. Finally Mrs. Fuller perorated with:

“Deed, chile, that’s fine and I’m glad to see it and I’ll help you all I can⁠—you can get off mos’ every night⁠—and I bet Mr. Fred’ll give you all the encouragement in the world⁠—and maybe one them typewritin’ things to boot. Well, want to try it? You can start soon’s he get back. How ’bout it?”

“How ’bout it?” Linda exulted. “How ’bout it?⁠—Oh boy!”