Page 59 of The Reformatory

Everyone on the street noticed their approach, wondering what had brought a white Powell to the colored side of town. Miss Annie’s father had been considering a run for the Florida Senate, and his car had appeared on Lower Spruce so Negroes would know they had a friend. Gloria wondered if Miss Anne had ever heard the rumor that William Powell had been run off the road by the Klan the night he died or if she should be the one to tell her.

Gloria noticed the watchers who seemed most interested: mean-tempered Mr. Grady, who was on a ladder clipping his magnolia tree by porchlight. And holier-than-thou Miz Etta Mae, who was staring at the car’s slow progress through her window while she dried dishes at her sink. Not all skin folk were kin folk, as the saying went. Gloria had seen it a hundred times. The growers wouldn’t have known about Papa’s meetings if someone hadn’t told. And probably someone couldn’t wait to go run and tell how they’d seen Gloria in the car with Miss Anne, never mind that Gloria worked for her.

“If you have to quit, promise me you’ll go to school,” Miss Anne said. “You should train to be a teacher, Gloria. That’s the best chance you have for yourself. I know that’s what your mama wanted for you. She couldn’t stop talking about how smart you are.”

Gloria’s eyes clouded. “I will,” she said. “But not ’til Robbie’s free.”

“If you ever change your mind about the cabins, let me know. And I’ll withdraw the money tomorrow, first thing. Daddy would have been proud to help.”

The car was at a stop sign, and the world felt frozen too. Having money meant she had a chance. Robbie would have a chance. She wanted to hug Miss Anne, but she was still too angry. A tear ran down her cheek, squeezed from the space between gratitude and rage.

“All right, now,” Miss Anne said quietly, her eyes darting up and down the street, noticing how so many people were watching. “Everything will be all right, hear?”

Gloria nodded, wanting to believe it. Even pretending to believe made her feel better.

But when Miss Anne turned the corner to Miz Lottie’s street, something already felt wrong. Miz Lottie’s front door at the end was wide-open, her clutter and stacks of newspapers and magazines visible to the street in the light from inside. Miz Lottie was too proud to leave her door open for strangers’ eyes. And Uncle June and Waymon were leaning against Miz Lottie’s truck as if they were waiting for her. They both straightened as the car approached, wary of the slow-moving headlights.

“Let me out here,” Gloria said a hundred feet shy of Miz Lottie’s.

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Gloria said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Lunchtime. For the money.”

She climbed out of the car and looked back once at Miss Anne’s sad-eyed face through the windshield, wishing she could trade places and be the one driving away. Please let Miz Lottie be all right. Please don’t let there be any bad news about Robbie. The what-ifs were a ball in Gloria’s stomach as she ran on the uneven, grass-choked sidewalk toward Miz Lottie’s yard.

Uncle June and Waymon jogged to meet her.

“Where you been? Mama’s worried,” Uncle June scolded.

“I’m sorry. I was with Miss Anne.”

“You wasn’t there,” Waymon said. “That mouthy cracker there said you left ages ago.”

Gloria had never known Waymon to go to Miss Anne’s house. The Powells lived on Juniper Street, where the mayor, the sheriff, and old-money families lived in the town’s Victorian Row. Negroes avoided Juniper and Main Street near dark or else be locked up for vagrancy, or a worse fate. It was best not to cross the railroad tracks at all after suppertime, much less to Juniper, where any Negro men were treated like robbers and rapists, even on the Powells’ more modest end. But Waymon had come back from the war without a scratch and stripped of his fear of white people. She imagined Waymon knocking on the Powells’ front door.

Gloria’s alarm returned. “We went for a drive. What’s wrong?”

June pressed his hand to Gloria’s shoulder and spoke directly into her ear. “Maybe he’s still on the phone. Your pops called from Chi—”

Gloria didn’t hear the rest. She was already flying up Miz Lottie’s front porch.

16

“I don’t have time to go into it,” Papa kept saying. “This call costs too much. But you never should’ve left and taken Robbie away from Lottie’s. Don’t you know that? I set you up that way for a reason. I don’t know what you were thinking, I just really don’t. What did you think would happen, up under the McCormacks’ thumb? And Lottie says you went back out to our house last night too? Girl, you’ve gone out your head. Never again, you hear? But I don’t have time for your foolishness. I don’t have time.”

Each word of Papa’s was a slashing blow, but I don’t have time cut the worst. He had not spoken to her in at least two weeks. He’d missed two Sunday calls to Miz Lottie, when she and Robbie had lingered late in case he might call. Chicago was two hours behind Florida, so Papa was always coming off work while Mister Randolph—the only one on Miz Lottie’s party line they did not trust because he cared too much what white folks thought of him—was leaving for his late-night shift at nine thirty.

Papa sighed hard into the phone receiver, a gale in her ear. “All righty now,” he said, calming himself. “All righty. Lottie says you aren’t hurt, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“And you’re not setting foot near our place again unless June’s with you?”

“No, sir.”

His anger poked out again. “I just expected more from you, Gloria. Now look where we are! But I don’t have time.” Hot tears rolled from Gloria’s eyes. She could be six years old again. “Anyway, pumpkin, I’m glad to hear your voice. We’ll get this thing fixed.” Tenderness only made Gloria’s tears flow harder. Papa was fighting for his life in Chicago and she’d brought this new grief for him to carry. “You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”