Page 54 of The Reformatory

“Go make yourself useful and trim the chicken,” Miss Anne said, taking the receiver.

The phrase tumbled in Gloria’s head—Trim the chicken—and she got madder with each repetition. In the kitchen, she thought the three words every time she chopped through the gristle. Her baby brother, Mama and Papa’s youngest child, was locked up and hurt, and Miss Anne’s answer was to trim—CHOP—the—CHOP—chicken? Only anger kept Gloria from crying, but her anger felt like a mountain too big to fit inside her. If Miss Anne knew how mad she was, she’d never have sent her to the kitchen to pick up a knife.

Miz Lottie had warned her. Mama had warned her. Miss Anne might be related to them from slavery days, but the Powells should never be mistaken for family. Gloria remembered every story she’d heard of salaries shorted, holiday requests denied, and unreasonable demands imposed when they were fresh from a sickbed or the undertaker’s. The Powells would promise the moon to help ease a bad time, but their promises fell short, especially since Councilman Powell had passed. Miz Lottie said he was the only one who never failed to keep his word, or who almost didn’t see them as Negroes first. He had been voted off his seat when he signed a petition against lynching that got printed in the Gracetown Herald. Miss Anne had once told Gloria he probably died distracted on the road because he worried too much about what people said about him, but Papa had said the Klan probably got to him.

Of course Miss Anne would not want any extra risks or responsibilities, and she would take her sweet time when she did. Gloria felt foolish for expecting anything from her. But what could she do next? Leave another message for Loehmann to ignore? In her overtired state, she couldn’t think of a single idea, and as the hours passed, her anger simplified to grief again. Her skin was hot to the touch; she’d worked herself into a fever.

Gloria was about to fix a supper plate for Ma Ma when Miss Anne came to her, pocketbook in hand, wearing dungarees and a sleeveless blouse instead of her usual home sundress. Fred and Nell were eating boisterously in the dining room, and Gloria could tell from Miss Anne’s rushed walk that she had come down the back stairs to avoid being seen.

“Come on,” Miss Anne said. “Nell said she’ll feed Ma Ma. I’ll drive you home.” A day’s waiting for an offer to drive her home?

“No, thank you,” Gloria said. “I’m going to Miz Lottie’s.” She couldn’t spend another night worried and alone in her bed a stone’s throw from McCormack Road. Miz Lottie would have ideas for what to do next.

“Fine,” Miss Anne said, cheeks red. “I haven’t seen Auntie Lottie since Easter.” And she breezed out of the door toward the carport as if she had an invitation.

Gloria decided she would quit. No amount of money was worth the aggravation, even if no one else would hire her. She would move back in with Miz Lottie and start going back to school like Miz Lottie said she should. What good was saving a few extra dollars when she didn’t even have Robbie to care for?

Miss Anne was already in the driver’s side of her blue Buick Coupe when Gloria walked to her window. Boss lady or not, she was about to hear the truth. “Miss Anne—”

“Channing’s ready to see you,” Miss Anne said, whispering although no one was nearby to hear them except the mockingbirds on the telephone pole. “She’s already talked to Mr. Loehmann. She’s out waiting for us at the fishing hole at Misery Swamp.”

Until the days right before Papa left, when he considered Gracetown’s roads too dangerous for Gloria even in daylight, Papa used to say, “Come ride with me, jelly bean.” Negroes they passed all through Lower Spruce waved at his old black Plymouth, and so did the Negro pickers up and down McCormack Road, on the farm-to-market roads between Gracetown and Marianna, through the peanut farms near the county line and the Reformatory and mill, and all the way down to the fisher folk in Misery Swamp, if the road wasn’t too muddy for driving. Even on paved roads, Papa drove at a parade pace, never speeding. Except for his last night in Gracetown, he had rarely seemed in a hurry, bringing smiles with a wave of his hand.

Instead of talking about whatever business he was driving to—and Papa’s drives always led to a quiet huddle or loud meeting—he pointed out things he wanted her to notice. See this tree? When I was a boy, this was a hanging tree. We had to walk past it to go to school even if a man was still swinging. See this street? Used to be a cow pasture. These houses were all built by Elmore Bryant one at a time so folks could move out of the McCormacks’ shacks like that Jimmy Stewart picture It’s a Wonderful Life. See this bench? This is where your mama was sitting eating ice cream the day I realized I’d better marry her ’fore someone else did. It’s whites only, and she was sitting there in broad daylight like she didn’t know no better. A hardheaded woman was just the woman for me!

Every tree, thicket, and alleyway had meaning to Papa, and Gloria had tried to remember it all, a secret language of history between them. Gloria now understood that Papa hadn’t just been trying to teach her; he’d been giving her stories to remember him by. Papa’s leaving had only been shocking because Mama had gotten sick and died first. But they had known he would have to leave or be killed. One day.

So Papa’s voice filled Gloria’s head as Miss Anne navigated the road to Misery Swamp, which became less a road every eighth of a mile as it wound between the pines and crabgrass, more swamp than solid ground. The car drew closer to a makeshift dock and inlet ringed by mangroves. Two Negro men sat at the dock with rods and reels. One of them was Mister Paul, who was selling bait from rusty cans because he couldn’t work after he hurt his arm at the mill.

Farther out, standing in knee-deep water in fishing boots up to his thighs, a white man in a plaid shirt and pale fishing hat cast out a cane pole. He did not turn at the sound of the engine. Why was a white man here fishing with Negroes?

The car jolted as mud from the rutted road sloshed beneath the undercarriage. “You driving us in the water?” Gloria said, sounding sharper than she’d meant to.

Miss Anne didn’t answer, flustered and embarrassed.

“See if it’ll reverse,” Gloria said. “Papa always parked by that dead oak.”

The oak was ten yards behind them, its rotted trunk reaching high like gnarled gray fingers. Miss Anne surveyed the distance in her mirror. Mud tried to pull at the tires when she reversed, but she revved the gas until the car lurched. Mister Paul and his friend stared as she parked. Gloria peeked to see; the white man had turned and was watching them too. Dammit.

“Chan says I’ll get my car stuck out here one day.”

The only other car was an empty red Ford pickup nestled between the trees, probably the white man’s truck. No women in sight. “Did she leave?” Gloria asked.

“No, she’s right there.”

Miss Anne pointed toward the white man. He took off his hat to wave with it, and yellow hair tumbled out. A woman, then. Gloria had been fooled by her dungarees and man’s shirt. She was also tall for a woman, nearly six feet. Gloria hadn’t realized how much she’d tensed her body at the sight of the white man so close until her back relaxed against the car seat.

Gloria took off her loafers and bobby socks before she got out of the car, since she didn’t want to lose them. Every pebble and twig was a bother as she followed Miss Anne toward the dock. Mama had scolded her against walking barefoot, and Gloria had sworn by the lesson.

Twilight made the leaves and the water’s ripple golden orange.

“ ’Bout time y’all got here!” the woman called across the water. “Annie, have her bring me some worms. These bream out here are laughin’ at me.”

The nickname “Annie” sounded childish in a way she’d expect Miss Anne to hate. But Miss Anne was unbothered, already slipping Mister Paul fifty cents for a can. Mister Paul’s easy smile with Miss Anne through his salt-and-pepper beard made Gloria realize she had been fishing here before, although Gloria hadn’t known Miss Anne liked fishing. And whites in Gracetown fished the town harbor or the roadside canals, not the swamp, which had too many mosquitoes and gators. Miss Anne gave Gloria the can of wriggling, mud-slimed worms.

Mister Paul nodded to Gloria; an entire conversation unfolded in his unblinking eyes. Then he said, “How you doin’, Gloria Stephens,” in a way that was not a question but a comfort, an encouragement. Papa had huddled many times with Mister Paul on the dock at Misery Swamp to talk about his hurt arm and his “recourse,” Papa’s favorite word. Mister Paul’s granddaughter, Priscilla, was in Gloria’s class, probably learning geometry by now.

“All right, Mister Paul, thank you,” Gloria said, the worst lie she had ever told. Mister Paul’s eyes said he’d already heard about Robbie, but there was nothing he could say or do.