“Like what? ‘Mother, you’re a cold bitch, and always have been a cold bitch, but I need you and Dad to pay my rent and tuition’？”
“Lord Jesus!” Belle sat on the couch, hard. Where she came from, folks didn’t talk badly about their mothers or let anybody else do it, either. She couldn’t even imagine her baby calling her a name, once she learned to talk. Even an indirect insult would be insufferable. That’s how her brother Roscoe had got sent to the chain gang: he’d sliced a man’s throat open for calling him a goddamned bastard. The man had been insulting Miss Rose by association. He had been a stranger to the area; otherwise, he would have known to be careful with Roscoe Driskell. Everybody in Putnam County knew that boy had been crazy plus a full tank of gas.
“You don’t need to call your mama out her name,” Belle said. “Just tell her don’t hurt my feelings. I know she’s disappointed.”
“You mean, about the baby?”
“Yes, that. But the other thing.”
“What?”
She couldn’t believe she had married this thick-headed boy. Not only didn’t he have proper respect for his mama but he wasn’t that quick, either.
“Miss Claire’s disappointed because I’m dark-skinned, honey.”
“Oh, that. I don’t care what she thinks. I love your color, Maybelle Lee Driskell.” He kneeled in front of her, and she slapped at his shoulder.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“But I love that name. And I love the girl with it.” He put his hand in a certain place, but gently.
“Don’t you get nothing started.”
He stopped touching, but Belle told him, it was too late. She put her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. He better go ’head and finish. They’d see his mama another time.
When the weather broke, she toted the carriage down to the bottom of the stairs, then went back up for the baby. On the sidewalk, her stride was hurried. She didn’t want anyone to stop her, to look inside the stroller, see the small, white face and the green eyes that had changed from the blue of a newborn. She didn’t want anyone to think she was her own baby’s nanny. At the store, she called a greeting and Miss Martha rushed over, making glad sounds. She pulled the baby out of the stroller. What a big, fine young’un! Look at all them chins, and Belle told her, the baby was so light because of her husband.
“I done seen your man a bunch of times,” Miss Martha said. “I know what he look like.”
“You think she gone get her color soon? It’s been a while now.”
“Child, this is her color! See the tips of her ears? See ’round her nails? See how they ain’t no different from the rest of her? This baby ain’t getting much more darker.”
“Oh. Oh.” Belle wouldn’t cry. Not now.
Miss Martha moved the baby to her shoulder. “I been so worried ’bout you, child. You lucky you came when you did, ’cause I was gone ask your husband where y’all lived and come see ’bout you.”
“I’m sorry. Don’t be mad. I just been . . .” Belle wished she held the baby. She could have dropped her face into the sparse, brown hair and taken in deep breaths. That odor of purity made her feel better, if only for a few minutes.
“I might be old, but I done had four chirren. You ain’t got to lie to me.”
“Miss Martha, it seems like I lost something I can’t get back. And it’s been making me real sad.”
“Oh, child, ain’t nothing wrong with you. All womens be sad after they haves a baby. And you did lose something. You lost your freedom. You can’t never go nowhere without thinking ’bout your chirren. You tied to ’em for life. Even when they grown you gone worry ’bout ’em, ’cause this world is a mean old place.”
Holding the baby, Miss Martha walked to the door, shutting and locking it. She put up the CLOSED sign in the window, and told Belle she had some coffee upstairs, and some pound cake.
A Change Is Gonna Come
Saturdays were for sleeping in—if the baby let her—and for cleaning the small apartment and walking to the store. Not for shopping, but for visiting. Miss Martha brought down a rocking chair, so Belle could properly visit for a long time.
Sunday mornings were for feeling guilty that she wasn’t attending church and praising the Lord. Belle had been startled when her husband told her he didn’t attend church because he didn’t believe in God. She’d never met such a human being before, and it rallied her to try her mother-in-law’s church a few times. But the woman was Catholic and her parish mostly white. For Belle, church was not only for worship, but also for fellowship. She hadn’t felt comfortable sitting among those whom she knew wouldn’t welcome her into their homes. Then, too, later, there would be a bland dinner at her in-laws’， where she’d be dodging Claire Garfield’s viciousness. Church didn’t seem to sweeten that woman’s cup.