A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton - Michael R. Phillips [30]
“She’s over here,” she said. “We were riding on the road, but the horse stumbled down this bank. That’s when we fell.”
“Was the horse galloping?” asked Katie.
“Yes, we were riding real fast.”
“Why were you going so fast?”
“We were trying to get away.”
“Get away … from what?”
“From my daddy. He was drunk and my mama was afraid.”
“Why was he drunk?”
“He got drunk every night,” said the girl, pulling at Katie’s hand. “When he came back from the war, he was mean and angry. He yelled at my mama and hit her sometimes. That’s why we ran away.”
“Where were you going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere Mama said we’d be safe.”
They were down the embankment now. The minute Katie saw the woman lying beside the stream at the bottom of it, she knew she was dead. Her face was gray, and her neck was bent at an unnatural angle. From what Katie could tell, she must have hit her head on the rock beside her when she fell. There was no sign of the horse.
“Mama … Mama, please … get up,” the little girl cried, running to her.
Katie knelt down beside her and started to cry herself. “Oh, God … not again,” she whispered silently. “What should I do!”
“Please, ma’am,” said the girl, looking up into Katie’s face with the most forlorn look Katie had ever seen, “please do something to help her. Can’t you make my mama wake up!”
The girl bent down to touch her mother’s face. When the coldness of death met her touch, she pulled back with a start, seeming to realize something was terribly wrong. Katie took the girl in her arms and pulled her close. Now Katie was the older girl who had to comfort someone younger. They were both crying. As the girl wept in Katie’s arms, the instinct that comes to people at such times told the little girl that she would never see her mother again.
For several minutes they remained just weeping. Then slowly Katie stood, took the girl by the hand, and led her back up the hill to the road.
When they were out of sight of her mother’s body, Katie stopped. She stooped down to one knee, took both the girl’s hands in hers and looked into her eyes while she fought back her own tears.
“Aleta,” said Katie softly, “your mother can’t wake up.”
“Why?”
“Aleta … your mother is dead. We will have to let God take care of her now.”
Huge new tears welled up in the girl’s eyes.
Katie took her in her arms again and held her, both of them starting to cry all over again.
“Don’t worry, Aleta,” said Katie. “We’ll take care of you until we think what is the best thing to do. We’ll go back to my house and get you washed, and I’ll give you something to eat, and we will decide what to do.”
“But what about my mama?” wailed the despairing girl.
“We’ll bring a wagon back. I’ll take care of her, Aleta.”
HARSH WORDS
17
AS I WAS STILL STANDING IN THE PARLOR HOLDING the three gold coins in my hand that Emma had found in the basement, I suddenly realized I heard dogs barking outside. I stuffed the coins into the pocket of my dress and ran outside as Emma climbed out of the cellar with William. There was Katie in the distance walking toward the house. I was so happy to see her I didn’t even notice at first that she wasn’t alone. By then I had all but forgotten the coins.
I ran toward them, then all of a sudden saw the girl at Katie’s side, holding her hand. I was still overjoyed to see Katie, but I slowed down as I ran.
“Who’s that?” said Aleta as she saw me coming.
“That’s Mayme,” answered Katie. “She’s a girl who lives with me at my house.”
“But she’s colored,” said Aleta.
“Mayme’s my friend. I don’t even think about what color she is.”
Katie let go of Aleta’s hand and ran toward me. I started running again and we ran right up to each other, then slowed down, hugging and laughing as we met. I’m not sure we didn’t shed a few