Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [36]
“A whoopsie,” Mara said again, sounding out the word. “Yeah, your daddy’s right. That’s what I am.”
“But that’s nothing bad, you know.”
“It isn’t?”
“My mom says whoopsies must be destined for something special, because they come along even though nobody wants them. I mean, of course their parents want them after they’re born, but . . . you know what I mean.”
Mara nodded doubtfully. “I know I wasn’t supposed to be here, but I’m here anyway. I hope your mom’s right. I want to do something special.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I want to be a college professor for one thing, and on top of that I want to be a writer, a great writer,” she said. Her eyes took on a faraway look as she added quietly, “Like my daddy.”
“Like your daddy?” I asked.
She snapped back to the present and turned to me warily. “Promise you won’t – ”
“Roz!”
Mara and I turned as one in the direction of the voice. Tillie was lumbering down the sidewalk, pulling the empty wagon behind her.
I lifted a hand, none too eagerly. “Hi, Tillie.”
“Who’s that?” Mara asked.
“Tillie. She lives with us and helps my mom with the housework and stuff.”
“Like she’s your maid or something?”
“Kind of. But don’t tell her that. She thinks she owns our house.”
“What?”
Tillie drew up alongside the bench and stopped. “Your mom said you were here getting ice cream. I’m on my way to Jewel to pick up some groceries. Do you want to come along?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
She looked at Mara and back at me. Smiling, she asked, “Who’s your friend?”
“Mara Nightingale,” I said. “I know her from school.”
“Nightingale,” Tillie repeated. “Why, I know your folks. Willie and Hester, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mara nodded.
“Oh yes. Fine people, those two. We were on Mayor Hamilton’s race relations committee some years back. We managed to get the roads paved for the Negro folks over in Crestmont. Got streetlights put in too. Folks in Mills River, well . . . I like to think we’re ahead of our time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another nod.
“Though I predict the day’s going to come when we won’t see segregated neighborhoods the way we do now. Someday, whites and blacks will be neighbors, living side by side. Won’t that be something?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’ll be something.”
“Is your mother still doing alterations down at Goodwin’s?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s still there.”
Tillie gave a satisfied nod. “She’s one of the best seamstresses around. She did both my daughters-in-law’s wedding gowns, you know.”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t know.”
“You take after her? You like to sew?”
“No, ma’am. I’m no good with a needle.”
“She’s going to be a writer,” I broke in. “She writes poetry and stuff. And, Mara, you don’t have to say ma’am to Tillie. She’s just Tillie.”
Tillie didn’t hear what I said to Mara because she was leaning over me, studying my face as though it were something indecipherable. “Merciful heavens, Roz!” she cried at last. “Your cheeks are all flushed. You not feeling well?”
By now I felt too lousy to try to hide it. I shook my head at Tillie and shrugged.
She laid a hand on my forehead. “You’re burning with fever, child. I’ve got to get you home and into bed. Come on.” She waved toward the wagon. “Hop in and I’ll pull you.”
“That’s all right, Tillie,” I said. “I can walk.”
“Over my dead body. No child of mine is going to walk six blocks with a fever.”
“But, Tillie – ”
“In, young lady!”
I looked at Mara and made a face of feigned disgust. Secretly, I was glad to have Tillie pull me home.
“Soon as we get home, I’m calling Dr. Sawyer,” Tillie said as I picked myself up off the bench. “He took care of all my boys. I know I’m perfectly capable of nursing you back to health on my own, but let’s call the doctor this time around, just to be on the safe side.”
I settled in the wagon and, drawing my knees up to one cheekbone, made a pillow of my kneecaps.
“Hope I see you in school on Monday, Roz.”
I lifted a hand toward Mara. I felt myself sinking fast.
“You give my regards to your folks, all right, Mara?” Tillie said amiably.
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
“Say, is your