The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [53]
I scooted the chicken fryers to the side, waved off a scattering of flies, and wiped my hands again. I sliced the cakes, making sure that the servings were the same size. I arranged each slice just so on the china dessert plates, knowing Mrs. DuPree would notice if I got it wrong. From the icebox I got out the wooden container of vanilla ice cream and scooped one dip for each slice of cake. Rose Douglas hurried in and out of the kitchen with the tray, doing her best to serve the desserts before the ice cream melted.
I wiped my neck and face with a dish towel, then flapped it at the flies crawling on the bloody chicken parts. What I would give to see Mrs. Wells-Barnett one more time.
I looked out the back window, wishing I was in the parlor sitting right next to her. Outside, Peaches Orwell from two doors down was walking her baby in the alley, carrying her on her hip, trying to get her to stop fussing. Peaches had a tight look on her face, and I didn’t blame her. Lily cried all the time. Ignoring her didn’t stop her, and giving her attention just gave her more reason to cry. Lily was a baby born to scream.
A train on the elevated tracks a few blocks over thundered past, rattling the kitchen walls and blocking out the baby’s cries.
Mrs. Wells-Barnett had sure cooked her goose. She wouldn’t be getting any more invitations from Mrs. DuPree, not if she didn’t see eye to eye with her over Booker T. Washington. Mrs. DuPree thought he was a living example of a self-made man what had overcome the shameful obstacle of being the son of common slaves. He was a college president, and for Mrs. DuPree that was almost as good as being a man of medicine. Then too, she approved of his views. She liked how he encouraged Negroes to be clean, go to school, and learn a trade like bricklaying or carpentry.
“You’d do well to remember that,” Mrs. DuPree had told the boarders more than once.
Baby Lily shrieked right in my ear. I jumped, nearly dropping a bread pan. It wasn’t Baby Lily, and I wasn’t in Chicago. It was my two-year-old Emma screaming, sitting next to the cookstove, her legs ramrod stiff out before her, her face balled up tight with pain.
I tried to reach for her but my big belly was in the way. I dropped to my knees, ignoring the pain that shot through me. I grabbed Emma’s arms to pull her to me. She jerked away and screamed louder, flapping her right hand high in the air. I caught her arm; her palm was slashed with red streaks. White blisters bubbled to the surface on her fingers.
The cast-iron cookstove. Emma had put her hand on it.
I got myself up. I dipped a rag in the water bucket and got back down on the floor. Emma arched her back, screaming, and kicked at me. I heard a funny yelp. Alise sat wide-eyed under the table, staring in horror. I pinned Emma to the floor, half lying on her. I wrapped the wet rag around her burned hand. She screamed louder, flinging the rag.
“Liz!” I hollered. “The blue compound.” I looked over my shoulder. Liz stood frozen by the table. Emma bucked and shrieked with pain.
“The blue compound,” I hollered again at Liz, jerking my head at the cupboard.
Liz’s hands fluttered but she couldn’t get her feet moving, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. The compound was on the top shelf. I got to my feet, Emma’s screams tearing at my nerves.
By now all three girls were crying. “Stop it,” I snapped at Liz and Alise. “Right now!” I got the compound and the soothing syrup. I got myself back down on the floor, held up Emma’s head, and between screams, poured syrup in her open mouth. She sputtered and spit.
She buckled then and fell back, her head thumping on the floor. Pinning her down, I grasped her wrist. I dabbed ointment on her blistering palm.
Emma screamed again; I got a little more syrup down her. Then, because it looked like Liz and Alise were working up to having another good cry, I gave them each a sip of the syrup. Waiting for the compound to deaden the pain, we sat on the floor, me rocking Emma while she cried,