The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [71]
I said, “My mother needs me.”
On his knees by Jerseybell, Isaac cocked his head and gave me a funny look. Then all at once a knowing look came into his eyes. “Sue’s letter,” he said.
“It’s not Mama. That’s who I thought it would be. But it’s not, it’s Johnny. Sue says he’s dead. Says somebody killed him.”
Isaac stared at me.
“I want to go home,” I told him. “My mother needs me.”
“Somebody killed Johnny?” Isaac said.
“Yes.” I got the letter and magnifying glass from my pocket and put them on top of the railing. I put my shawl back over my head. “I’ve got supper to get on,” I said and left the barn.
After the supper dishes were put away, I didn’t sit in the parlor with Isaac to listen to the rain. Instead, I went to bed. It wasn’t close to dark but Isaac thought it best; he thought I looked peaked. Mary got a spring quilt to keep me from getting a chill and helped me get into bed. I didn’t like that she had to take care of the little girls by herself, and I was sorry that Isaac was left to be the one to tell the children about Johnny. I didn’t know how he’d explain such a thing. I let him, though. I was worn out clear to my bones, sick with sorrow.
I rested on my side, listening to the rain tap on the tin roof. It was a peculiar thing being in bed before full dark. It was even more peculiar to be sad about Johnny while at the same time taking pleasure in being left alone with nobody wanting anything from me.
The house was quiet when Isaac came into the bedroom. “You awake?” he said.
“I’m awake.”
He set the lamp on the high dresser and sat down in my rocker. His shadow stretched to the side of him. It flickered on the wall as he rocked back and forth. Isaac said, “This is a bad thing about your brother. Race riots. God.”
I nodded.
“I told the children.” Isaac paused. “Told them Johnny had an accident. It’s better that way.”
“Yes,” I said. The other way would scare them.
“I know you want to see your mother. Times like this—” Isaac stopped. “But, Rachel, I can’t let you go. Not right now.”
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s not safe in Chicago. Whites going around killing people. Sue thinks you’re lucky to be here.”
I felt a quick chill of fear for my mother and for Sue and her family. Then I thought about the coming winter. I thought about running out of supplies. I thought about snowdrifts up to my shoulders. “It’s not safe here, either,” I said.
“Folks around here know us.”
I had to think for a moment what Isaac meant by that. I said, “Doesn’t mean everybody likes us. Mrs. Svenson doesn’t.”
“There’s only one of her here. In Chicago there’s hundreds.”
“But what happened to Johnny, that was St. Louis, not Chicago.”
“Chicago could be next. There’s thousands of Negroes there. All crammed into the Black Belt, living in hole-in-the-wall apartments, the air stinking from the slaughterhouses. If whites took after them—” He paused. “And what do those people have, living like that? What about their children? They don’t have anything.”
“Your mother has it good.”
“She has boardinghouses, Rachel. They aren’t the Palmer Hotel. They’re for slaughterhouse men.”
“One of them’s high class.”
“There’s no pride in it,” he said. “Not for my children. Not when it comes to standing up to white people.” Isaac got up from the rocker.
“My mother,” I said.
“It’s not safe.”
I didn’t say anything.
Isaac picked up the lamp and went to the doorway. He turned back. In a voice so low that I almost didn’t hear, he said, “When things are better. When I can send you in style,” and then he was gone.
At first, I didn’t understand him, and then