The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [79]
Mary squeezed my hands.
Now old Dan Tucker is come to town
Swinging the ladies round and round
First to the right and then to the left
Then to the girl that he loves best.
Together we sang and danced, laughing when Mary bumped into Isaac’s plow, bobbing our heads to show we were sorry when we stepped on each other’s feet. Mary’s glowing face gave me a special kind of pleasure, the kind of pleasure a person got from making someone else happy. Not that I wasn’t happy; I was. Dancing with my daughter was a moment of such pure lightheartedness that I knew I would never forget it. I’d press the memory of it in my heart. I’d use it to get me through the coming winter.
“I’ve got to stop,” I said a few dances later, propping up my belly with my arms. Breathing hard, I sat down on the milking stool.
Mary wasn’t ready to stop. Humming, she danced on—spinning, dipping, and sashaying around the barn, her arms out before her, her hands touching a partner only she could see. When she finally stopped, she curtsied and sank down to the hard-packed floor beside Jerseybell.
“Just three months till the Schoolhouse Christmas Dance,” Mary said, fanning herself with her hand.
My smile faded. We didn’t go to the Schoolhouse Christmas Dance. Isaac always wanted to, but it was me what said no. I didn’t like the thought of being the only Negro woman in a room crowded up with white people. That’d make me uneasy; I wouldn’t know what to say. Every year Mindy McKee begged us to come to the dance with them, saying how friendly folks were, how nice it was to see neighbors all dressed up and having a good time. But I always had a reason not to. I’d remind Mindy that I was in the family way and showing too much. If that weren’t so, I’d tell her that it was too cold to haul the younger children all those miles, and at night too.
It was different for Mary. She was used to white people.
We were still the only Negroes in this part of South Dakota. There were the Thompsons and the Phillipses, two other Negro families, but they were north of the Black Hills. It’d been months since Isaac had heard anything about them. Maybe they’d sold out like everybody else. But even if they hadn’t, they were a good ninety miles from us.
“Honey,” I said, “we don’t go to that dance.”
“But now that I know how to dance . . . ”
I didn’t say anything.
“Louise’s father’s going to let her dance with bigger boys this year, not just with other little kids like before.”
“She’s older than you.”
“Just by five months.”
I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “You got any boys you’d like to dance with?”
Mary pressed her lips as if embarrassed.
“Well?”
“Maybe.”
“Well?”
“Joe Larson isn’t so bad. When I won the spelling bee he said he wished he could spell as good as me.”
“He did?”
“He gave me a cookie one time. It was round like a ball and had white powdery sugar on it. He said it was a Swedish cookie, his mama made it. That’s where they’re from. Sweden. Miss Elliott showed us where on the map. Joe’s the first in his family born in America. He’s real proud of it. He speaks English for his parents.”
Lord, Lord. What would I do if a yellow-headed boy with blue eyes came up the road carrying a spring bouquet of orange wildflowers? What would Isaac do? Or this boy’s parents? Or the other ranchers?
Mary said, “Louise teases, saying how Joe Larson’s sweet on me, but I don’t think so. He talks to all the girls.” She ran her hand along Jerseybell’s shuddering side. “But I think Franklin’s real nice.”
An Indian. Merciful Jesus. Isaac would skin him alive.
I said, “These boys, you’re best off ignoring them.”
“Why?”
“Be polite, but don’t be friendly.”
“What?”
“Don’t share lunch with the Larson boy anymore. And Franklin’s an Indian, and you know what your daddy thinks about them.”
Mary’s mouth twisted.
“Honey,” I said, not knowing how to explain this thing and wishing that I didn’t have to. “People get along best if they stay with their own kind.”
“Their own kind?”
“That’s right. Negroes with Negroes and whites