Claim

I got too much to do: Ironing. Marketing. Supper prepared. Get my Frannie Mae down for a nap by noon, else she’ll fuss all evening and Mrs. Watterson’ll throw a fit–– can’t you do something, Vera––like she the baby. But today, before I can even get the iron hot, Mrs. Watterson jump up from her breakfast and say she got to run errands, important ones, and need me to go with her. 

Usually, Mrs. Watterson spend the morning sulking over her little cut of grapefruit, asking questions she don’t really want the answer to: Must Frank go into work so early? Can’t they eat together like decent people? Surely, his job isn’t going anywhere; people still need light, don’t they? But today she practically run out the door, a newspaper tucked up under her arm. When I ask ’bout the baby, she say, “Well, bring her!” and make that same look Frannie Mae give me when she go potty all by herself and don’t say nothing ’til I try to change her and see that she dry. A proud little smile.

So we all pile in the baby blue V8 Mr. Watterson bought special for her after he got that promotion over at Georgia Power, and we head out. I can feel Mrs. Watterson’s eyes on me, sneaking looks when she need to be watching the road. I’d tell her so, but I can’t stop thinking ’bout Jemma and the fight we had last night. ’Bout that damn typewriter and what she said to me this morning. My palm still itch from where I slapped her, like I got a splinter there, buried deep. But every time I look down it’s just flesh. Palm lines mixed with cuts and burns long-healed over.

Frannie Mae sitting in my lap. She see me messing with my hand and bring my palm to her little mouth, kissing it just like I do for her when she hurt. Just like I did for Jemma when she was small. When I could. And when I couldn’t, Jemma would kiss her hurts herself. I’ll never forget the day Wes told me that. He thought it was funny––I guess I ain’t got to worry ’bout no boys. Our Jemma-girl love herself plenty ––but I knew what she was doing. Right away, I knew. I went out behind the outhouse and cried. Cried ’cause I was grateful. Cried ’cause I was shamed.

We driving into the city––heading for Midtown, by the look of it. You’d think everybody got money to spend instead of sweating in breadlines. Mile after mile, billboards full of white folks smiling at a pack of Chesterfields or a slick bottle of Coke. They even got a colored maid grinning, her cheeks and nose shinier than her teeth. She holding a feather duster in one hand and a telephone in the other, telling whoever on the other end––They’s mostly out since they got that new Ford V8–– like it’s the funniest thing in the world. 

Mrs. Watterson don’t take her V8 out much, even though Mr. Watterson spent all spring teaching her how to drive it. After she got a flat visiting her sister up in Buford, the car mostly sit in the driveway. On occasion, Mr. Watterson threaten to sell it, and Mrs. Watterson throw a fit––Frank, just imagine what the neighbors will say––so the V8 stay right where it is. And I thank God, ’cause every morning that I get to work and see that car, its blue metal cupping the sunlight like water, is another day the Watterson’s doing just fine. Still have enough money to care what neighbors say. Still have enough money for hired help, which means my family still eats. Even with Wes struggling to find a job after getting laid off from the peanut plant. Even with Jemma and all her foolishness.

Mrs. Watterson practically bouncing in her seat now. I can still feel her looking at me out of the corner of her eye. I keep my mouth shut. Finally she say, “We’re going to visit a friend of mine, Margaret Mitchell. All the girls just call her Peggy. She was a year ahead of me at Smith.”

“Yes ma’am.” I nod. What else there to say? That I need to get Frannie Mae down soon or she’ll start fussing? That we not gonna get back ’til afternoon, and I still need to clean and cook the halibut she insisted on having––which means I won’t be home ’til after dark, and Wes’ll have to eat whatever little sorry meal Jemma put together before she shut herself up in her room with that typewriter.

“Peggy’s an author,” Mrs. Watterson say. “She just wrote a very popular book called Gone With the Wind. Have you read it?”

“No ma’am.”

“Oh, you must read it, Vera. Promise me you will. You can borrow my copy if you like.”

“Thank you ma’am.” 

“But promise me you’ll read it!” 

“As sure as a whip-poor will sing in the morning.” Mrs. Watterson love when I say stupid mess like that. And sure enough, she give me that proud little smile again, like she letting me in on some big secret. “I just know you’ll love it. And they’re turning it into a picture!”

’Course I know the book she talking ’bout. It sit on the coffee table in the living room. Every day, I got to move it to dust. Heavy thing. Yellow, like a thick block of butter. Sometime, Frannie Mae use it as a step stool to climb on the sofa. She tolerate me reading to her now and then, but she much prefer to hear my stories. Jemma loved ’em too, when she was small. At night, she’d curl up in bed next to me. With my eyes already closed, I’d tell ’bout Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox. Usually I’d start but be too tired to finish. Jemma never minded; she’d pick up right where I left off, explaining how Br’er Rabbit taught her to speak crow, or gave her some special shears that could cut the stitch holding land and sky together. Her sharp little toes would dig into my back, and I knew I’d always be able to call her mine just by feel. But then I’d hear her swear up and down that the sun tasted like the fatty side of a porkchop––she knew ’cause she’d plucked it right out the sky to take a bite––and I’d think who child is this?

We pull up to what look like an apartment building on the corner of Seventeenth and West Peachtree street. Cream-colored, with a bunch of windows. I put Frannie Mae on my hip and Mrs. Watterson take off ahead of us, that newspaper still pinned under her arm. As we head into the building, two women coming out. I ain’t never seen the blonde ’til now, but the brunette I recognize right away. Mrs. Watterson seem to know ’em both; she flap her hands and make a little squeak.“I see you’ve come by to congratulate our Peg?”

“Why Regina? Hello dear. I had no clue you knew Margaret,” the blonde one say.

“Oh yes, Peggy and I go back ages. She was a year ahead of me at Smith.” 

“Well isn’t that something.” The blonde tilt her head like a kitten. “Hopefully we’ll see you here next week for Bid Whist then? We’ve missed you at the last couple of games.”

Mrs. Watterson laugh real loud. “I know, it’s just so hard to get away. You’ll see once you’ve got a little one of your own at home. But I just about ran over here when I heard the news.” Mrs. Watterson drop her voice to a whisper. “Who do you think they’ll get to play Scarlett?” 

“I hope it’s Norma Shearer. I saw her in Romeo and Juliet last year, and she was just divine.”

The blonde one doing all the talking. The brunette, Virginia Lowe, is looking mighty hard at some lint on her dress collar. Her face finally let go of all the baby fat, but I know it’s her. My Ginny. The Lowes was one of the first families I ever worked for, stayed on there ’til I had Jemma. Ginny was ’bout three or four then. She’d press her ear against my belly and say it sounded heavy, like thunder. My labor with Jemma was hard––caused me to miss three whole days of work. By then, The Lowes already found themselves a new girl. Sent me my final wages in the mail, minus the cost of the stamp.

I know how this gonna go, but I still give Ginny a little smile. “Good Morning, Miss Lowe.”

She smile back––they always do–– but her eyes keep soft. “It’s actually Mrs. Peter Durst now.”

She stretch out her hand to show me the ring. Her nails chewed down right to the quick. I used to coat ’em in iodine to keep ’em out her mouth.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Durst. I’m sure you were a beautiful bride.”

“Vera used to work for us when I was a girl,” Ginny say to Mrs. Watterson and the blonde. Then her eyes light up. “Perhaps I’ll have to steal you away, Vera. Once Peter and I have a little one of our own.” She put a hand on her stomach, gently, like it’s already full.

“Oh, I just couldn’t!” Mrs. Watterson cry out. She say the same thing everytime Mr. Watterson mention it, quiet enough where he think I don’t hear, that a younger, greener girl would be cheaper. And every time, Mrs. Watterson tell him she don’t have the patience to train someone new. But to Ginny she say, “Not for all the world. Francis loves Vera. She won’t go anywhere without her.”

Frannie Mae choose right then to let out a little cry, and I bounce her on my hip to quiet her down. She pop that thumb in her mouth, and even though I been fussing at her to stop, this time I leave her be. Mrs. Watterson smile big like she on one of those billboards.

The blonde one fan herself with her hand, real slow. She cut a look at the newspaper Ms. Watterson cradling. “So strange. Seems like just about everyone has their domestic in tow today.” 

The stairwell trap all the July heat. As we climb to the third floor, I try to stay fixed on the pain in my knees and the sweat tickling my back. The sound of Mrs. Watterson’s heels bounce off the walls, and Frannie Mae’s still sucking on her thumb. She rub my back with her other hand, like I’m the baby and she trying to comfort me. But none of that help. I still see Ginny––Mrs. Durst––and those soft eyes that slid right off me. I see Jemma looking at me the same way after I slapped her. It’s a heavy thing to hold, the baby you raise and the woman she harden herself into. I take the feel of Frannie Mae’s hand, the steady pat-pat-pat, and let it sink down in my body. Store it where my babies are soft, still mine: Ginny’s sticky cheek pressing against my belly. Jemma’s feet kicking me in the dark.

When we get to apartment number nine, Mrs. Watterson knocks, and a colored girl crack open the door.

“I’m here to see Peggy. Regina Waterson? I called ahead.” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. She real tired. She not taking any more visitors.”

“It will only be a moment. I just want to pass along my congratulations.” Mrs. Watterson smiling, but I can tell she losing her patience.

“I’ll be sure to tell her ma’am. But she really isn’t up to any more visitors.”

“But we came all this way!” 

Her carrying on has got Frannie Mae started up again. Then from somewhere over the girls shoulder, a voice. “It’s alright, Bessie.” Bessie step aside and open the door all the way. Mrs Watterson walk on through with a sniff.

The front room is bright and hot, on account of all the windows. They got one of ’em cracked open to get some air in, but it’s not doing much. The dark mahogany furniture gleaming in the light, like sweat. There’s a Victrola and a coffee table with a silver tray. A small writing desk with a typewriter and two of those thick yellow books stacked on top each other. On one side of the coffee table, there’s a little green loveseat. On the other, a blue sofa and a sitting woman with a wide forehead and light brown hair. Her eyebrows thin, and her top lip go even thinner when she see me trailing behind Mrs. Watterson with Frannie Mae whimpering on my hip.

A writer. That’s what Jemma say she want to do. Why we fight. She signed up for some government program––wasted the money she earned from washing and ironing on a damn typewriter and spends all day talking to the older folk who used to be slaves. She swear that if she write down what they say, the government’ll send her a check. I tried to make her see sense, that there truly ain’t nothing new under the sun. Told her in that case, Uncle Sam owe me a mighty large sum for all the time I spent as a girl helping my daddy file for his veteran’s pension. No matter how many times I wrote to some white man far, far away ’bout the bullet that buried itself in my daddy’s hip, keeping him from sleep and steady work, that pension never came. Not even when daddy wrote and signed the claim hisself–– Dar sar, i. Have. A. clame. ther. And. Ef. you. plese. give. me. my. pensions. for. I. desere. it. for. I. am. gating. Old. I. Cant. make. a. laving. for. my. self. and famey. Henry. Johnson. Co. C. 12 Regt. May. the. lord. Bles. you. 

I just thank God that in between my daddy telling me what some government official ought to know, my momma told me what I needed to know before she passed: Lye works best in cold water. A plain rag’ll polish silver better than fine cloth, just don’t let the Missus see you use it. Never be alone in the same room with the Mister if you can help it. If you can’t and something happens, don’t you dare come back the next day. There will always be another family looking for  a girl to cook and clean for ’em. Another Missus with a baby to care for. 

But Jemma ain’t interested in learning none of that. Last night, I warned her again that writing ain’t no real type of work. That’s when she got fresh with me, said that I’d spent forty years worrying over other folks’ babies and wasn’t no need to start fussing at her now. And I slapped her. She ain’t say nothing, after that. Just holed up in her room all night, a mean streak of light shining through the bottom of the door and that typewriter rattling on like a fever.

“Regina, so lovely to see you.” The woman on the sofa smile and hold out a hand. She look like she wilting in the heat. “You’ll have to forgive me for my poor manners. This old ankle of mine has been giving me some trouble. Bessie, some refreshments for our guest.” 

On her way out, Bessie offer to take Frannie Mae and lay her in a back room. I shake my head, even though my back starting to ache. I know if I put her down now, she’ll start up again. Mrs. Watterson grab the woman’s hand and don’t let go as she sit down. They so close, their knees almost touching. “Peggy, you poor thing. You must have folks coming through all hours of the day.”

“Yes, I’m sure that my neighbors are colluding to put John and I out on the street, the way folks keep marching up and down those stairs. Our previous apartment was a dump, but it at least had a proper porch to receive guests.”

“Oh I hope you don’t mind,” Mrs. Watterson say. “I did try to call ahead.”

“I should be flattered, really.” Peggy smile, and it look like a bright red string stretched ’cross her face. “I didn’t even have this many calling cards when I made my debut.”

For a moment, I can see the young version of her, and that she was beautiful once. Then it passes, and she look wilted again. “They don’t tell you that publishing the book is the easy part. The hard work comes after.” Then she laugh. “Would you believe me if I said I miss the days when it was just me and my little typewriter?”

“Is it true? A million copies.” Mrs. Watterson whisper the word million. 

“More or less,” Peggy say and nod toward the typewriter and stack of books next to where I’m standing. “While I was writing the damn thing, I’d tell anyone who’d listen that I finally understood how Sisyphus felt, nothing but eternity and his boulder. Pushing up and up the hill. But now,” she laugh again and it more like a cough, “I fear the boulder has taken its leave of me. All I can do is sprint to catch up while simultaneously trying to stay out of its way.” 

Her typewriter look like the one Jemma got, black with silver keys. It could use a good dusting. When I went to Jemma’s room this morning, it was empty. She keep her typewriter on a small table next to her bed. I expected the paper to be pitch black, heavy with everything Jemma wanted to say after I’d hit her. Instead there was just a few words  at the top, like they’d just flitted down and perched there––All I can ricollect ’bout de surrender was Old Marster tellin’ us dat we as free as jack-rabbits now and from den on we had to git our own somepin t’eat. It warn’t long atter dat when dem yankees, wid pretty blue clothes on, come through our place and dey stole most evvything we had. I wuz standin’ ’side de house when de yankees come out in de yard wid all de stuff dey wuz totin’ off. ’Bout dat time I see de bee gums [hives] in de side yard. Little as I wuz I had er notion. I run an’ got me er long stick an’ tu’ned over every one of dem gums [hives]. Den I stirred dem bees up wid dat stick ’twell dey wuz so mad I could smell dem pizen. An’ bees! You an ain’t never seed de like of bees. Dey wuz swarmin’ all over de place. Dey sailed into dem yankees like bullets, each one madder den de other. 

Jemma’s voice called out from behind me, “Her name’s Luvie.” 

She was hovering outside the doorway like a haint. Looked ’bout as embarrassed as I felt. 

“Not sure of her exact age, but she think she’s eighty-nine. She can’t see too good either, but still sharp as a tack. She can tell exactly where I am in the room just by the sound of my pencil. And my god mama, she has so many stories. We talked for hours yesterday and only stopped ’cause the mosquitoes were eating us up.”

She was nervous, and sorry from our fight––I could tell by the way she kept scratching the back of her leg with her foot. But there was something else familiar there. I stayed quiet, working my mind over trying to place it. Then I saw it: Lit up. Jemma was lit up, showing me her writing. I’d heard it, all those years ago, my Jemma-girl shining in the dark as she spun her little tales. But I couldn’t see it, not like I could now.

Jemma smiled and said, “You know, Luvie reminds me a lot of you.” 

Now it felt like I’d been the one slapped. That was how Jemma saw me? No different than this woman, this Luvie, wrung out from years of slaving for white folks? Nothing to show for it but some silly stories? Hadn’t she said as much last night. I told Jemma I had to get to work and pushed out of her room before I could see the answer on her face.

Right then, my Frannie Mae decide she done had enough of the heat and Peggy’s bright room.

She let loose a big wail, her belly hard with air. I try to shush her, but she not having it. 

“Francis Marie Watterson, that is enough.” Mrs. Watterson say, but she sound giddy. “I tell you, she is just the handful.” 

Peggy nod to the little green loveseat and rub her temple. “You can put her there.” I lay Frannie Mae down, her face wet with sweat and tears, and she quiet right away. Without her on my hip, I feel naked. 

“Vera is so good with her. Francis won’t go anywhere without her.” Mrs. Watterson say it exactly the way she did outside.

“Well that’s wonderful,” Peggy say. “Good help is hard to find these days.” 

She put out. Mrs. Watterson pretending she don’t see it, but I do. What I can’t tell is who Peggy put out with: the baby, Mrs. Watterson, or me.

“Yes! Good help is hard to find,” Mrs. Watterson give Peggy’s hand a little squeeze. “Minnie, the woman who looked after me, was just a saint. A dying breed of a bygone era, I fear. Too many of the women these days lack that touch, but not Vera. She reminds me of my Minnie.”

Peggy don’t say nothing. She just start rubbing her ankle like it bothering her something fierce. 

Mrs. Watterson unfold the newspaper she brought with her carefully and spread it ’cross her lap.

“I saw in the paper this morning that Eleanor Roosevelt’s maid was here? That she’s auditioning for the role of Mammy?”

“Well, I like her for the part. But I do wish they hadn’t ran that story.” Peggy wave her hand like she trying to clear something away. “It’s got everyone from here to LaGrange thinking that I have even an ounce of say-so when it comes to casting.”

“Vera could do it.” Mrs. Watterson say it so fast, I almost don’t hear it. But Peggy do. She bring those thin brows together. “Oh, that’s not–– Regina honey, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s out of my hands.”

“Peggy, I mean it. Vera is a dead ringer for Mammy.”

“No.” I say it before I can think. I try again. “That’s mighty kind, Mrs. Watterson. Truly. But I ain’t no actress.” I keep my voice low and calm, but Mrs. Watterson really going now. 

“Oh Vera, you’re being too modest.” Then she up and off the couch, grabbing one of the books from the writing desk like it’ll hop away before she can catch it. “Just read a section.”

Again Peggy say, “It really is out of my hands,” and rubs that little ankle while Mrs. Watterson flip through the pages. “Just read this section, Vera––You ain’t got no more manners than a field hand. That part.” She push the book into my hands, and it feel like stone. “You’ll see, Peggy. A dead ringer.” 

I want to tell Mrs. Watterson that it sound like she should be Mammy, but I hold my tongue. I look at the page and try to fix my face. Mrs. Watterson take my quiet for nerves and grab the other book. “Here, I’ll read Scarlett’s part–– ‘Oh, I was so tired of hearing them talk about the war that I couldn’t have endured it through supper, especially with Pa joining in and shouting about Mr. Lincoln.’”

Her face as sweet and open as I ever seen it. I look at the lines Mrs. Watterson want me to read.

You ain’ got no mo’ manners dan a fe’el han’,  an’ after Miss Ellen an’ me done labored wid you.

I think of how easy work can disappear. I think of how quick bellies empty and how slow they are to fill. 

An’ hyah you is widout yo’ shawl!  An’ de night air fixin’ ter set in! Ah done tole you an’ tole you.

I try to press the words down, make ’em easy to hold in my mouth––no different than Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Right away, ma’am––but they won’t go.

You, Rosa! Drap me Miss Scarlett’s shawl. Wuthless nigger!  She ain’ never whar she does nobody no good. Now, Ah got ter climb up an’ git it mahseff.

I think of my daddy’s fingers, bent with rheumatism but still trying to hold the pencil just how I showed him. i. Have. A. Clame. 

I see Jemma’s face, shining, and her smile. A proud little smile. She was proud of herself and her writing. Proud of the light it grew from folks like Luvie––and me. That’s what Jemma was trying to tell me: She was proud of me.

When I look up, Peggy is rubbing that ankle, staring at it like she ain’t never seen it before. Bessie back with a glass of water sweating on the tray. She keep her eyes down, like she know what coming next and don’t want no part of it. Only Mrs. Watterson looking at me, nodding like her head attached to her neck by a single thread. The room quiet ’cept for the soft click click click of Frannie Mae sucking on her thumb. She sprawled out on the green loveseat, her little arms and legs flung wild.

I breathe, strong and deep through my nose. “Mrs. Watterson, I can’t–– I can’t read.”  

“Well, sure you can.” Mrs. Watterson’s face pinch up a little. “Just in the car, you––sure you can,” she say again. 

I can see her mind working, trying find the memory. Proof. But it’s all mixed up. Minnie, Mammy, and me. She can’t tell where one start and the other one stop. “No ma’am.” I say it like I’m sorry. “I can make out a couple of letters, but that’s ’bout it.”  

“Well, that’s quite all right,” Peggy look so relieved, she could fall over. “Besides, I really can’t say who it’ll be.” It might be the closest I ever get to an apology from a white woman. “I’d be happy to sign that copy for you, Vera. How’s that?” Peggy hold out her hand for the book like her little wrist can stand the weight. As if the book weigh nothing at all.

I stand at the top of the stairwell, Frannie Mae asleep on one hip, the book on the other. Soon as Bessie closed the front door, saying that Mrs. Mitchell awful sorry to cut our visit short but she need to rest, Mrs. Watterson lit down those stairs like someone chasing her. I wait ’til the sound of her heels disappear completely before putting the book on the floor. I want to give it a good kick, watch it go spinning down those stairs and bust to pieces at the bottom. Instead I crouch down, careful to not wake Franny Mae, open the book, and tear out the pages Mrs. Watterson asked me to read. I slide ’em in my pocket and put the book back on my hip. Then I walk down real slow with my nose buried deep in Frannie Mae’s hair. I take all the time I need to remember how it smell.

By the time we get outside, Mrs. Watterson leaning against the car smoking a cigarette. Her eyes wet, and the tip of her nose red. “You lied!” She point the cigarette butt at me. “You should have told me! Why didn’t you admit you couldn’t read before I made a complete fool of myself like that?”

I know what I need to say and how to say it, to keep my job.

Instead, I open the car door and wait to get in. “It’s been a long day, Mrs. Watterson. We should be gettin’ on home.”

Mrs. Watterson sniffle. “Fine.” She flick her cigarette into the grass and nod at the book tucked up under my arm. “You can leave that with me. It will be worth a lot of money someday. Not like it’s of use to you anyway.”

Maybe not. But I didn’t rip out those pages for me. I want to show ’em to Jemma. I need to make sure she know what she up against. I need to make sure she understand, more often than not, ain’t nobody out there looking for stories like hers or Luvie’s or my daddy’s. But there’ll always be another family looking for a girl to cook and clean for ’em. Another Missus with a baby who think she doing you a favor by letting you take care of ’em both. Another belly at home that needs filling, so you start to believe it. If Jemma serious about this writing business, she need to be prepared to ride it far as she can, past what white folk can see. Maybe even past where I can see. I’ll watch her go all the same.

Author’s Note

Several sections of dialogue within this story are sourced from primary and secondary texts, including Hattie McDaniel: Black Ambition, White Hollywood by author and historian Jill Watts; the Slave Narrative Project (from the Library of Congress’ online archive); and Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell.