Out of Darkness (6 page)

Whatever came next was drowned out by the electric grinder. When the whirring stopped, Wash heard Mr. Turner again.

“...what I said? You're greasin' up my floor just standing there.”

There was a long silence, then Naomi, barely loud enough for him to hear: “I need to buy things, sir.”

“Listen, now.” It was Mrs. Turner. “The hours for your kind are posted at the back door.”

“I'll tell you plain, girl,” Mr. Turner barked. “Get out.”

Wash emptied the last of the potatoes into the bin. He folded the sacks and hurried up the ladder. When he came out the back door of the store, Naomi had already reached the edge of the woods. She was moving fast, almost running, and her long braid swept back and forth across the pale blue of her dress.

“Naomi?” he called. “Wait!” He opened his canvas pack and dropped in the dented cans Mrs. Turner had given him as payment, then called her name again.

She didn't slow, but he kept after her. When he caught up, he reached a hand out and put it on her shoulder. She whirled around.

“Oh,” he said. He realized his mistake as soon as he saw her up close. “Pardon, I...”

“What?” Her voice was sharp even with the tears in it. “Never seen a girl cry?”

“No—I mean, yes, sure. But you're—”

“A filthy Mexican? Yes, I was just told.” She worried the tail of her thick braid.

“No, it's not that....I didn't mean to be ... I thought ... well, I thought you were...” He gestured at his own skin. “You know, from Egypt Town.”

“I don't even know what that is.” She eyed him.

“It's where we stay. Colored folk, I mean.”

“We just moved into the Humble Oil camp.” She wiped her fingers under her eyes and glared at him. Splotches of red cropped up across her cheeks.

It was plain now that she wasn't black. Sure, her skin had the same caramel tone as the more yellow girls at his school, but her eyes were wider apart and deeper set. Her full mouth looked Spanish to him, although he couldn't say why. There was a small gap between her two front teeth.

“Dang it,” she said. “Here come the twins.”

“The twins?” Wash followed her gaze and saw two pale kids, about seven or eight, running up the path. Only when he looked from Naomi to the two little ones did he notice the similar shape of the eyes, a certain tilt of the upper lip.

“I win!” the boy shouted, plowing into her and hugging her around the waist.

The girl slowed to a walk as if she'd never intended to race to begin with. “What kind of candy did you buy?”

“I didn't buy anything.” Naomi said. “Did you finish sweeping the porch?”

The boy stepped closer, his eyes riveted on Wash's pack and fishing rod. He looked at the girl, and she nodded.

“Is that for fishing?” she asked.

“Yep.” Wash untied it so they could get a better look. “You like to fish?”

“I do. I think I do,” the boy said.

“We've never done it,” the girl said.

“Never? How's that?”

The boy said there wasn't much water in San Antonio, but his daddy was going to take them just as soon as he could. The girl reached forward and grabbed the rod. “Can we come with you? What's your name? Where's the river?”

He laughed. “I don't know which question to answer first. I'm Wash Fuller.”

The twins told him their names. The boy was Beto, which he said like Bay-toe, and the girl was Cari—and full of questions. She started in again. “How do you know our sister?”

“Just a friend,” Wash said. “And I reckon you all can come along. I've only got one rod, but we can take turns.”

“Can we?” Cari asked.

“Please, Omi?” Beto added.

Naomi bent and looked at the twins hard. “If I say yes, you two have to promise to behave. And I want you home by dinnertime.” She sounded calm, but there was still a thread of hurt in her voice.

“You're not coming?” Wash asked. He hoped she'd look at him.

“Laundry,” she said. She was already walking away. “That porch better be swept,” she called back to the twins.

“You can meet us by the river if you change your mind,” Wash called. “The Sabine's just a half mile the other way on the county road.” Naomi lifted a hand and kept walking. He watched her braid sway between her hips.

“Sometimes she likes to be by herself,” Cari explained.

Wash worked up a smile even though what he wanted was to forget the kids and go after Naomi. “Well,” he said, “Let's go catch us some bass.”

 

NAOMI
Naomi stood with her hand on the porch door. Her eyes stung from trying not to cry. The truck was gone and Henry was supposed to be on a twelve-hour shift, but she needed to make sure. She waited another minute. When she still didn't hear anything, she went in, letting the screen slam shut behind her.

Henry's clothes lay in a heap on the floor where he'd left them that morning. “I used to take my wash to a gal out by the truck yard,” he had said. “I reckon you can do it now.” He was out the door before she could answer.

Washing his clothes. It wasn't just one more thing to add to the work of cooking and cleaning and tending the twins and trying to buy food. It meant handling shirts and pants that he'd worn. It meant touching things that had touched his body. It meant the smell of him.

Naomi crumpled into one of the kitchen chairs and laid the side of her face on the cool tabletop. She imagined telling the twins to pack their things. She slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the money she'd gotten from Henry for groceries. Five dollars. She'd seen five-dollar bills in Abuelito's store, but she'd never had one in her own possession before. Still, it wasn't enough to get them back to San Antonio, that much she knew.

The worst was how Wash had seen her cry. He probably thought she ought to have known. She did know; she wasn't a fool. Back home, she never would have gone into a store in the white part of town. But there was only the one grocer here as far as she knew, and the man had told her plain enough to come back during colored hours.

It wasn't just that it kicked at her pride. It might make trouble. She wasn't worried about herself; she already knew she wasn't wanted here. The woman in the school office had given her a long, hard look when she brought in her enrollment card. She'd have sent Naomi to a Mexican school in a heartbeat if they'd had one. But if Henry heard that people in his town saw her not just as Mexican but as colored, he might try to send her back and keep the twins. She couldn't risk it.

When Naomi opened her eyes, they landed on Henry's coffee cup and the stained red work rag he had wiped his mouth on at breakfast. She pulled herself upright and lifted the mug, considering the heft of it and willing herself to throw it. Instead, she carried it to the sink, washed it, and set it in the dish drain.

She needed air, but the window above the sink was painted shut. She swept three dead flies from the sill into the basin. Their bodies stood out stark against the white enamel until she turned on the faucet and sent them spiraling down the drain. She went to the refrigerator and let the cold spill out around her. The waste didn't matter; like everything else, the thing ran on free gas.

Inside there were three eggs, one piece of ham, a wedge of waxed orange cheese, and the quart of milk that came every three days. She went over to the pantry. She shifted a can of pears, a shriveled carrot, and two small potatoes to one side. In the middle of the shelf, she grouped the baking powder, a box of salt, the mostly empty sack of flour, and the tin of lard. On the right, she straightened a half-empty bag of dried beans. Three days' worth of food, maybe four if she skipped a meal or two.

She thought about distracting herself with the laundry, but she didn't feel like it, not yet. She went into the hall, and saw that the door to Henry's room was ajar. She pushed it partway open with her foot and walked in. The room was bright with light from the bare window.

There was a Bible on the nightstand, the same kind that Pastor Tom had given to Beto last week after his baptism. Black leather with gold-edged pages, each one thin as a bit of onion skin. Henry's was open to Psalm 77. Her eyes fell on a phrase:
Thy footsteps are not known.
The bedcovers were in a tangle, and there was a greasy spot in the middle of the pillowcase. Sourness rose into her mouth. She thought about swallowing it back down, but instead she spat. Before she walked out, she looked for the small glob of saliva glistening on his pillow. Probably it would dry and he'd never know it had been there. Or else it would be something new for him to read.

 

BETO
Beto chased Cari up from the river, racing through spots of light and shadow as the summer sun poured through the trees. At the edge of the woods, they flung themselves down in the pine needles and waited for Wash to catch up. When he came into view, Cari leaned her head against Beto's and whispered, “Our best find yet.”

On the rest of the walk home, Wash told them jokes and they laughed until their happiness was the loudest thing in the woods, louder than the tree frogs or the squawking grackles in the treetops. Then they came out on the oil-top road that ran along the Humble Oil camp and turned onto the packed dirt road that led to their new house.

Naomi was on the back porch waiting for them. “
Ya llegamos
,” Cari shouted. She ran up the steps with Beto following after.

“Talk English,” he called, mostly to show Naomi he remembered the rules.

By the time Wash strolled into the yard, they had pulled Naomi down the porch steps. She still held her sewing in one hand.

“Too hot for laundry?” Wash asked.

Naomi frowned. “Didn't get to it.”

“Ask us something,” Beto said to Naomi, yanking on her sleeve.

Naomi made a face like she was thinking hard. “Did you catch anything?”

Wash pulled his hands from behind his back to reveal the two strings of fish they'd caught. Five fish on each string. Fish fooled by bits of worm stabbed onto hooks. Cari had delighted in that job, but Beto had looked away, unsure about the whole business until they pulled in the first fish. It thrashed hard at the end of the line, its scales lit by the sun. River bass, Wash had said. River silver, Beto had thought. Even now that the fish hung still and straight, they gleamed in the late afternoon light.

“Nice little bass. Not bad for the first try,” Wash said.

Naomi nodded and put a hand on Beto's elbow. “What do you say?”

Beto glanced at Cari. “Thank you,” they said together.

“Y'all know how to clean fish?” Wash asked.

“Soap and water?” Beto ventured. He blushed as soon as he said it.

Wash laughed. “Not hardly. Come on, let me teach you.” He looked over at Naomi. “Can you spare two dishes and a good sharp knife? We'll get these cleaned and ready for frying.”

“I already made dinner,” Naomi said.

“Fried sand bass go good with everything, I promise.”

“All right,” she said.

 

WASH
Wash set the bowl of scraps on the edge of the back porch and handed Naomi the other bowl, now lined with neat filets. She thanked him and sent the twins inside to wash up and set the table. “I'll be checking on you soon,” she called.

They hollered good night to Wash and ran up the steps. The screen door banged behind them as they went in, and their laughter grew faint.

“They had fun,” Naomi said. A smile escaped her then. Wash watched it transform her face into a fuller beauty.

“What?” Naomi asked. Her smile vanished.

“You figure on a better way to get your groceries?” He lowered his voice. “Mr. Turner can be downright unkind. Old man gargles with the devil's mouthwash, you ask me.”

“We're fine,” she said, but the wrinkle in her forehead was back. All Wash could think was how bad he wanted to find a way to put a smile back on her face.

“Listen, there's a store in Egypt Town. Mr. Mason sells to everybody. Mostly it's us shopping there, plus backwater folks that's shy of town and only come around couple times a year. Anyway, you won't have to wait at Turner's back door for him to try to pass off his worst stock on you. I've seen him sell moldy potatoes back there and dare folks to complain about it.” He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, then pulled them free. “I can take you over to the store tomorrow if you want.”

After a long pause, she nodded. “Please.”

“That wasn't so hard, was it?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She pressed the bowl to her apron and stared at the ground. He thought he saw color in her cheeks, but it might have been the light.

“Never mind,” he said. “See you tomorrow in the woods by the school? I'll find you all.”

“All right. Good night,” she said.

“Evening, Naomi.” Wash lifted his hat and waved, but Naomi was already on her way up the porch steps.

◊ ◊ ◊

Of course, Wash knew better. Knowing better came with being the son of the black school principal, who was also Egypt Town's de facto mayor. It came with singing in the AME choir and taking Sunday school attendance. It came with paying Booker, speaking proper, and polishing his father's shoes. It came with “yessir, yessum” for Mr. and Mrs. Turner and the other white folks he crossed paths with. On the side of knowing better were his mother and father, all the teachers he knew, the deacons from church, Booker T. Washington, and the diligent faculty of the Tuskegee Institute. Knowing better had its secrets too, like the tin of condoms Wash's father had given him, saying, “I don't want you messing around. But if you do, think of your future.”

Better was a safe place. Better was what you were supposed to do. That's why better was
better
. Better was big enough to include Rosie Lynn Horton, who sang soprano in the choir and had slightly mismatched nipples on nutmeg-brown breasts that were otherwise perfect. (Wash knew because Rosie didn't spend all her time singing in the choir.)