“How much does it cost, miss?” Noemi directs her question to the bow I tied at Caroline’s waist.
“My papa bought it for a hundred dollars.”
I cough out my shock, and everyone but Noemi looks at me.
“Is there something you wished to say, Jo?” Mrs. Payne asks.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, only that you could buy a horse for a hundred dollars, not a good one, of course, but at least it’s got four working legs.”
Caroline’s outrage pops like a faulty incandescent bulb. “Since when does my domestic’s opinion matter? Her soul’s even blacker than this nigra’s, and I wish you hadn’t hired her back.”
Mrs. Payne sweeps her hair free from her coat. “That’s enough, Caroline. Maybe you will think about the value of things before you cast them aside. Now, the bicycle cost more like eighty dollars, but that was new.”
“Ma’am, I’ll pay for it,” Noemi says without a hint of emotion. “I insist.”
I furtively shake my head at Noemi, but she won’t meet my eyes.
A smile slithers up Caroline’s face. “Half now, half next week.” She picks a thread off her sleeve and feeds it to the breeze.
Outrageous. Noemi doesn’t have eighty dollars to throwaway. The lengths the haves will go to in order to deprive the have-nots boggles the mind. Even Miss Sweetie has no answer for it.
Noemi clears her throat. “Ma’am, how about you withhold my wages until it’s paid?”
Mrs. Payne’s gaze passes between Caroline and Noemi and then lands on me. She pulls her coat closed, and suddenly she looks smaller. It’s as if battling with Caroline has wrung her out. She twists at her wedding band, an old habit. Mrs. Payne gives Noemi an exasperated smile. “That will be fine. Well, good evening, then.” With a shake of her head, she returns to the house.
“Move it back to the work shed for now, you hear?” Caroline wags her finger toward the shed, as if Noemi doesn’t know where it’s located even after working here all her life. “Only hussies ride bicycles,” she hisses as Noemi rolls August away.
—
NOEMI MARCHES DOWNPeachtree as if the world were depending on her to turn it. Her gloved hands are balled into fists, and the skirt of her brown-checkered dress doesn’t dare tangle in her legs. When we reach the streetcar stop, she sails right by. She glances back at me, half walking, half trotting to catch up. “Robby’s delivering on the other side of town today, and I feel like walking. You don’t have to come.”
If Robby’s delivering, then he must not have gotten the clerk job after all. I don’t mention it—there are more pressing issues to discuss—but this is exactly the kind of injustice Miss Sweetie must speak to. I march doggedly alongside her, tryingto catch my breath. “You didn’t ask for my opinion, but it’s free for the taking.”
“Go on.”
I’m about to tell her the hazards of spending money she doesn’t have for things she doesn’t need to spite people she shouldn’t spite. But her grim expression blows the words like dust from my mouth. “Never mind.”
Noemi sighs. “Mama’s been dead for almost ten years, but Caroline still counts the silverware every night.”
I was seven when we lost Noemi’s mother, Caroline’s mammy. At her burial, the world seemed to grow colder and more distant on that dark October day, and the scrape of the shovel sounded like a hawk sharpening its claws. Caroline had insisted on attending, even though the cemetery was for colored only. But when the reverend began eulogizing, she began keening so loud, her father had to take her away.
Twenty yards in front of us, a terrier strains at its leash, its fierce expression at odds with its stubby body. I instinctively shrink away. The dog’s owner strolls leisurely behind, chatting with another white lady. Ignoring Noemi, who steps into the busy street, their collective gaze sweeps over me, surprise tinged with distrust. I’m about to follow Noemi into the street when the terrier lunges at me, scaring me there faster.
“Fluffers!” The dog’s owner tugs him back with a snap of her ruffled wrist. She hurries after her friend, but the terrier throws an extra snap in my direction.
“Cocky mutt,” Noemi mutters. “You okay?”
I nod, though my heart could probably beat Ameer in asprint. A carriage barrels toward us, and Noemi pulls me back to the sidewalk.
I’m about to bring up the subject of the bicycle again when Noemi’s stout boots stop marching. In the grassy yard of a brick law office, men are hoisting up a statue. Weakening sunlight glints off the bronze figure of a Confederate officer, his chest puffed out like a sail.
“Why would anyone want to build a monument for a war they lost?”
“Because they ain’t good at losing. And that’s another reason why I want that bicycle. It’s bad enough we got the dogs barking us into place, now they’re putting up statues to remind us, too. We have to fight for every inch or we’ll lose it.”
“Every inch of what?”
“When’s the last time you saw a colored on a bicycle?”
