—
WITH THE WEATHERfinally warming, Buxbaum’s buzzes with activity. It heartens me to see Robby at a counter, counting out a woman’s change. A line of folks, all of them colored, wait to be rung up.
The woman puts her money in her change purse. “You tell me when they invent self-mopping mops, and I’ll be the first in line.”
“They do have them, Mrs. Weaver. They’re called cats.” He notices me. “Good morning, Jo. Be right with you.”
“Sure thing, Robby.” I collect the items I need—barley, crackers, a salve for my roughened hands, a bar of soap, black-eyed peas, and an ax to replace our rusted one. Plus, it won’t hurt to have a reliable weapon handy. Heaven forbid I should have to use it.
Robby finishes with his customers, and I bring my items to him. He looks around us—no one is within earshot—and then quietly says, “Those Paynes are as shifty as sand. Would you believe, they asked Noemi back? Etta Rae called Pastor Harkness this morning, who passed us the message in front of the whole congregation.”
“I’m glad they did the right thing. Will she return?”
“Does August have thirty-one days? She’s still bent on buying that safety. She even took the dollar I was going to place on Sunday Surprise. Can’t a man have any fun?”
“That safety’s pretty fun.”
He throws me a look that could cut glass. “You’re in league with her. By the bye, you in the market for a mop? There’s a sale today on sweepers and scrubbers.”
“Thanks, but no. You’re a natural at this.”
“Turns out, I’m good for business. Just hope Mr. Buxbaum agrees. He’s weighing whether to hire me full-time.”
“I am happy to hear that. Maybe I’ll get to buy you some teeth rinse soon.”
He nods at a colored woman in a butter-yellow bonnet inspecting fabrics. “Nice to see you, Mrs. Thomson.” She nods back.
He finishes packing up my items. “That all?”
“Actually, no.” I remove from my pocket the knots I tied last night. “I was wondering if you could show these samples to Mr. Buxbaum. They’re not like the embellishments you carry, but I hoped—”
“Jo, they’re good.” He holds one up. “This one looks like a butterfly.”
“It’s a falcon, and that one is for Noemi. A falcon for farsightedness.”
“She’s going to like that. How much you charge?”
“Eight cents each, if Mr. Buxbaum doesn’t mind supplying the cord.”
“Make it ten cents. These are worth it.”
“Thanks, Robby.”
“You’re welcome.”
A stack of the SundayFocusoccupies a rocking chair near the exit. The sight of “The Custom-ary,” all dressed up in typeface, arouses a mother’s pride in me. Worry, too. If this one doesn’t go over well, people could turn on Miss Sweetie. The whole paper could come tumbling down. Then the part of me that could take a bite out of the world will lose its teeth. Gone like the frost when the spring dragon roars.
Twenty-Seven
Noemi doesn’t show up on Monday, and the substitute cook, a German woman, mans the kitchen with a three-beat efficiency—three pinches of salt, three taps of the egg, three bangs of the pot. I hope Noemi returns by tomorrow, before I begin to waltz. I could see her tonight at the suffrage meeting, though I haven’t yet decided if I will go. Certain things are simply not worth the humiliation.
The day I turned thirteen and not long before Mrs. Payne dismissed me, I begged for a taste of the new Coca-Colas served at Jacob’s Pharmacy that everyone was so fizzed about. We’d seen colored people in the pharmacy before and figured we might have a chance as well. With two whole nickels from our money boot in his pocket, Old Gin held the bar stool steady for me, as I’d just begun wearing my skirts to the floor. But the soda jerk waved a rag in Old Gin’s face. “No colas for coolies.”
A woman laughed, and then it seemed everyone was laughing at us. My face still burns thinking of that.
While I dress Caroline for her afternoon ride, the first sincethe pepper incident, I can’t help asking, “Did you catch Miss Sweetie’s last column, miss?” I have heard no news over how well “The Custom-ary” has been received.
“Why should I waste my time? Miss Sweetie is a know-it-all. The sort I cannot brook.”
