How High the Moon Page 18

  ella

  “Go ahead and pick any card, but don’t let me see it.”

  The soldier didn’t look to be that much older than Myrna. He was white, real fair-skinned, with orange eyelashes and eyebrows and freckles on his whole face. Short, sharp orange stubble wrapped all around his head beneath his pointy green hat.

  He was coming out of Parker’s as we were just getting to the store. Had a pack of smokes in one hand and a brand-new deck of cards in the other. When he saw us, he tore open the deck of cards and sat on the stoop to do a magic trick.

  Henry turned a toothy grin to me, but I didn’t know which one he should pick. I wasn’t in the mood for no tricks. I guess he got the hint and looked to Myrna for help. She pointed to a card. Henry took it and cupped his hands around it like it was some secret military code.

  “Careful. Don’t bend it. I’ll know which one it is if you bend it. Plus, this is a fresh deck. Don’t go messing it up, now,” said the soldier.

  Inside the store, two white ladies, about the age of my mama, lifted bars of soap to their faces and smelled them. One let her head fall back and closed her eyes. I could see her let out an enormous sigh. Then she thrust the soap into her friend’s face. She closed her eyes, too, and nodded. When Mr. Parker passed by, she said something to him and whatever he said back made them both throw back their heads laughing.

  “How’d you do that?!” Henry was trying to take the deck of cards out of the soldier’s hands, but he stood and raised it high over his head.

  “Now, now. That’s magic.” And with a smile, he walked off down the road.

  “How’d he do that?” Henry asked Myrna.

  She shrugged and stepped onto the front porch of the store. “I don’t know and I don’t even want to know. Magic tricks give me the willies,” she said.

  The jangle of the front doorbell made my heart clench up. It had been months since I’d spoken to Mr. Parker and told him I thought he was my daddy. I think I was still embarrassed by it. Ever since that time in his truck, if I had to go to the store with Myrna or Granny, I waited out front. But this time, I’d decided to see him and speak.

  The two white ladies were chewing Mr. Parker’s ears off with all their gabbing. I think one of ’em was flirting with him. All talk stopped when we walked in. The ladies turned and looked us up and down, noses high and necks stiff, like they was balancing chickens on their heads.

  The short one turned to Mr. Parker.

  “I don’t know how you live over here with them all so close,” she said, giving Henry a particularly dirty look.

  Mr. Parker ignored her and lifted his chin to us. “Probably the last good day for fishing for a while,” he said. “Coming back from, or just heading out?”

  “We’re just heading out now, sir,” Henry said. I could see he was feeling a little stung by the mean ladies, but then he remembered and brightened. “Poppy gave us money for a lure!”

  “You don’t say!” Mr. Parker went back to talking with the mean ladies a little longer ’fore joining Henry and Myrna at the case of lures. Henry and Myrna hovered over the glass, pointing and talking softly. Mr. Parker got to explaining the qualities of each lure, like which ones were good for catching what kind of fish, and all that.

  I walked up slowly to join Myrna and Henry. Mr. Parker handed Henry the lure he’d been pointing to. Then he turned to me and smiled a good morning smile. I surprised myself and smiled back.

  “Ooh! Looks like you got new flavors!” Myrna suddenly said and headed to the ice cream counter. Henry set the lure down on the glass and followed her.

  I was alone with Mr. Parker now. “I… my mama gave me…” I pulled the album from behind me and held it out to Mr. Parker. His eyes were calm as I stuttered and stumbled to get the words out. “It’s my mama. She made a new demo record up in New York.”

  “Well, how about that!” He took the album and read the label, nodding, smiling.

  “I was thinking,” I said, “that maybe, while we’re off fishing, you could listen to it… if you want. I can get it later.”

  “That’d be real nice, Ella. I’d like that. Thank you.”

  My nerves had finally taken a back seat and I was just feeling happy that I’d spoken to him. And that I brought the record. I think he liked that.

  Over by the ice cream counter, I heard giggles and a high-pitched voice. Millie had come out from the office and was showing off a new hat. Clearly, it was her mama’s. She had to tilt her head waaayy back to see Henry as she talked to him, and still it was covering her eyes.

  “And if I want, I can put a fancy flower on it and wear it for Easter,” she was saying. When she saw me, she turned and ran to me.

  “Ella!”

  “Hi, Millie.”

  She pulled the hat from her head and held it out in front of her.

  “See my new hat?” she asked. “It’s to keep the sun off of my face. Ain’t it pretty?”

  Millie’s loose, blond curls were flowing free, no pigtails or top bun to keep them tucked away and tidy. Her turquoise eyes were bright and twinkling.

  “It’s a lovely hat, Millie,” I said. She nodded and did a little dance, then she pulled her hair back behind her ears and plopped the hat back on top of her head.

  “Daddy?” She threw herself forward into Mr. Parker’s body, letting her arms go limp, and forcing him to quickly catch her. Henry and Myrna walked back to us. “Can I please go fishing with Henry? Pleeeeease.”

  The ladies that had been flirting with Mr. Parker had stopped looking at the store’s goods and had focused their attention on Mr. Parker and Millie. Both had their arms folded. Both were shooting daggers at us with their eyes.

  Mr. Parker lifted Millie and stood her upright. “Millie, honey, I don’t think the big kids want to—”

  “It’s okay with us,” I said quickly. I looked at Mr. Parker and spoke loud and clearly. “If it’s okay with you.”

  Henry and Myrna turned to each other before looking at Mr. Parker and nodding. I could tell Mr. Parker hadn’t expected our response. He hesitated at first, but then he said, “If you kids really don’t mind…” Millie squealed and went back to dancing some more, hat in her hand, waving it like it was a flapper’s fan. Her daddy slowed her down, hands on her shoulders. Told her to behave, and to listen to us. After plenty of “Yes, sirs” and “I promises,” Millie wriggled free and ran to Henry.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” she chanted.

  “Mr. Parker!” one of the stuffy ladies called from over the peanuts. He slowly turned, drawing in a long breath before he placed his hands on his hips, squinting.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You ain’t really gonna let… you can’t let them—them…” She pursed her lips and motioned her head at us. “Do not let your sweet little angel go off with them, Mr. Parker.”

  Mr. Parker took another deep breath, tipped his head to the woman. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, and turned to Henry. “You decide on a lure, Henry?”

  Henry held the orange-and-green one he’d picked out to Mr. Parker. “We’ll get this one, sir,” he said.

  The ladies scoffed, shook their heads, sucked their teeth.

  Millie bounced over to me. Her tiny fingers gripped my arm.

  “Ella, come here.” She tugged at my arm, trying to pull me down to her. I let her until our faces were almost touching. I thought she was going to whisper a secret to me, but instead she leaned in close to my face and dusted her eyelashes against my cheek. Opening and closing her eyes. “That’s a butterfly kiss!” she exclaimed.

  After Henry had paid and we’d left the shop, we were turning down the road for the creek when, from inside the store, I heard Mama’s clean voice, full of joy and spirit.

  Somewhere there’s music

  How faint the tune

  Somewhere there’s heaven

  How high the moon

  There is no moon above

  When love is far away too

  Till it com
es true

  That you love me as, I love you

  Somewhere there’s music

  How near, how far

  Somewhere there’s heaven

  It’s where you are

  The darkest night would shine

  If you would come to me soon

  Until you will, still my heart

  How high the moon

  ella

  Mama came for Christmas. She brought Helen along.

  While we was waiting for them at the train station, I excused myself to use the washroom.

  “I’ll be fast, okay?” I pointed to where the toilets were.

  “Sure thing, pumpkin,” Granny said. “I think we’re a little early so I’m gonna be sitting there.” She indicated a free bench and kissed the top of my head before walking to it.

  Since we were kinda early, there weren’t a lot of folks at the station yet.

  As I approached the toilets, I took in the familiar signs:

  WHITE WOMEN COLORED WOMEN

  Two signs that could probably be switched up and no one would know the difference. Unless, of course, it was different in them washrooms. I wondered…

  I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t sound like there was nobody inside either room. I leaned in to listen. Nothing. I looked behind me. Far down on the opposite end of the platform from Granny, a white soldier had his arm around his girl while they laughed with the stationmaster. Closer to Granny, a man stood at the edge of the platform, smoking. Nobody was taking any notice of me. My heart started racing faster and faster with every step my feet took closer to the white washroom. I was gonna do it. Still nobody looking. Still no sound coming from the washroom. Soon I was all the way inside and, as I’d suspected, there wasn’t anyone else in there. I pushed open the door to each of the three toilet stalls. Just looked like regular ol’ toilets inside. Two small sinks. One large mirror. Clean, but nothing fancy. No different from the colored washroom. I touched my finger to my reflection and dragged it across the glass as I slowly walked out.

  Myrna and I let Mama and Helen sleep in our beds and we slept on the bedroom floor. Aunt Rhoda slept out on the sofa, but she’d stay with us in the bedroom until bedtime, and we’d have a girl party, no boys allowed. Mama pressed our hair, and she and Helen fixed Myrna’s hair in victory rolls like Betty Grable. Then the three of them sat over me, pinning and fussing, showing Myrna how it was done.

  We painted each other’s fingernails and toenails in bright reds and pinks. Henry wouldn’t stop peeking his head in no matter how many times I told him to beat it.

  “Whatcha all doing?” he said.

  Finally we dragged him into the room, held him down, and painted his toenails cherry red.

  A few days before Christmas, Poppy and Uncle Teddy took me and Henry out to find us a tree. Lucky Henry got to chop it down. Poppy promised that the next Christmas tree was mine to chop down. But then Poppy said he was so impressed with Henry’s ax work that he was giving him a new chore: chopping wood. Suddenly I was in no rush to be chopping any trees. Not if it meant more chores! Forget it.

  Back at the house, it was warm and the smell of beef-and-carrot stew hung on the air. We sat around the fireplace and strung popcorn and cranberries, and cut out tiny foil stars for the tree. Granny pulled out her box of glass ornaments and helped us hang them. Myrna made the big star for the top. We put on the radio instead of the phonograph ’cause they were playing Christmas songs.

  I was pleased with myself that I’d finished Poppy’s scarf in time for Christmas. It had a few small hiccups but it was mostly a handsome-looking scarf. I’d finished all of my gifts, including cornhusk dolls for Mama, Helen, and Aunt Rhoda. Myrna showed me how to fancy up a tin can with fun pictures to make a pencil holder for Uncle Teddy.

  Myrna seemed happy. I hadn’t caught her looking sad in a long time and I wondered if she thought about George when she was alone. I was pretty sure that she did. I know I found myself reminded of him, and Johnnie, Amie, Charles, and Kathrine, often. Where were they all now? Were they somewhere in another state, sitting around the tree they’d just brought in from the woods, decorating it and telling stories of George? Sharing memories? Laughing and crying? Or were they broken?

  I watched Henry poking a needle through the end of a foil ornament he’d made, trying to make a loop to hang it from. Watching his mind work, so different from the rest of us. Watching his smile brighten when his dad had looked over his shoulder and admired the figure he’d cut out of foil, a silhouette of a smiling moon. Who would he become, my sweet cousin, my best friend? So funny and smart and creative. There was so much ahead for him. If he was taken from us how would we grieve the loss of him?

  Poppy, Uncle Teddy, and Bear wandered in from the porch, Poppy carrying the sweet aroma of his pipe in with him. Uncle Teddy yanked Aunt Rhoda up from the sofa and led her around the living room dancing. Henry beamed.

  “C’mon!” He dropped his scissors on the coffee table and pulled me up onto my feet. Together we mimicked the dance steps of his parents. Mama grabbed ahold of Myrna, and even though there was hardly an ounce of room, we all danced and stepped on each other’s feet, laughing and singing. Even Bear joined, moving in and around our legs, his whole backside in motion.

  Granny clapped and sang as she wandered in from the kitchen.

  “Soup’s on, folks!”

  With the song still on our lips and the beat still in our feet, we started for the kitchen to gather around the table.

  I stopped on my way, took the needle from where Henry had left it and quickly threaded it with pale thread, poked a hole in my last foil star, and made a loop. There was a bare patch on the Christmas tree just calling for something shiny. I hung my star, then took a few steps back to admire our handiwork.

  The tin stars caught the dim light of the living room and reflected off the green sofa, the rose pillow, the blue throw, the amber lamplight, all together creating multicolored, sparkling light. Some of the stars were uneven, none were the exact same size, but each added their own beauty. Together they made the tree magnificent.

  In the kitchen, everyone was gathering around the table. Poppy stopped near Granny at the stove, before taking his seat at the head. She handed him two small bowls, which he obediently squeezed in among the biscuits, gravy, greens, and potatoes. Once settled, he pulled his pipe out and fiddled with it before setting it back in his shirt pocket. Helen, with her arm around Granny’s small shoulders, whispered something into Granny’s ear and they both laughed. From her chair, Aunt Rhoda directed everyone to pass her their bowls, which she handed to Helen at the stove. Granny ladled stew and Helen passed the steamy bowls around. Mama was fussing with Myrna’s hair, explaining what she was doing as she did it. Myrna listened intently while chewing on a hangnail. At the end, opposite Poppy, Henry filled Uncle Teddy’s ear. Something ’bout a scarlet snake he’d seen out back and wanting to know if he could keep it for a pet if he found it again.

  I reached for my Saint Christopher medallion and ran my thumb over the carved figures on its front. Mr. Parker was at home right now, probably sitting down to supper with Mrs. Parker and Millie. They were telling one another stories of the day and getting warm with excitement over Christmas arriving, just like we were.

  Bear nudged my leg with his wet nose.

  “Hey there, boy.” I scratched him behind both ears until he pounded his hind leg on the floor with pleasure.

  Henry saw me standing in the doorway and waved for me to join them.

  “Come on, Ella,” he said, patting the empty seat next to him.

  I went into the kitchen, full of warmth and light, and took my seat at the table.

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  Author’s Note

  How High the Moon came about because of a remark my mother made. She grew up black in the segregated Jim Crow South, in the 1940s and 1950s.

  “I had a happy childhood,” she said.

  How could that be? I wondered. Rather than just reading about a dangerous world, she had actually lived in it, been surrounded by it at a particularly dangerous time for black folks. Black people were routinely discriminated against and systematically excluded from white society. They had few rights and could even be murdered since there was little recourse for crimes and injustices against black people. My understanding was that this was just the reality of the times and that most folks learned to live with it.

  But to have a “happy” childhood? I needed to see how you could live through those times. How community and family could make you feel loved and important and like you had a place in the world.

  That’s when Ella showed up. One of the best things writing a story can do is let you put on someone else’s shoes and go for a walk and see what you can see. I had wondered what life would be like for a biracial girl like myself, just trying to figure out who she is and learning to appreciate the people who cared for her most in the world. I called upon my own childhood experiences and my mother’s in Charleston, South Carolina, to help me explore Ella’s world. And as I discovered Henry and Myrna, Granny and Poppy, I soon came upon George Stinney Jr.

  I had read George’s story many times working with my organization Sweet Blackberry. But Sweet Blackberry’s mission is to bring little-known stories to children in order to inspire and empower them. This wasn’t a Sweet Blackberry story. George Stinney Jr. was only fourteen years old when he was accused of murdering two young white girls in March 1944. He was executed three months later. George’s story was sad and infuriating. His mug shot haunted me. Big brown eyes drained of all hope.