jealous of everything. You
want
him to?”
“No, I just get tired of having everything last.”
“You do not. What about scarlet fever? You had that first.”
“Yes, but it didn’t last. Anyway, what happened at the garden?”
“I told Mama, and she told Daddy, and we all come home, and he was gone, so we waited for him, and when Daddy saw him come up on the porch, he threw our old tricycle at his head and knocked him off the porch.”
“Did he die?”
“Naw. He got up and started singing ‘Nearer My God to Thee.’ Then Mama hit him with a broom and told him to keep the Lord’s name out of his mouth, but he wouldn’t stop, and Daddy was cussing, and everybody was screaming.”
“Oh, shoot, I always miss stuff.”
“And Mr. Buford came running out with his gun, and Mama told him to go somewhere and sit down, and Daddy said no, give him the gun, and Mr. Buford did, and Mama screamed, and Mr. Henry shut up and started running, and Daddy shot at him and Mr. Henry jumped out of his shoes and kept on running in his socks. Then Rosemary came out and said that Daddy was going to jail, and I hit her.”
“Real hard?”
“Real hard.”
“Is that when Mama whipped you?”
“She didn’t whip me, I told you.”
“Then why you crying?”
“Miss Dunion came in after everybody was quiet, and Mama and Daddy was fussing about who let Mr. Henry in anyway, and she said that Mama should take me to the doctor, because I might be ruined, and Mama started screaming all over again.”
“At you?”
“No. At Miss Dunion.”
“But why were you crying?”
“I don’t want to be
ruined!
”
“What’s ruined?”
“You know. Like the Maginot Line. She’s ruined. Mama said so.” The tears came back.
An image of Frieda, big and fat, came to mind. Her thin legs swollen, her face surrounded by layers of rouged skin. I too begin to feel tears.
“But, Frieda, you could exercise and not eat.”
She shrugged.
“Besides, what about China and Poland? They’re ruined too, aren’t they? And they ain’t fat.”
“That’s because they drink whiskey. Mama says whiskey ate them up.”
“You could drink whiskey.”
“Where would I get whiskey?”
We thought about this. Nobody would sell it to us; we had no money, anyway. There was never any in our house. Who would have some?
“Pecola,” I said. “Her father’s always drunk. She can get us some.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. Cholly’s always drunk. Let’s go ask her. We don’t have to tell her what for.”
“Now?”
“Sure, now.”
“What’ll we tell Mama?”
“Nothing. Let’s just go out the back. One at a time. So she won’t notice.”
“O.K. You go first, Claudia.”
We opened the fence gate at the bottom of the backyard and ran down the alley.
Pecola lived on the other side of Broadway. We had never been in her house, but we knew where it was. A two-story gray building that had been a store downstairs and had an apartment upstairs.
Nobody answered our knock on the front door, so we walked around to the side door. As we approached, we heard radio music and looked to see where it came from. Above us was the second-story porch, lined with slanting, rotting rails, and sitting on the porch was the Maginot Line herself. We stared up and automatically reached for the other’s hand. A mountain of flesh, she lay rather than sat in a rocking chair. She had no shoes on, and each foot was poked between a railing: tiny baby toes at the tip of puffy feet; swollen ankles smoothed and tightened the skin; massive legs like tree stumps parted wide at the knees, over which spread two roads of soft flabby inner thigh that kissed each other deep in the shade of her dress and closed. A dark-brown root-beer bottle, like a burned limb, grew out of her dimpled hand. She looked at us down through the porch railings and emitted a low, long belch. Her eyes were as clean as rain, and again I remembered the waterfall. Neither of us could speak. Both of us
want
him to?”
“No, I just get tired of having everything last.”
“You do not. What about scarlet fever? You had that first.”
“Yes, but it didn’t last. Anyway, what happened at the garden?”
“I told Mama, and she told Daddy, and we all come home, and he was gone, so we waited for him, and when Daddy saw him come up on the porch, he threw our old tricycle at his head and knocked him off the porch.”
“Did he die?”
“Naw. He got up and started singing ‘Nearer My God to Thee.’ Then Mama hit him with a broom and told him to keep the Lord’s name out of his mouth, but he wouldn’t stop, and Daddy was cussing, and everybody was screaming.”
“Oh, shoot, I always miss stuff.”
“And Mr. Buford came running out with his gun, and Mama told him to go somewhere and sit down, and Daddy said no, give him the gun, and Mr. Buford did, and Mama screamed, and Mr. Henry shut up and started running, and Daddy shot at him and Mr. Henry jumped out of his shoes and kept on running in his socks. Then Rosemary came out and said that Daddy was going to jail, and I hit her.”
“Real hard?”
“Real hard.”
“Is that when Mama whipped you?”
“She didn’t whip me, I told you.”
“Then why you crying?”
“Miss Dunion came in after everybody was quiet, and Mama and Daddy was fussing about who let Mr. Henry in anyway, and she said that Mama should take me to the doctor, because I might be ruined, and Mama started screaming all over again.”
“At you?”
“No. At Miss Dunion.”
“But why were you crying?”
“I don’t want to be
ruined!
”
“What’s ruined?”
“You know. Like the Maginot Line. She’s ruined. Mama said so.” The tears came back.
An image of Frieda, big and fat, came to mind. Her thin legs swollen, her face surrounded by layers of rouged skin. I too begin to feel tears.
“But, Frieda, you could exercise and not eat.”
She shrugged.
“Besides, what about China and Poland? They’re ruined too, aren’t they? And they ain’t fat.”
“That’s because they drink whiskey. Mama says whiskey ate them up.”
“You could drink whiskey.”
“Where would I get whiskey?”
We thought about this. Nobody would sell it to us; we had no money, anyway. There was never any in our house. Who would have some?
“Pecola,” I said. “Her father’s always drunk. She can get us some.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. Cholly’s always drunk. Let’s go ask her. We don’t have to tell her what for.”
“Now?”
“Sure, now.”
“What’ll we tell Mama?”
“Nothing. Let’s just go out the back. One at a time. So she won’t notice.”
“O.K. You go first, Claudia.”
We opened the fence gate at the bottom of the backyard and ran down the alley.
Pecola lived on the other side of Broadway. We had never been in her house, but we knew where it was. A two-story gray building that had been a store downstairs and had an apartment upstairs.
Nobody answered our knock on the front door, so we walked around to the side door. As we approached, we heard radio music and looked to see where it came from. Above us was the second-story porch, lined with slanting, rotting rails, and sitting on the porch was the Maginot Line herself. We stared up and automatically reached for the other’s hand. A mountain of flesh, she lay rather than sat in a rocking chair. She had no shoes on, and each foot was poked between a railing: tiny baby toes at the tip of puffy feet; swollen ankles smoothed and tightened the skin; massive legs like tree stumps parted wide at the knees, over which spread two roads of soft flabby inner thigh that kissed each other deep in the shade of her dress and closed. A dark-brown root-beer bottle, like a burned limb, grew out of her dimpled hand. She looked at us down through the porch railings and emitted a low, long belch. Her eyes were as clean as rain, and again I remembered the waterfall. Neither of us could speak. Both of us
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