Little Sacrifices Read Free Page A

humid and strong with the smell of green things. There was a pace to the city like a long exhale. No one was inclined to hurry, and even brisk walkers managed to move with a softness in their hips that implied leisure. I kept finding Jim behind me and had to slow down or risk losing my guide altogether. Eventually he steered us into the park that had spoiled Duncan’s plans to find our neighborhood the day before. It rambled off into the level distance and was much leafier than the squares farther north. Palm fronds rustled and clacked in the breeze, giving the place a tropical feel in some parts while live oaks shaded the sidewalks in others. Spanish moss swayed from their branches like old men’s beards.
    All of my mother’s hard work raising me to mingle in polite company went out the window as we walked. I’d never seen so many black people, and couldn’t keep from staring at them. Some looked just like us except for their skin. The women wore pretty dresses and hats. They tottered around on high heels with matching handbags. Little girls in pinafores and boys in short pants clasped hands as they strolled along. They weren’t the people, though, who most captured my interest. It was the poor Negroes living at the edge of the society I saw in front of me. They looked sad and worse, they looked cowed, haunted, hunted, and dangerous. Most were men. All sported mismatched rags, dirty dinner jackets with patched dungarees or raggedy trousers tied with cord. Their faces were shiny with sweat. Hairs stood out on my arms and heat crept along the back of my neck. I was plain scared of these people, finding menace in their unfamiliarity.
    Snatches of conversation flowed over us, so heavily accented that I couldn’t make heads or tails of what anyone was saying. Southerners chewed on their words, stretching them like bubble gum. Jim, too, had a drawl that put more syllables in his words than we thought prudent up north. I asked him who all the poor people were.
    ‘Oh they’re just regular folks, come in off the farms mostly. They bring the produce over to City Market.’
    ‘They’re here all the time?’
    ‘Uh huh. Why?’
    ‘Are you, afraid of them?’
    ‘Of them? Of course not. Why would I be?’
    Why should he be? He’d grown up in Savannah. I just wasn’t used to being around them. Nothing to be afraid of. If he wasn’t. Besides, even though there weren’t any Negroes in Williamstown, it wasn’t like I’d never seen anyone with dark skin before. It behooved me to make this point to Jim. ‘We had an Indian fellow over to our house once for Thanksgiving. He was in Duncan’s class, from England. It was too far to travel home for the holiday so we took him in. He was nice.’
    ‘Why would English people care about Thanksgiving?’
    I had no answer. The notion that anyone might be different from me was one I was still getting used to. There was an awful lot to learn so, not realizing that there were topics polite Southerners did not broach, I asked. ‘Jim? What’s it like for them, living here?’
    He weighed up my question but found no threat in it. ‘They’re a lot better off here than in other places. We’re known all over as the most tolerant, liberal–minded people in the South. We generally keep to ourselves and let everyone get on with their business. Do you know we don’t even have the Klan in Savannah?’ I didn’t. ‘Um hmm. In fact, there’s never been a lynching. Not many other towns can say the same around here. Though we did come close, it was a long while back. Over ten, maybe fifteen years.’ He looked at me suddenly with something like embarrassment flashing across his face. I gave him a smile that was meant to be encouraging. He went on. ‘Anyway, a Negro got himself accused of shooting a white man. By Southern etiquette, he should’ve been lynched with no questions asked. But our sheriff had him locked up to wait for his trial instead. You see, we believe in the law for everyone,