Tambourines to Glory Read Free Page B

Laura.
    “Bernstein’s,” said Essie. “Big beautiful gold-lettered Bible. We might as well buy a big Bible.”
    “I agree,” said Laura. “If I hit tomorrow, I’ll put down the first payment.”
    “No,” said Essie. “Let’s start this thing right. When my Welfare check comes, I’ll put down a payment. But let’s not use no numbers money to found our church.”
    “You are getting holier-than-thou already,” said Laura. “Girl, I believe I’ll go take a little nap before nightfall. Old daddy-boy-baby might come by to keep me awake after dark. Dig you remotely, doll. So long!”
    Concerning Laura, “She’s got a fine brown frame,” observed the men in the block. “A hefty hussy,” said the women, “more well-built than plump, but there’s enough of her.” From behind, young boys might whistle, “Whee-ooo-oo-o!” But if Laura turned around they saw she could be their mother, but a good-looking mother for true. When Laura got dressed up, her exterior decorations hung well. Sometimes emerging from the Rabbit Warren with her finery on, Laura looked good. Well ahead of her came her breasts, natural—like singers’ voices in the pre-microphone days, projecting without artificial aid—colloquially termed by the local Lotharios
headlights, forty-fours, easy riders, daily doubles, Maes
, meaning West. Concerning her legs, climbing stairs had kept them sturdy, dancing kept them graceful, pride kept them in runless stockings chosen to match her cocoa skin. Laura would buy stockings when she couldn’t pay her rent. If a man said something nice about her legs on the subway, shewould pull her dress down. Otherwise when seated she was careless. Guile, not modesty, generally prevailed.
    Concerning the ancient building where Laura and Essie lived, well, if you didn’t see all those names under the different bells, you wouldn’t believe so many people lived there: B. Jenkins, Sarah Butler, J. T. K. Washington, Ben Wade, Mrs. E. B. Johnson (which was Essie), Katie Huff, Jefferson Lord, Jr., Mr. and Mrs. Titter, Sisseretta Smith, Ed Givens, Laura Wright Reed (which was Laura), and so on and on into the dozens and dozens, sometimes three or four people listed in the same room. It was an old apartment house in which a door opening onto the central hall had been cut directly into every room, and inner communicating doors sealed. Then each room no matter how small had been made into a kitchenette with a gas burner (fire laws notwithstanding) plus a sink installed in a corner for washing both face and feet, pots and privates, clothes, cutlery, dogs and dishes. The building had a name, the Marquette, but the neighborhood called it the
Rabbit Warren
, for short just the
Rabbit
.
    Late that afternoon in the Rabbit, through the still-open window facing the areaway, Essie could hear kids coming home from school, romping and playing on other floors in rooms where parents had not yet come home from work. Alone, youngsters could make as much noise as they wished. Sometimes they made plenty. Essie did not mind. She kept thinking of her own child as still a little playful girl—only her daughter
couldn’t
be like that any more. Marietta was sixteen. Essie had not seen her for four years, but Grandma had sent her a picture when the girl came out of junior high school, a golden-faced kid, all in white looking mighty pretty. Grandma kept that child looking washed and clean all the time.
    She must be a church girl, thought Essie, because them people are religious down South. Well, when Marietta gets here, she will find me religious, too. Never was much of a sinner, nohow. I can’t go for sin like Laura. Fast life tires me out.
    Essie got up to pull down the window, since the sunset was chilly. She put on her coat, a shapeless, heavy old black coat, and sat down again. From the pocket of her coat she took a long pearlhandled knife, pressed a little button in its side and a thin sharp blade shot out. With the blade she began to