The Red Rose Box Read Free Page A

smiling while he told his tall tales. Daddy would have on a wide grin and talk about how one day he was going to have a big house and a fine car. Mama would shake her head and call him a dreamer. Gramma would tell her to let a man have his dreams because sometimes that was all a colored man had that he could call his own. Daddy’s eyes would start to water and Elijah would ask him to tell another tall tale. Daddy would pick up his pipe, light it, and take a few puffs. Then he would tell us about the time he caught a rattlesnake and had it for his supper. I missed my daddy, tall and brown.

    The table was cleared and Mama put my cake on the table. Ten candles lit the darkened room. Before I blew them out, I made a wish. I wished that I wouldn’t spend all of my life in Sulphur. Then I thought and made the same wish for Ruth. I wanted to send Mama a postcard from Paris once, maybe twice. I suppose I was like Daddy, a dreamer. My breath caught all ten candles and they lost their little flames.
    Mama cut the cake and I ate two pieces. Ruth ate three because she had a sweet tooth. Miss Lutherine and Sister Goodnight found their way home and we were sent to bed. We kissed Elijah and Gramma, hugged Mama, went into our room, and closed the door.
    While we were getting undressed, I told Ruth, “I’m gonna be a teacher, like Mrs. Redcotton.”
    Ruth rolled her eyes and replied, “You’s just like Daddy, Leah ... silly. Get the key to the red rose box and put on the hundred percent silk bed jacket.”
    â€œNo,” I told her. “I’m savin it for Hollywood.” I kept talking. “One day I’m gonna send you a postcard from Paris, France.”
    Ruth said, “I’m gonna be in Paris, France, with you,” and we laughed until our sounds made their way under the door and Mama told us to stop all that noise and turn off the light. I checked under the birthday card to make sure the key was still there, turned off the light, and climbed into the top of the bed. Ruth slept at the bottom and she started wiggling as usual, kicking me with her feet.
    I told her, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna throw you off the train and you ain’t never gonna see Los Angeles.” Then she stopped or fell asleep. I can’t be sure which.

Four
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    E arly the next morning, Elijah drove Mama to Lake Charles to buy a few things for the trip and Gramma sat down in our kitchen. She sipped ice water and the sun lit half her face.
    I was braiding Ruth’s hair into seven braids instead of two.
    Gramma told me, “Take all them braids out. Y’all ain’t no pickaninnies.”
    â€œMrs. Redcotton says that ain’t is not a real word,” I said.
    â€œI’m sure Mrs. Redcotton knows what she’s talkin bout,” she replied.
    Ruth asked her, “What’s a pickaninny?”
    â€œGals with more than three nappy braids on their head. More than three nappy braids, that’s a pickaninny.”
    I told her, “Emma Snow got good hair. Her hair don’t even need no pressin comb. She still got five or six braids, sometimes seven or eight.”
    Gramma crossed her legs, took another sip of water, and said, “Still a pickaninny.”
    â€œOh,” I replied.
    Ruth turned and the comb fell from my hand. She looked into Gramma’s eyes and asked, “Why Mama been so mad at her?”
    Gramma put down her glass. “Mad at who?”
    â€œOlivia. Mama been so mad and the letter didn’t say nuthin but ‘I am very sorry.’ ”
    Gramma stirred the water with her finger. Pieces of ice bumped one another, small icebergs in a small ocean. “What y’all doin readin your mama’s mail?”
    â€œWe was curious,” I replied.
    Ruth added, “And nosy, too nosy not to. It was peekin outta her apron pocket.”
    Gramma stood, walked over to the window, pulled the curtains closed like she was trying to