Read Online God Help the Child: A novel by Toni Morrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Toni Morrison
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asleep. When I woke up I reminded myself that freedom is never free. You have to fight for it. Work for it and make sure you are able to handle it.
Now I think of it, that black girl did do me a favor. Not the foolish one she had in mind, not the money she offered, but the gift that neither of us planned: the release of tears unshed for fifteen years. No more bottling up. No more filth. Now I am clean and able.
PART II
A taxi was preferable because parking a Jaguar in that neighborhood was as dim-witted as it was risky. That Booker frequented this part of the city startled Bride. Why here? she wondered. There were music shops in unthreatening neighborhoods, places where tattooed men and young girls dressed like ghouls weren’t huddled on corners or squatting on curbs.
Once the driver stopped at the address she’d given him, and after he told her, “Sorry, lady. I can’t wait here for you,” Bride stepped quickly toward the door of Salvatore Ponti’s Pawn and Repair Palace. Inside it was clear that the word “Palace” was less a mistake than an insanity. Under dusty glass counters row after row of jewelry and watches crouched. A man, good-looking the way elderly men can be, moved down the counter toward her. His jeweler’s eyes swept all he could take in of his customer.
“Mr. Ponti?”
“Call me Sally, sweetheart. What can I do you for?”
Bride waved the overdue notice and explained she’d come to settle the bill and pick up whatever had beenrepaired. Sally examined the notice. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Thumb ring. Mouthpiece. They’re in back. Come on.”
Together they went into a back room where guitars and horns hung on the walls and all sorts of metal pieces covered the cloth of a table. The man working there looked up from his magnifying glass to examine Bride and then the notice. He went to a cupboard and removed a trumpet wrapped in purple cloth.
“He didn’t mention the pinkie ring,” said the repairman, “but I gave him one anyway. Picky guy, real picky.”
Bride took the horn thinking she didn’t even know Booker owned one or played it. Had she been interested she would have known that that was what caused the dark dimple on his upper lip. She handed Sally the amount owed.
“Nice, though, and smart for a country boy,” said the repairman.
“Country boy?” Bride frowned. “He’s not from the country. He lives here.”
“Oh, yeah? Told me he was from some hick town up north,” said Sally.
“Whiskey,” said the repairman.
“What are you talking about?” asked Bride.
“Funny, right? Who could forget a town called Whiskey? Nobody, that’s who.”
The men burst into snorts of laughter and started callingout other memorable names of towns: Intercourse, Pennsylvania; No Name, Colorado; Hell, Michigan; Elephant Butte, New Mexico; Pig, Kentucky; Tightwad, Missouri. Exhausted, finally, by their mutual amusement, they turned their attention back to the customer.
“Look here,” said Sally. “He gave us another address. A forward.” He flipped through his Rolodex. “Ha. Somebody named Olive. Q. Olive. Whiskey, California.”
“No street address?”
“Come on, honey. Who says they have streets in a town called Whiskey?” Sally was having a good time keeping himself amused as well as keeping the pretty black girl in his shop. “Deer tracks maybe,” he added.
Bride left the shop quickly, but realized just as quickly that there were no roaming cabs. She was forced to return and ask Sally to phone one for her.
Sofia
I ought to be sad. Daddy called my supervisor to say Mommy died. I asked for an advance to buy a ticket to fly out for the funeral, assuming my parole officer would let me. I remember every inch of the church where the funeral would be held. The wooden Bible holders on the backs of the pews, the greenish light from the window behind Reverend Walker’s head. And the smell—perfume, tobacco and something more. Godliness, perhaps. Clean, upright and very
Now I think of it, that black girl did do me a favor. Not the foolish one she had in mind, not the money she offered, but the gift that neither of us planned: the release of tears unshed for fifteen years. No more bottling up. No more filth. Now I am clean and able.
PART II
A taxi was preferable because parking a Jaguar in that neighborhood was as dim-witted as it was risky. That Booker frequented this part of the city startled Bride. Why here? she wondered. There were music shops in unthreatening neighborhoods, places where tattooed men and young girls dressed like ghouls weren’t huddled on corners or squatting on curbs.
Once the driver stopped at the address she’d given him, and after he told her, “Sorry, lady. I can’t wait here for you,” Bride stepped quickly toward the door of Salvatore Ponti’s Pawn and Repair Palace. Inside it was clear that the word “Palace” was less a mistake than an insanity. Under dusty glass counters row after row of jewelry and watches crouched. A man, good-looking the way elderly men can be, moved down the counter toward her. His jeweler’s eyes swept all he could take in of his customer.
“Mr. Ponti?”
“Call me Sally, sweetheart. What can I do you for?”
Bride waved the overdue notice and explained she’d come to settle the bill and pick up whatever had beenrepaired. Sally examined the notice. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Thumb ring. Mouthpiece. They’re in back. Come on.”
Together they went into a back room where guitars and horns hung on the walls and all sorts of metal pieces covered the cloth of a table. The man working there looked up from his magnifying glass to examine Bride and then the notice. He went to a cupboard and removed a trumpet wrapped in purple cloth.
“He didn’t mention the pinkie ring,” said the repairman, “but I gave him one anyway. Picky guy, real picky.”
Bride took the horn thinking she didn’t even know Booker owned one or played it. Had she been interested she would have known that that was what caused the dark dimple on his upper lip. She handed Sally the amount owed.
“Nice, though, and smart for a country boy,” said the repairman.
“Country boy?” Bride frowned. “He’s not from the country. He lives here.”
“Oh, yeah? Told me he was from some hick town up north,” said Sally.
“Whiskey,” said the repairman.
“What are you talking about?” asked Bride.
“Funny, right? Who could forget a town called Whiskey? Nobody, that’s who.”
The men burst into snorts of laughter and started callingout other memorable names of towns: Intercourse, Pennsylvania; No Name, Colorado; Hell, Michigan; Elephant Butte, New Mexico; Pig, Kentucky; Tightwad, Missouri. Exhausted, finally, by their mutual amusement, they turned their attention back to the customer.
“Look here,” said Sally. “He gave us another address. A forward.” He flipped through his Rolodex. “Ha. Somebody named Olive. Q. Olive. Whiskey, California.”
“No street address?”
“Come on, honey. Who says they have streets in a town called Whiskey?” Sally was having a good time keeping himself amused as well as keeping the pretty black girl in his shop. “Deer tracks maybe,” he added.
Bride left the shop quickly, but realized just as quickly that there were no roaming cabs. She was forced to return and ask Sally to phone one for her.
Sofia
I ought to be sad. Daddy called my supervisor to say Mommy died. I asked for an advance to buy a ticket to fly out for the funeral, assuming my parole officer would let me. I remember every inch of the church where the funeral would be held. The wooden Bible holders on the backs of the pews, the greenish light from the window behind Reverend Walker’s head. And the smell—perfume, tobacco and something more. Godliness, perhaps. Clean, upright and very
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