Read Online Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bette Greene
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girl. Maybe we would even shake hands before saying good-bye.
I got to my feet. Sticking to the front of my damp poloshirt was a layer of field dust and down my knee ran a single rail of dry, red blood. I couldn’t remember hurting my knee. As I walked through the field I could hear Ruth singing: “I looked over Jordan and what did I see-e?”
She didn’t just sing from her neck up like other folks I know.
“Coming for to car-ry me home. ...”
Her songs always seemed to come from a deeper, quieter place than that.
I swallowed down the sadness in my throat before going into the kitchen. She sat there at the white metal table shelling a small mountain of peas. Through squinting eyes she gave me a questioning look.
“Honey Babe, you is jest too pitiful-looking for the cat to drag in. You been fighting with Freddy? Now you tell Ruth.”
“We didn’t fight,” I said dully. “I never in my whole life had a fight with Freddy, and that’s a terrible thing to say, besides. You sound exactly like my father. Just ’cause Freddy’s poor and doesn’t dress up you think he’s not as good as anybody else. Well, he is, and it says so right in the Constitution of the United States of America: ‘All men are created equal.’”
Ruth shook her head. “I asks you if you had a fight and you gives me a history lesson. A person can shore learn a lot of things around here.”
I sat down next to her at the kitchen table, but not one more word did she say. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Gently, even against my will, Ruth was supposed to squeeze the information from me.
I realized it wouldn’t happen that way, so I just spilled it out. For a long while Ruth didn’t say anything. Then shesighed and asked, “Them folks, did you know them? Was they white folks or colored?”
“I don’t remember knowing them, but they were white folks from the country.”
Somewhere on her forehead a line deepened, and I knew it wasn’t so good that they were white. Ruth pulled down a brown simulated-alligator bag from the top of the refrigerator. “Did those folks know you is Mr. Bergen’s girl?”
“No—I don’t know. Maybe they did,” I said, remembering running towards the rear of our house. Not very smart.
She pushed aside a black eyeglass case and a Bible about the size of an open palm to bring out a red zippered change purse with the printed words, “Souvenir of Detroit, Michigan.” Inside the change purse some coins jangled, but all the paper money was pressed neatly into one small square. She opened the three one-dollar bills to their full size. Carefully she refolded them before placing the money in my hand.
“Now you ask the man how much a window costs ’fore you go giving him all your money.”
She would do all this for me? There between her neck and shoulders was the warm cove where a head could lie and rest. And there I would be home. Home safe.
Ruth’s eyes met mine. Could she know? Could she possibly know? There’s nothing to know! I’m not a baby and she’s not my mother. I ran out of the back door, letting the screen make a slamming noise.
As I walked toward downtown I noticed a breeze pushing a few elm leaves around without doing much more than promising to cool things off. Still, my thoughts began to tidy themselves up and I felt better. After all, wasn’t Ruth on my side? And wasn’t I even now going out to right a wrong?
It was then that I saw a green Chevy roaring down the street towards me. My father! For a moment I thought I was going to take off behind one of the houses or maybe hide behind the shoulder-high hedges that separated front yards from public walks. But I didn’t. Didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Didn’t anything.
The car passed me and then came backing up to a jerky stop. The door was opened and hurled shut. His face was frozen a bluish whitish color, like all the red blood had iced over. With long strides he came toward me. My back pressed against the hedge.
“Let me
I got to my feet. Sticking to the front of my damp poloshirt was a layer of field dust and down my knee ran a single rail of dry, red blood. I couldn’t remember hurting my knee. As I walked through the field I could hear Ruth singing: “I looked over Jordan and what did I see-e?”
She didn’t just sing from her neck up like other folks I know.
“Coming for to car-ry me home. ...”
Her songs always seemed to come from a deeper, quieter place than that.
I swallowed down the sadness in my throat before going into the kitchen. She sat there at the white metal table shelling a small mountain of peas. Through squinting eyes she gave me a questioning look.
“Honey Babe, you is jest too pitiful-looking for the cat to drag in. You been fighting with Freddy? Now you tell Ruth.”
“We didn’t fight,” I said dully. “I never in my whole life had a fight with Freddy, and that’s a terrible thing to say, besides. You sound exactly like my father. Just ’cause Freddy’s poor and doesn’t dress up you think he’s not as good as anybody else. Well, he is, and it says so right in the Constitution of the United States of America: ‘All men are created equal.’”
Ruth shook her head. “I asks you if you had a fight and you gives me a history lesson. A person can shore learn a lot of things around here.”
I sat down next to her at the kitchen table, but not one more word did she say. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Gently, even against my will, Ruth was supposed to squeeze the information from me.
I realized it wouldn’t happen that way, so I just spilled it out. For a long while Ruth didn’t say anything. Then shesighed and asked, “Them folks, did you know them? Was they white folks or colored?”
“I don’t remember knowing them, but they were white folks from the country.”
Somewhere on her forehead a line deepened, and I knew it wasn’t so good that they were white. Ruth pulled down a brown simulated-alligator bag from the top of the refrigerator. “Did those folks know you is Mr. Bergen’s girl?”
“No—I don’t know. Maybe they did,” I said, remembering running towards the rear of our house. Not very smart.
She pushed aside a black eyeglass case and a Bible about the size of an open palm to bring out a red zippered change purse with the printed words, “Souvenir of Detroit, Michigan.” Inside the change purse some coins jangled, but all the paper money was pressed neatly into one small square. She opened the three one-dollar bills to their full size. Carefully she refolded them before placing the money in my hand.
“Now you ask the man how much a window costs ’fore you go giving him all your money.”
She would do all this for me? There between her neck and shoulders was the warm cove where a head could lie and rest. And there I would be home. Home safe.
Ruth’s eyes met mine. Could she know? Could she possibly know? There’s nothing to know! I’m not a baby and she’s not my mother. I ran out of the back door, letting the screen make a slamming noise.
As I walked toward downtown I noticed a breeze pushing a few elm leaves around without doing much more than promising to cool things off. Still, my thoughts began to tidy themselves up and I felt better. After all, wasn’t Ruth on my side? And wasn’t I even now going out to right a wrong?
It was then that I saw a green Chevy roaring down the street towards me. My father! For a moment I thought I was going to take off behind one of the houses or maybe hide behind the shoulder-high hedges that separated front yards from public walks. But I didn’t. Didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Didn’t anything.
The car passed me and then came backing up to a jerky stop. The door was opened and hurled shut. His face was frozen a bluish whitish color, like all the red blood had iced over. With long strides he came toward me. My back pressed against the hedge.
“Let me
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