problem there was always a new one cropping up to take its place. Now that she and Bub were living alone, there was no one to look out for him after school. She had thought he could eat lunch at school, for it didnât cost very muchâonly fifty cents a week.
But after three days of school lunches, Bub protested, âI canât eat that stuff. They give us soup every day. And I hate it.â
As soon as she could afford to, she would take an afternoon off from work and visit the school so that she could find out for herself what the menus were like. But until then, Bub would have to eat lunchat home, and that wasnât anything to worry about. It was what happened to him after school that made her frown as she walked along, for he was either in the apartment by himself or playing in the street.
She didnât know which was worseâhis being alone in those dreary little rooms Or his playing in the street where the least of the dangers confronting him came from the stream of traffic which roared through 116th Street: crosstown buses, postoffice trucks, and newspaper delivery cars that swooped up and down the street turning into the avenues without warning. The traffic was an obvious threat to his safety that he could see and dodge. He was too young to recognize and avoid other dangers in the street. There were, for instance, gangs of young boys who were always on the lookout for small fry Bubâs age, because they found young kids useful in getting in through narrow fire-escape windows, in distracting a storekeeperâs attention while the gang light-heartedly helped itself to his stock.
Then, in spite of the small, drab apartment and the dent that moving into it had made in her weekâs pay and the worry about Bub that crept into her thoughts, she started humming under her breath as she went along, increasing her stride so that she was walking faster and faster because the air was crisp and clear and her long legs felt strong and just the motion of walking sent blood bubbling all through her body so that she could feel it. She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the block because she suddenly remembered that she had completely forgotten to shop for dinner.
The butcher shop that she entered on EighthAvenue was crowded with customers, so that she had ample time to study the meat in the case in front of her before she was waited on. There wasnât, she saw, very much choiceâham hocks, lamb culls, bright-red beef. Someone had told Granny once that the butchers in Harlem used embalming fluid on the beef they sold in order to give it a nice fresh color. Lutie didnât believe it, but like a lot of things she didnât believe, it cropped up suddenly out of nowhere to leave her wondering and staring at the brilliant scarlet color of the meat. It made her examine the contents of the case with care in order to determine whether there was something else that would do for dinner. No, she decided. Hamburger would be the best thing to get. It cooked quickly, and a half-pound of it mixed with breadcrumbs would go a long way.
The butcher, a fat red-faced man with a filthy apron tied around his enormous stomach, joked with the women lined up at the counter while he waited on them. A yellow cat sitting high on a shelf in back of him blinked down at the customers. One of his paws almost touched the edge of a sign that said âNo Credit.â The sign was fly-specked and dusty; its edges curling back from heat.
âKitty had her meat today?â a thin black woman asked as she smiled up at the cat.
âSure thing,â and the butcher roared with laughter, and the women laughed with him until the butcher shop was so full of merriment it sounded as though it were packed with happy, carefree people.
It wasnât even funny, Lutie thought. Yet the women rocked and roared with laughter as though they had heard some tremendous joke, went onlaughing until finally there were only low
But after three days of school lunches, Bub protested, âI canât eat that stuff. They give us soup every day. And I hate it.â
As soon as she could afford to, she would take an afternoon off from work and visit the school so that she could find out for herself what the menus were like. But until then, Bub would have to eat lunchat home, and that wasnât anything to worry about. It was what happened to him after school that made her frown as she walked along, for he was either in the apartment by himself or playing in the street.
She didnât know which was worseâhis being alone in those dreary little rooms Or his playing in the street where the least of the dangers confronting him came from the stream of traffic which roared through 116th Street: crosstown buses, postoffice trucks, and newspaper delivery cars that swooped up and down the street turning into the avenues without warning. The traffic was an obvious threat to his safety that he could see and dodge. He was too young to recognize and avoid other dangers in the street. There were, for instance, gangs of young boys who were always on the lookout for small fry Bubâs age, because they found young kids useful in getting in through narrow fire-escape windows, in distracting a storekeeperâs attention while the gang light-heartedly helped itself to his stock.
Then, in spite of the small, drab apartment and the dent that moving into it had made in her weekâs pay and the worry about Bub that crept into her thoughts, she started humming under her breath as she went along, increasing her stride so that she was walking faster and faster because the air was crisp and clear and her long legs felt strong and just the motion of walking sent blood bubbling all through her body so that she could feel it. She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the block because she suddenly remembered that she had completely forgotten to shop for dinner.
The butcher shop that she entered on EighthAvenue was crowded with customers, so that she had ample time to study the meat in the case in front of her before she was waited on. There wasnât, she saw, very much choiceâham hocks, lamb culls, bright-red beef. Someone had told Granny once that the butchers in Harlem used embalming fluid on the beef they sold in order to give it a nice fresh color. Lutie didnât believe it, but like a lot of things she didnât believe, it cropped up suddenly out of nowhere to leave her wondering and staring at the brilliant scarlet color of the meat. It made her examine the contents of the case with care in order to determine whether there was something else that would do for dinner. No, she decided. Hamburger would be the best thing to get. It cooked quickly, and a half-pound of it mixed with breadcrumbs would go a long way.
The butcher, a fat red-faced man with a filthy apron tied around his enormous stomach, joked with the women lined up at the counter while he waited on them. A yellow cat sitting high on a shelf in back of him blinked down at the customers. One of his paws almost touched the edge of a sign that said âNo Credit.â The sign was fly-specked and dusty; its edges curling back from heat.
âKitty had her meat today?â a thin black woman asked as she smiled up at the cat.
âSure thing,â and the butcher roared with laughter, and the women laughed with him until the butcher shop was so full of merriment it sounded as though it were packed with happy, carefree people.
It wasnât even funny, Lutie thought. Yet the women rocked and roared with laughter as though they had heard some tremendous joke, went onlaughing until finally there were only low
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