Shirley Claire attached to Hazel as if she’d never had a mother, and because the Lakeses couldn’t stand to hear her cry, Hazel’s schedule changed to revolve around Shirley Claire, requiring Adelaide to take up the slack to avoid neglect to Mary.
Sometimes it took hours to soothe Shirley Claire. Hazel assumed these were the rare times when she missed her parents. In an unexpected gesture, Mr. Lakes took the child from Hazel one afternoon. “Let me try.” They disappeared into his study, and within minutes, Shirley Claire quieted. Astonished, Hazel crept to the door to hear him reading to her:
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep or cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Shirley Claire was asleep by the end, curled like a puppy in her grandfather’s lap. Seeing her in the doorway, Mr. Lakes beckoned Hazel into his library. She rocked back and forth on her heels, hesitant. “Did you want me to take Shirley Claire to her bed?”
Hazel could see a droplet of sweat running down from the top of his head. Mr. Lakes was always sweating, even in the winter months. She imagined he smelled like a towel that never quite dried out.
“I’ll do it. Little thing is heavy.” Mr. Lakes jostled the tot to readjust her head in the bend of his arm. “She’s dreaming now.” He pointed to the book of poetry on the small table. Hazel saw the name on the spine: W. H. DAVIES. “I used to read that poem to my boys when they were little,” he said. “I suppose it was soothing. The description of what a life should be.”
“What’s that?”
“Time spent doing nothing in particular.”
Hazel thought about the way Mr. Lakes spent his time and began to understand. She listened as he began to recite the poem by memory.
The words were melodic and shifted her attention outside, to the streams of sunlight piercing through the trees, and onto the wooden floor at her feet. She put her hand out, wanting the sun to drench her skin. Hearing the creaking of the wooden floor, she was pulled from the warmth. Mr. Lakes was at the door with Shirley Claire. “Take the book; it seemed to work with her too.”
Having read the poem to Shirley Claire at every slumber thereafter, Hazel quickly memorized it and started reciting it to Mary on the rare nights she was home to tuck her in. Sometimes Mary was forgiving and reached for Hazel immediately, others she clung to Adelaide, refusing Hazel’s touch.
* * *
Then one day in July, nothing worked, and Shirley Claire’s cries became unbearable to the older couple.
“She’s bored, and it’s hot. She can’t stay in this house all day anymore,” Mrs. Nora said, handing Hazel a wad of cash. “Go to the park, get her some ice cream, take her to a movie—anything.”
“But Mrs. Nora, I’m not allowed.”
“You are while in charge of her.” Negro women were tolerated in Whites-only spaces when attending to White children. “If any of those bums even look at you wrong, tell them to call me.”
Required by law to keep her eyes to the ground, move aside to make way, and speak little, Hazel felt like a ghost among the White residents of Winston-Salem. They passed her, smiling at Shirley Claire, never once looking her in the face. She didn’t mind. Being seen by White folks led to situations you couldn’t get out of. Being seen meant they wanted something to kick, much like a dog. That lesson Hazel had learned for good. Besides, being ignored allowed Hazel continuous observation of the world to which her child should belong.
Given enough money every day to indulge Shirley Claire’s every whim many times over, Hazel began squirreling some away for Mary, deciding that one day, everything Shirley Claire got and did, Mary would too. It wasn’t until August that Hazel got up the courage. When Shirley Claire’s August birthday passed without the three-tiered cake and candles from Mrs. Nora that Mary always received, Hazel decided Mrs. Nora would want Mary to have the extras money afforded.
CHAPTER 5
Hazel
Summer 1942
The next Sunday, and every Sunday thereafter, Hazel took Mary to Charlotte. Only two hours by bus, it was the closest big town to Winston-Salem. No one knew them there, making it the perfect place to pass Mary off as her young mistress.
“Don’t you ever call me ‘momma’ around White folks. Call me ‘Hazel,’ hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let me do the talking, no matter what happens—you understand? Don’t answer anyone’s questions but mine.”
Mary’s skin was a cloak of acceptability, and Hazel used it to open the front doors of every space where Negro children weren’t allowed. They went to the library, and Mary learned to swim in the public pool. They enjoyed picnics in Royale Park. Hazel borrowed one of the Lakeses’ garden blankets from the downstairs closet, one with a big “H” on it, to sit on. Hazel listened to Mary read aloud while she rebraided her ponytails; every so often, she checked to make sure the strands were still growing straight from her daughter’s scalp. Every week, Mary came home with new ribbons, a pair of gloves, a book or, in some special cases, a doll from Ivey’s department store. The store only sold White dolls, but they all had Mary’s eyes.
Their favorite place was the movie theater. Hazel had to stand—Negroes were only permitted to sit in the balcony—but wore her comfortable shoes, more concerned with exposing her daughter to the serene lives lived on the screen than with her own comfort. Mary sat like a little lady, alone, in the White section of the theater, pin straight and still for the entire picture, except for the occasional smile and scrunching of her shoulders in delight. Shirley Temple was her favorite.
Mary skipped up the theater aisle afterward as if there was no one else around, swinging her arms wide and lifting her agile knees up to her chest. People moved or were hit with an arm; regardless, they smiled at the beautiful, happy little girl. Hazel trailed Mary as she cleared their path through the lobby, and out of the exit. Hazel didn’t stop her even then. It felt good to be able to walk a straight, unobstructed path through the White world.
They went to the diner for grilled cheese, hamburgers, and pickles. Hazel couldn’t eat but enjoyed watching Mary. During their third visit, Mary handed half her grilled cheese to Hazel.
Hazel pushed her hand back to her plate. “Eat your food. It’s a special treat for you.”
“But you like cheese sandwiches too.”
“Yes, but eating it here is what makes it a treat.”
Mary looked around the diner. “All these people are special?”
Hazel smiled. “Everyone is. Each in their own way.”
“So why are treats just for White people?”
“You’re not White,” Hazel whispered.
Mary had another question but continued eating as the you-better-do-as-I-say look she knew well crossed Hazel’s face. “Eat.”
* * *
“I’m bright,” Mary announced later on the bus home. She touched her arm to Hazel’s. The difference was stark. “You’re Negro.”
There were snickers from other Negroes on the bus, all of whom likely had had similar conversations with a Negro child. The Negro race spanned hues from snow white to ink black. Children didn’t understand how they were all called “Negro” or “Colored.”