Nat King Cole. “Unforgettable.” While listening to the crooning, I slipped my dress over my head and let it drop to the floor. But after I wiggled out of my dingy white slip, I cringed at the sight in the mirror.
A skinny, furless bear. That’s what I looked like. Tall. Brown. Skinny. Like a bear who forgot to wake from hibernation and starved through three winters. A vision that was certainly not unforgettable.
When the song ended, I placed one hand on my hip and the other behind my head. Tilting my hip to the side, I pretended I was posing for Jet magazine. I whispered at my reflection, “Rose Lee Carter, pretty Chicago socialite.” Yes. Chicago. That’s where I would go. Forget Saint Louis. I would have to find a way to make my mama love me enough to return for me and Fred Lee so she could raise us right along with Li’ Man and Sugar.
I switched to the other hip. “She left Mississippi at age thirteen. Attended the best schools in Chicago. Graduated at the top of her class. She is now a college student studying to be a teacher. Or a lawyer. Or a doctor. Or maybe even a movie star.”
I quickly recognized the next song. A thousand times I had watched Queen dance around the parlor, snapping her fingers and shaking her hips as she listened to it. With the beat so catchy, I couldn’t help swinging my hips from side to side too, wondering what it would be like to be one of those northern socialites.
The song was something about a sandman bringing dreams. Snapping my fingers, I danced until I worked up a sweat. I knew I probably looked like a fool standing before the mirror, dancing in my undergarments, but at the moment, I didn’t feel like one. I felt free. Happy. Rejuvenated. Ready to move up north and conquer the world.
“Mr. Sandman,” the song said, “bring me a dream.”
Hallelujah. He was kind of cute. Probably the cutest boy I’d ever seen. But he liked Queen, not me. Everybody liked Queen. Everybody liked beautiful, light-skinned Queen.
But at that moment, I didn’t care. I hugged my body and pretended I was dancing in one of those juke joints where Ma Pearl claimed that Slow John caroused on Saturday nights. I hummed to myself.
“Mr. Sandman, hmm, hmm, h—”
“Gal, what is you doing?” Ma Pearl cried from the doorway.
Shock flashed through my body like lightning. “Ma Pearl!” I gasped as I scrambled to get my dress off the floor and over my head.
Ma Pearl, her arms folded, her eyes cold, stared at me from the doorway. “What the devil is you doing in my room, Rose Lee?”
I feared my heart would beat out of my chest. “I—?I—” I didn’t know what to say. There I was, undressed, dancing in front of a mirror, in a room where I wasn’t even allowed, on a day I’d pretended to be sick so I wouldn’t have to work in the field, and I couldn’t think of a lie that was less humiliating than the truth.
“I ast you a question, Rose Lee,” Ma Pearl said.
My mind scrambled for an answer. When it didn’t find one quickly enough, Ma Pearl stormed toward the wall where the black strap of terror proudly hung. She yanked it from the nail and said, “Guess I have to speak to the backside, since the mouth on vacation.”
Recognizing the familiar threat as an invitation for a beating, my brain quickly conjured up an answer. “It was too hot in my room,” I said, my words rushing together. “My fever felt like it was getting worse. That’s why I came in here. Your room ain’t as hot.” I pointed toward the blackout curtains, my hand shaking.
Ma Pearl narrowed her eyes. “And why was you half nekked?”
“I took off my dress to cool off faster.”
“Um-hmm,” Ma Pearl said, staring at me from head to toe.
She made me feel ashamed even with my dress on.
“You better be glad that boy in the front room waitin’ for you,” she said, frowning. “Otherwise I’d beat the devil outta you for lying to me. Talkin’ ’bout a fever. You got a fever all right.”
“Ma Pearl, it wasn’t like that,” I said, wishing I could melt into the floor and disappear.
She jerked her head toward the door. “Git on in there and see what that boy want. He running round here frantic. Like he go’n die if he don’t talk to you.”
Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. “What boy?” I asked.
“Preacher’s boy.” Ma Pearl frowned. “Who else be looking for yo’ lil’ black self?”
“Hallelujah,” I whispered. Guilt overcame me. Just knowing I had been standing before the mirror, undressed, swaying to music and thinking about Hallelujah, made me feel dirty and ashamed. I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn’t. Ma Pearl didn’t tolerate tears unless she had administered a beating strong enough to warrant them.
Seeing that she had deflated me, she sniffed haughtily and said, “Git on outta my room and quit ack’n like a dirn fool. You see that boy all the time.”