Ma Pearl should have turned down those outdated Sears and Roebuck catalogs she kept stacked in the corner, collecting dust. The only use we got from them was flipping through the pages, dreaming of things we’d never own.
By the time I found another homemade dress to slip over my head and returned to the parlor, the chatter had returned as well. Like a bird in the early morning darkness, Ma Pearl twittered incessantly about the dangers of living in the city. She had been listening to radio programs about crime in big cities like Chicago and Saint Louis, and she wanted to impress Mr. Pete with what she thought she knew about living up north.
Papa, his expression serious as always, sat in one of the powder blue chairs next to the window. He wore his Saturday-going-to-town clothes—?creased khakis and a starched white shirt—?for the occasion. His black pipe, filled with Prince Albert tobacco, but never lit, rested between his lips.
Though tall, Papa was not a hulk of a man the way Ma Pearl was an amazon of a woman. Farm work kept him slim. Also, unlike Ma Pearl, he was not impressed with Mr. Pete. As “ruint” as Mama was, he was not fond of her being married to a man who, at forty-nine, was closer to Papa’s fifty-nine years than Mama’s twenty-eight, regardless of how much land he farmed.
Even though I had changed into a clean dress, I hesitated to enter the parlor. With Ma Pearl and Papa being the only two privy to Mama’s visit—?and obviously to her northern migration—?their appearance almost matched the crispness of the Chicago-bound family. Plus, I hadn’t thought to wet a rag and wipe the dust from my ankles and feet. I was about to turn around and head back to my room before Ma Pearl noticed and gave me another scolding, but when Mama saw me lingering in the doorway between the parlor and the front room, she invited me to join her. She patted the spot next to her on the settee and said, “Come set beside me, Sister.”
As soon as I sat next to Mama (and scooted my feet as far under the settee as possible), Sugar left her spot next to Mr. Pete on the sofa and wedged herself between us. “I wanna set beside you too,” she said, glancing up, grinning at Mama. When Mama smiled her consent, I scooted over and made room for Sugar. If Mama had waited a bit to nickname her the way she did me and Fred Lee, perhaps she could have named her Salt instead, seeing that sometimes she could be just as salty as she was sweet.
Mr. Pete smiled at Fred Lee, who stood rather than sat. “Me and Christopher Joe don’t bite,” he said.
Fred Lee, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes cast to the floor, ignored Mr. Pete. I could tell he was as angry as I was that Mama was leaving for Chicago.
Fred Lee was tall like Mama. As a matter of fact, even at age twelve, he was almost as tall as the burly Mr. Pete, without the bulk. But we both, according to Ma Pearl, looked like our daddy, Johnny Lee Banks. She also claimed that’s where Fred Lee got his “slow wits.” Of course, I could confirm neither, seeing I had never met the man myself, even though he lived right there in Stillwater with his wife and children.
When Fred Lee didn’t answer him, Mr. Pete turned back to Ma Pearl to continue exchanging notes on city life. As he bragged about the things they would do once they got to Chicago, Papa took his pipe from his mouth and regarded him curiously. Leaning back in his chair, Papa crossed his right foot over his left knee and interrupted the conversation. “What kinda work you say you got up there again, Pete?”
Mr. Pete sat straighter. “I got a position with Armour and Company,” he said proudly. “The meat factory.”
Papa furrowed his brow. “They ’low coloreds to handle meat up there in them factories?”
“I won’t be handling meat,” Mr. Pete said matter-of-factly. “I’ll be making soap.”
“Soap?” Papa said, uncrossing his legs. “At a meat house?”
Mr. Pete tilted his head to the side. “You never heard of Dial soap, Mr. Carter?”
“I makes my own soap, Pete. No need to concern myself with the store-bought kind.”
Mr. Pete jerked back, his face flustered. “You never heard the radio advertisements?”
Papa placed the pipe back in his mouth. He shook his head and pretended to puff as he uttered, “Nope.”
“Can’t believe you never heard the advertisements,” Mr. Pete said, his voice low.
After a moment of silent staring, his expression bewildered, Mr. Pete cleared his throat and said, “‘Aren’t you glad you use Dial? Don’t you wish everybody did?’”
I suppressed a chuckle. But Ma Pearl, with a grin as wide as the room, couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. “Oooh, Pete,” she said, clasping her hands like a child before a candy counter, “you sound jest like the man doing the abertising on the radio.”
Mr. Pete beamed like a lighthouse.
Papa, still not impressed, countered, “Don’t much listen to the radio, Pete. So I reckon I ain’t never heard of a meat house making soap.”
“Aw shoot, Paul,” Ma Pearl said. “Ain’t no different than the rough lye soap you makes from the hog fat.”