Papa showed up on a Tuesday with Edna and her two little ones. Faith and Betsy shrilled Grandpapa! from an upstairs window; I heard them come thumping down the stairs. I cut them off as they rushed toward the front door and made them cry by shooing them back upstairs to their uncle Eddie, who is living here until the boardinghouse has a free room. Eddie had testified for the defense that one of the slain men had tried to ambush Papa at Fort White, but now he only parrots Walter, saying perjury was as far as he aimed to go. He did not come out to greet his father and Lucius, of course, was away at Chatham Bend.
Through the curtains I watched Papa give the knocker a sharp rap. The others hung back, out in the street. His darkie was a sullen-looking man in dirty overalls. In a cart behind them, dragged from the railroad station, was their sad heap of worldly goods, right down to the bedsteads and the burlap sacks of tools; I thought of those desperate homesteaders we felt so sorry for during the land rush into Oklahoma Territory.
Papa was unshaven and pasty-white from months in jail, his teeth were bad. His Edna looked holloweyed, drained of her color, and their sallow children too worn out to whine. It’s hard to think of these forlorn creatures as my brother and sister when they’re even younger than my little daughters.
The girl asked if she should show them in. I shook my head. Just bring some milk, I whispered, and a plate of cookies. I went to the door and opened it and we all faced each other. I was trying not to witness my father’s humiliation. Then I realized that humiliation was not what he was feeling; was it only my imagination or was there something haunted in his gaze? “Oh, Papa,” I said, taking his hands, “I’m so relieved about that awful trial!”
My voice sounded false and faraway. He saw right through me. Though he mustered a smile, there was no spark in his eyes, and the smile turned sardonic as he waited to see if I would ask them in. He made no attempt to hug me, which was most unusual; was he afraid I might not hug him back?
“Happy New Year, Carrie,” Papa said. “Where are the children? Are those sweet things hiding from their bad old grandpa?” Because they adore him and have fun with him and always fly to the sound of his growly voice, he was stung that Faith and Betsy had not even called out. How shameful to make my father feel unwelcome just when he needs his family most!
A dreadful pause-where oh where were the milk and cookies? Because Papa was trying to be cheerful, I tried not to weep.
Then his face closed. He said abruptly that they would not come in, having only stopped by to say hello on their way to the dock to catch Captain Bill Collier and the Falcon. As he spoke, the girl appeared with milk and cookies. She set the tray down too quickly on the steps, everything sliding and askew. The silly thing was deathly scared of Papa, all the darkies are, though how they hear those dreadful rumors I don’t know.
I came forward and hugged his gloomy kids and pecked the wan cheek of my stepmother. After days of hard travel, they all smelled like poor people. I said good morning to the black man, who did not respond or even lift his hat. Mama taught us that what people call sullenness or stupidity in darkies is often no more than fear and shyness; they have learned that it is much more dangerous to act decisively and make mistakes than to be passive and slow, despite the abuse and contempt they will surely suffer. Nonetheless I was surprised by the man’s rudeness and astonished by Papa’s patience. When Papa spoke to him in a low murmur, the man gave a violent start like a dog in a nightmare and removed his hat. As if unaware I had already said good morning, he muttered, “Yes’m, thank you.” Papa said, “He went to trial with me up north. Maybe he’s not quite over our close call.” He drew his finger under his chin and popped his eyes out like a hanged man, but he was very angry now and those eyes had no relation to his smile.
That black man never heard me, I now think, because he was sunk in dreadful melancholia. Later I asked Walter if Negroes suffer melancholy the same way we do and Walter said that he supposed so, though he hadn’t thought about it. Overhearing, Eddie burst out, “That’s ridiculous!” Eddie is most vehement when most uncertain.
I encouraged the children to take a cookie. “They’re not pets,” said Papa, pointing at the plate, which still sat on the step. Mortified, I snatched it up and offered it. “Of course they’re not, Papa!” I burst into tears for he had turned, saying, “Good-bye, then, Daughter.” He stalked away. Watching him lead his little group toward the river, I could not know that we would never speak again.