The Race

Mama said, “be careful with him.”

Daddy said, “c'mon, baby doll.”

I never understood why.

We grew up together, him being only a few months older than me. I remember being babies and running around outside, catching butterflies and grasshoppers.

I remember being seven. Sometimes, he'd sit in with me while I did my lessons. He'd ask me questions and I'd teach him what I just learned from my Nan. We practiced writing together, him on the left side of the board and me on the right. He liked the way the chalk sounded, liked how it got all over your fingers and hands. I didn't notice it as much as he did.

I remember being ten. We'd be sitting on the back porch steps eating a picnic. I'd wave to Ms. Nell in the garden, and she'd smile and shout out, “Hi sweetie. How's it going for ya on this beautiful day?” And I'd shout back “It's going real nice, Ms. Nell.” And she'd nod slowly with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. And then she'd wipe her forehead with her apron and go back to tending the garden. And he'd finish the last of his part of our picnic and go help Ms. Nell.

Mama said, “why don't you go play with the little girls in the neighborhood?”

Daddy said, “c'mon, baby doll.”

I never understood why.

I remember being twelve. Mr. Henry opening the carriage door for me, saying, “Welcome home, Miss. I know you had a grand time with Auntie Jane, but we sure are glad to have ya back.” Mama coming out of the house in her big pretty dress. Daddy coming out in his work suit with his tie loose around his neck. And him, jumping down the steps with that big ole grin spread wide across his face. And me smiling happy at Mama and smiling happy at Daddy, and smiling big and real at him. Him picking up my bags for me and carrying them inside, and us talking all about what I'd done for three weeks at Auntie Jane's big house. And I remember seeing my parents look at each other, and remember seeing them stay back and talk to Mr. Henry. Mr. Henry looking anxious and shuffling his feet and nodding like grown ups do when there's something sad they're talking about.

Mama said, “you're getting too old for this.”

Daddy said, “c'mon, baby doll.”

I never understood why.

I remember being fifteen during that snowstorm. Ms. Nell being sick and Mama and me packing up food to take to their house. Walking in and her lying on her bed, underneath the covers with a rag on her forehead, sweating like she was on fire but talking about how cold, oh just how cold she was. And him standing by the fireplace, arms crossed, not moving, not taking his eyes off of her, trying to be her guardian angel. And Mr. Henry rocking back and forth, back and forth in the chair beside her bed. I remember his lips moving, praying to himself all quiet. Mama and me putting the food basket down on the table in the kitchen. Mama going and getting the rag from Ms. Nell's forehead and taking it to the water bucket to ring it out. And me going and standing next to him. “Hey,” I whispered. “Hey,” he whispered back. And him uncrossing his arms and shoving his left hand in his pocket and letting me hold his right hand. And Mama putting the rag back on Ms. Nell's head, saying soothing words to her, turning and seeing us holding hands, and just staring. And having this sad look on her face.

I got up that night to go to the kitchen and I heard them through the door.

Mama said, “we've got to talk to her.”

Nan said, “you're going to break her heart.”

Daddy said, “she's got to know.”

Nan said, “she's not going to listen.”

Mama and Daddy didn't say anything else.

Eighteen. Callers come calling, and I know how to play my part as a lady. And every time they finally leave and I wait for him to finish working and we go walk around the yard and make fun of their clothes or their hair or their big names and small fortunes. “They want my money,” I said one time. “They want what I can do for them, not me. They don't care about me.” He put his hand around mine. His hand was large and warm and rough. He did a lot more work ever since Ms. Nell passed away. He put his hand around mine and said, “They must be blind.” And I said, “I wish the world was.”

Mama said, “you know better.”

Daddy said, “be careful, baby doll.”

Nan said, “let 'em be while they can be.”

I hated understanding why.

Nineteen, and my parents tell me they think quite highly of Mr. Mason. He calls more than the others. He's nicer than the others and he holds conversations with me rather than only my father. He smiles when he looks at me, and sometimes I actually enjoy smiling back. I remember the night he called when my father asked me to leave the room after dinner. I knew what it meant. I remember sneaking out the door, down the back porch steps, and running to their house and knocking, knocking, knocking. Mr. Henry answering and saying surprised, “Well hi there, Miss. What's got you out here at this hour?” And then me looking at Mr. Henry and Mr. Henry seeing my face and my dress and looking outside at Mr. Mason's carriage, and saying “Oh. That's what's got you out here.” Mr. Henry stepping aside and me walking in and sitting down at the kitchen table. Mr. Henry sitting on my left side and him sitting on my right and holding my hand while Mr. Henry sighs and puts his hand on my back, and I cry. Me, crying at their kitchen table, feeling the minutes inch by until I hear Mr. Mason's carriage pull out of the yard. Mr. Henry sings an old hymn song and then turns my chin so I'm looking at him and says, “Now then, Miss, you keep that pretty head high, and you don't let em tell you what to do, ya hear? But this.” Mr. Henry looking at our hands. “This is bigger than you and them. This is you and the world. And you can't go fighting the world all by yourself. Miss, it's been an honor watching you grow up. And it's been an honor having you in our family. But you know we have to let you go.” I remember Mr. Henry crying one tear and standing me up and giving me a hug.

Then me and him walking around the yard for the last time. Holding hands for the last time. Enjoying being quiet together for the last time. Him saying, “Mr. Mason seems like he'll take good care of you.” And me saying, “He will.” And him saying, “Do you know where you'll be living?” And me saying “No.” And then him being quiet for a real long time. And saying, “Do you think you'll love him?” And me being quiet for a real long time. And saying, “I hope I learn to.”

It's a painful moment when your heart splits in two.

Twenty-one, and I'm grown up, and I'm moved away and in my own house with my own husband, beginning my own family. And my heart's not in two anymore, and I'm learning to love my husband more and more. But I still see him sometimes, when we visit my parents. And he nods his head and says “Sir,” and “Ma'am,” and he picks up our bags and carries them to our room. And I don't go with him. And in the morning we wake up, and he's tending the garden. And I don't go help him. And sometimes in the afternoon, I sit on the back porch, and he looks up and says, “How's it going for ya on this beautiful day, Ma'am?” And I say, “It's going real nice, Sir.” And he laughs and says “Don't call me Sir” and I say “Don't call me Ma'am.” And he's quiet for a long time. And then he says, “That's not how it works anymore.”