The Darkest Child Read Online Free PDF Page B

that he loosened his grip on Martha Jean’s hand and slowed his pace just a bit.
    “I ain’t from around here,” was all he said.
    “Martha Jean is only fourteen. She can’t court you if that’s what you think,” I continued.
    “Martha Jean,” he echoed. “So that’s her name?”
    “Yeah, that’s her name,” I answered, and quickly stepped forward to block his path. “And my name is Tangy. We’re Rozelle Quinn’s children, so you’d better leave us alone.”
    “Martha Jean sho’ is a pretty one,” he said admiringly.
    “And I guess I’m the ugly one!” I snapped.
    “Oh, no, little sister,” he answered. “There ain’t nothing ugly ’bout you, not that I can see anyway. You ’bout the prettiest little dark-skin girl I ever seen. Now, I got a problem with that mouth of yours, but other than that, I don’t reckon there’s an ugly spot on you.” He stepped around me and opened the door of the Buick.
    Martha Jean made a move toward him, but I stopped her by throwing an arm up in front of her. The man slid onto the front seat of the car, shook his head slowly, then closed the door. I breathed a sigh of relief that was barely out when he rolled the window down and stared at me.
    “Little sister,” he said. “I didn’t mean y’all no harm. I just thought Martha Jean might be cold, that’s all.”
    I nodded, wanting to believe him.
    “I’m Skeeter Richards’ nephew,” he said. “You know Skeeter?”
    “Everybody knows Skeeter,” I answered. Skeeter ran the concession stand in the colored section of the picture show.
    Martha Jean shivered again, rubbed her hands together, then pointed to Velman Cooper and ran a finger across her chest.
    “What’s that she’s doing?” he asked.
    “She wants to know your name,” I said, spreading my middle and index fingers apart to form a V, and pointing the V toward the ground, then bringing it up to my head like horns on a devil.
    Velman seemed puzzled, but Martha Jean smiled and mimicked the sign I had made.
    “What is that? ”Velman asked.
    “A V straight up from Hell,” I answered.
    He laughed, stepped out of the car, and made the sign himself. “A V straight up from Hell,” he said. “I like that. Come on. How about I give y’all a ride home?”
    “Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, admitting to myself that Martha Jean should not have been out without a coat, “but you can’t take us all the way.” I knew Mama would skin us alive if she knew we had taken a ride from a stranger.
    “All right. Halfway,” he said.
    Martha Jean scooted across the seat and sat next to him. I crawled in next to her and shut the door. I told Velman how to get to Penyon Road and where to let us out, and for the rest of the ride I stared at my sister’s head, trying to find a way inside. I wanted to know why she had been willing to trust this stranger, why she had not waited for me inside the warm post office, but had waited for him out in the cold. I needed to know what went on in her silence.

five
    S aturday morning dawned bleak and dreary. I longed to pull the blanket over my head and curl back into a cozy ball of sleep, but I could not. There were so many things to do. The coal stove stood as a gloomy reminder of the chores that lay ahead. I rolled over on my pallet and touched the bottom of the stove, feeling only a hint of last night’s warmth. My right side, from the waist down, was soaked with urine, and my gown clung to my legs as I crawled up from the floor. My teeth chattered in the morning chill, and I cursed Laura for her weak bladder, or kidney, or whatever caused her to routinely ammoniate my body.
    As my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, I could make out the two brown armchairs guarding the small, round table where the kerosene lamp stood. They were the only pieces of furniture in the room, except for the cedar chest that stood beneath the front window and the wooden crates where we stored our clothes. The table and chairs displayed a