The Meeting Point Read Online Free PDF Page B

church, she felt. (Mrs. Burrmann used to gothere; but she stopped shortly after Bernice came to work for her.) It was a cleaner wealthier church than her old Negro Baptist Church; and the congregation was all white — or mostly white; and they did not come to church to moan and groan, and exchange experiences about white people and about racial discrimination. Bernice felt purged, in a way. She chopped an inch off the hemline of her dresses, stopped wearing nylon stockings with seams and began stepping out into the pearly white, white virginity of winter and broadminded liberal Christianity, clickitty-clacketty, in a pair of Italian three-quarter heels. She had bought them the day before with her Eaton’s charge-o-matic plate. One immediate result of this change in her place of worship, was that she stopped thinking Mrs. Burrmann was the devil; and consequently, stopped thinking of leaving the job. Life became a little less unbearable. She could stomach Mrs. Burrmann, who at this time, was going to the University of Toronto, doing a part-time course in Social Anthropology. Mrs. Burrmann had less time to herself; less time for the whiskey; and she spent most of the day studying. Bernice spent all her time caring for her personal appearance; and the appearance of her mind. She herself, following her mistress’s influence, took out a subscription to
Life
and
Time
magazines, because she thought she was not quite equipped to engage on formal studies. But reading these two magazines, diligently, caused her to think a great deal about her life in this new, vast country; and about the world; and of course, about Mrs. Burrmann. Reading them even prompted her to put her thoughts on paper, in a letter to Mammy, confessing that
I following the lead of my mistress, and trying to improve my mind. She gone back to school, taking lessons. She is this big, rich Jew woman. So, I figure there must be something
very special in doing that. That is why I subscribe to two nice magazines which I reads every night after work. I am convince there is something in learning, Mammy. Some damn thing. This lady, Mrs. Burrmann, have learning already, and money too. I don’t know yet which road to follow. But I intend to follow both; and get some of both. If she can go back to school, at her age, and she already have a lot of certificates on the wall, and other papers testifying to the fact that …
and here her thoughts forsook her.
    … and all these things come back to her, working eternally it seems, in this kitchen; listening to Mrs. Burrmann play Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony as often as there is snow in winter; listening to the complaints, the small defeats and successes of the two children; and at times, giving some asked-for advice to Mrs. Burrmann about a dress — advice which was never taken. Listening now to the music, as the music possesses the room like human harvesters of women possessing a field, and leaving the field without corn, the music makes her think of home in Barbados; and it makes her say these thoughts out aloud, to herself, as she is accustomed to doing, while working in the kitchen. Sometimes, she argues aloud, to herself. And sometimes, her voice frightens her, as she hears it answering her; and she fears she is hearing the knell of a beginning insanity; and
remember, Bernice, do you remember Gertrude? and what happen to her? Never a soul with who she could exchange a word with, and comment on the colour of snow, even. Days and days pass, and not one o’ we women from the West Indies ever went up to Orillia and see how Gertrude making out; and Orillia isn’t as far as New York, and they always rushing down there, as if they have gold down there. Nobody won’t go up and see how Gertrude making out in life, living amongst all them white people. Lord
,
and when all of us was thinking that things up there was rosy, that Gertrude was making money like water, Gertrude, oh dear loss! flat on her back in a mental hospital.