The Orphan Mother Read Online Free PDF Page A

ocean. But here I am.”
    “You wouldn’t leave this place.”
    “Might consider it, you don’t know.”
    Theopolis snorted and drank his coffee.
    Theopolis had told her it gave him comfort to think that he, a Negro, might soon be sitting in the legislature with his feet up on the rail and voting according to his own instincts and philosophies. I have instincts and philosophies, Mama. You do, too. He would have his own polished spittoon when he sat in that beautiful chamber. He would sit and spit alongside his heroes in the state’s Reconstruction government.
    Governor Brownlow, for instance—Theopolis had last year traveled clear to Nashville to see him, and could recite whole chunks of the speech the governor gave. Someday Governor Brownlow himself might turn to Representative Theopolis Reddick and ask him what he thought of a new law, or some problem that needed fixing. Governor Brownlow would ask him for his vote. Governor Brownlow would reach out with his big, important hand and shake Theopolis’s. This is what he had told his mother, and it was these very words that terrified her. Not the words, but the fact that he believed them.
    It would all start today, whatever she thought. These big, important white men and Theopolis, her son, with his instincts and philosophies, would stand onstage trying to win votes side by side.
    Theopolis loved his mama. He loved her so much he came to see her every morning for his coffee, but he did not fear her like she would have liked. If he had feared her, he wouldn’t be giving any speeches that afternoon right there, across the way, where the white men with their bricked-in faces would be watching.
    His love for her, which when he was a boy she had felt powerfully every time he had slotted his hand into hers, couldn’t compete now. Who was she, his mama, but a foolish woman who could hardly read and write, who needed to be reminded she had her own ideas about politics? Who was she next to those men, whose words he hung on like they were all that mattered in the world? No, he would go and he would speak and she would stand by, as always, afraid of what would happen when he raised his voice.
    No one could say that Mariah acted like a slave: she held her head up and met every white man’s gaze with a clear, gray-eyed stare. But no matter how she acted, she knew one thing: Negro folk did not speak. They raised their voices in a chorus only to praise the Lord and pray for a better time to come. They did not stand before white folk and try to change their minds, try to understand them, try to make the white folk see them.
    And now, this afternoon, Theopolis would be seen .
    *  *  *
    She smelled liquor and tobacco smoke and biscuits, and thought all three had never smelled so sweet or so definite, so full of things she’d never noticed before. Even the dogs seemed to know that something was imminent, for they trotted along barking at nearly everything they saw and nipping each other’s necks distractedly.
    “What about Mrs. McGavock, Mama? She’ll want to come. She’ll be there, I’ll bet.”
    “She got better things to do.”
    “What’s better than to be in the middle of change? Nothing, that’s what.”
    “Miss Carrie has her dead folk to tend to. And Mr. John’s away, traveling.”
    “That ain’t more important than today. I’d think they’d want to come hear me speak.”
    “Don’t be a sassy boy.”
    The whole town seemed jittery—even the air and the leaves dancing on it. Mariah’s neighbors plied the wood sidewalks to and fro, from the academy to the Presbyterian church to the courthouse and back again, everyone buzzing. The Colored League Negroes swaggered, boots clattering on the paving stones, stopping each other with a clap on the back, bending their heads together, joining their voices in an excited hum. Upon meeting or parting they would give a spirited chant for the Republican governor—“Huzzah for Brownlow!” It all seemed very unnatural to