Eve’s Daughters
Ellen Saxby
Copyright © 2012 Ellen Saxby
This book is a work of fiction. It is based on a real part of American history but the main characters bear no resemblance to real persons.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-05-30
Dedication
This book is dedicated
to all people who work
for freedom and justice.
Acknowledgments
My deep thanks to Jaimie Steele,
to Laura Torrence,
to Debbie Herron,
to Donald Saxby,
for their ongoing help and support for this project.
Introduction
“If the first person God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back and get it right side up again. And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.”
Sojourner Truth 1864
Thursday Morning
Clarissa Witherspoon was tired.
She was even tired of being tired. Her umbrella dripped along the floor of the bus and made a puddle behind the drivers seat, under his right shoe.
“His own damn fault,” thought Clarissa, as she watched the stream of water overtake his heel then with quiet determination, his whole shoe. “Bus should’ve come on time,” she thought, looking out of the rain pelted window.
It wasn’t Clarissa’s nature to be ill willed. It was the circumstances of her life that carved the moods that clung to her. Today was a particularly grumpy day mostly because of the rain. And even though Clarissa rode the bus every day, the ride always made her uneasy so she blamed her irritation on the weather, the bus company, or the driver, however amiable he might be. She also saw the causes of her discomfort arising from the other passengers, the state of the world and the position of the moon.
Her generous doling out of blame wasn’t always unwarranted. The man beside her was far too big for his seat, just a tiny bit smelly and he snored into his newspaper. She sighed and thought with longing about her cozy bed with her midnight blue quilt and her warm kitchen with its taste of home. Her bedroom window looked over a willow tree that gave her comfort despite the weather-worn piece of towel that was stuck on one of its branches. It was home. She knew how to transform even the drabbest of apartments into a haven.
She longed for a day, just one whole, uncluttered day, to linger over her coffee and read the newspaper, but this was only Thursday. Her workweek stretched too far past this morning since she had agreed to work on Saturday. A day of leisure was ingloriously out of easy reach and this thought made the bus ride all the more tedious. Her mind as it always did, drifted to the past. Not the recent past but the history laden days of her much younger years. Riding a bus, any bus, always connected her to the past and to “The Movement”. She had lived through the high moments of the quest for civil rights and she mused about how it had shaped her life. She thought about Rosa Parks and her famous bus ride.
“I’m as tired as she was,” thought Clarissa, almost chuckling to herself. But Jamaica, Long Island, was not Alabama and no white man was demanding her seat. She saw no heroic gesture looming over her during her ride to work. In fact, there were few white faces on her bus. No one really cared where she sat. They rumbled along as the rain made splashing noises on the windows. Clarissa passed the time as usual, wondering if she could name all the apostles, but she only got as far as Saint Thomas before her memory shorted, so she switched to naming the musicians that had played with Count Basie. She could do justice to neither list, so she just continued to mumble her frustration as the bus pulled to a stop in front of a butcher shop.
As she pulled the cord for her stop, reaching over the very large man who still slept, she realized it was not such a good thing to be this tired on her way to work. How would she feel, she wondered, on her way home? She had been awake from very early, maybe five, maybe six, since the sun had slid so brazenly in through the slats of her blinds offering a broken promise of a fine day, and sleep had moved just beyond her reach. She heard the heavy, clumping footstep of Mr. Barber upstairs.
“Somebody buy that man a thicker carpet,” she had grumbled as the clatter of garbage cans being emptied out on the street finished the symphony of her dawn. South Jamaica had its own brand of morning.
On days like this she longed for the quiet mornings of her youth, where the only sound was the banty rooster calling the sun from its heavenly chamber. As a child she loved to be awake, lying still on her cot so as not to wake the boys. She liked to feel the morning air for just awhile before Momma called all her flock to the dazzling effort of wringing from the tired soil one more season’s harvest. Then she would feel the soft earthen floor under her bare feet as she pulled her dress over her head hoping for some hot corn bread and coffee. Then it was out onto the field for the day. It was the land that owned them. They were tied to the land, trying to stay one half step ahead of hunger.
Not all the memories of her childhood were sweet ones and often the shift back to present time happened readily.
Today, the small burst of morning sun had not fooled Clarissa. She brought her purple and blue umbrella with her and raised it triumphantly as the skies opened on her way to the bus. She grinned impishly at the men holding newspapers over their heads, running for cover. Her umbrella was a cheerful reproach to the rain and she felt superior under its protection. Now she leaned heavily on its curved handle as she disembarked. She thanked the driver, in her own way forgiving him for making her stand out in the rain, and lumbered down the few steps of the bus.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and, by now, was just barely umbrella worthy. Clarissa liked this part of town. It was quiet and the small shops were quaint and interesting looking. There were flowerpots along the edge of the curb in some places and a cozy looking coffee shop next to the butcher’s. For a brief moment she was tempted to sit with a steaming cup of mocha reading the New York Times, feeling very urbane. But she thought better of it and made her way dutifully along the avenue and into Henson and Sons.
“There she is, the light of my life,” shouted Mr. Henson from the back. “Will you marry me today?”
“Can’t propose on a rainy day, darlin’. It’s bad luck. Must wait till the sun is shinin’.” Clarissa shook her umbrella and left it at the door.
The gentle banter with Mr. Henson was her favorite part of the day and she blessed Mrs. Delano for her choice of butcher shops. She bought four pork chops and three steaks and had Mr. Henson add it to her employer’s bill. She blew Mr. Henson a kiss as she left. The sun was beginning to break through the clouds and the air had that sweet, grassy after- the-rain smell.
Clarissa trudged up the hill with her package, past vine covered gardens and pansied walkways.
“She’ll probably make me polish the damn silver,” she chuckled as she walked. “Rubbin’ my po’ fingers to my po’ black bones,” she grumbled half aloud, “while she runs off to her fancy, shmancy country club. Damn.”
Jamaica Estates was a lovely tree lined avenue of