He said, Rosie, are you a nigger?
Rosie’s face changed, and pulled into itself, and her eyes flashed.
What? she said. What did you say?
She was looking at the youngest brother, and then at all three of them, like she had never seen them before and was mystified, and if they hadn’t been so mystified themselves by the expression on her face, they might have been smart enough to leave right away, but they weren’t — or they were. Mystified.
I said, the youngest brother said before the other two brothers, still mystified and too stunned to act quickly, could stop him, are you a nigger?
I’m not a nigger, Rosie said. Niggers is dogs. Don’t you come in here calling me a nigger.
She began to straighten up her kitchen by throwing some things into the kitchen sink and some things from the drainer back into the cabinet, making a loud clatter and banging.
I tell you what, she went on. You can get your lazy good-for-nothing selves out of this house and back down there where you want me to come and you do them chores yourself. My chirren would never sit around while they mama did all the work. Did, they wouldn’t be sittin for a long time I’d wear them out so good, you git on.
The boys had not moved while she spoke to them and banged around but when she stopped for a moment, they began to sidle out of the Harbours’ kitchen door. As they were going out Rosie said to the middle brother, I can see them other two being like that but not you. I thought you had better sense than that. The middle brother, who wished she wouldn’t do that because he hated being the goody-goody and she was making him look like the goody-goody again, said, Well, I don’t.
You can all get on out of here, then, she said. We will, they said. And you can take this dirt, she said, I don’t want it, I don’t need your dirt. She stood there shaking the paper bag at them but the boys ignored her and kept walking.
Shut up, Rosie, said the Harbour twin who had been standing with his shovel in the sandbox, watching all this.
Don’t you tell me to shut up, young’un, Rosie said.
I will if I want to, the Harbour twin said.
You just wait till your daddy gets home, Rosie said, and after that the boys paid no more attention and were soon out of earshot back down the street.
Way to go, igmo, the oldest brother said to the youngest brother.
That night when the boys’ mother came home from work again she was not mad like the night before but she still looked swollen-faced and didn’t say much while she cooked a pound of bacon and made them bacon-and-tomato sandwiches on white bread with salad dressing mayonnaise and she still cut them all into triangle halves and stacked them on a plate which she set down in the middle of the table. Then she asked the middle brother to say the blessing and after that they played the game where they all sat there waiting for her to say go before they started grabbing sandwich halves and eating them as fast as they could. The mother didn’t eat any of the sandwiches herself, though, and went to her bedroom again as soon as she’d done the dishes and shut the door.
The next day the boys decided to try something else. The only other person they thought they could go to for advice was old Dr. Hornegay up the street who was retired from the charity hospital. Every other grown-up who lived on the street was either at work, or a colored maid, or a white woman friend of their mother’s. They couldn’t ask help of their mother’s white woman friends because it might make their mother ashamed. And Dr. Hornegay might have some old medicine lying around that would make their mother feel better. So they waited until Dr. Hornegay had time to get up and about, then went up there and knocked on the door to the den from the carport. In a minute the door cracked open and Dr. Hornegay’s white-bearded face appeared in the crack wearing a pair of one-armed spectacles on his red and blue nose that was the shape of a deformed, dried-out potato. His white hair was flattened in some places and pointed straight out at others. What can I do for you boys? he finally said.
We know you’re not a doctor anymore, the oldest brother said, but we thought you might have some old medicine left laying around.
Once a doctor, always a doctor, Dr. Hornegay said, and coughed. He opened the door on up and stood there in it, wearing an old cracked pair of leather slippers on his white feet, a stinking-looking pair of pajama bottoms, and a tartan robe that had no belt. He fished a nonfilter Camel from a package in the breast pocket of the robe and lit it with a match from a book of matches and blew a cloud of smoke out over their heads where they stood in the carport looking up at him. The boys were astonished at the amount of gray-and-white-speckled hair on his stomach and chest. It was like he was wearing squirrel pelts there or something. It was hard not to stare. The middle brother looked past Dr. Hornegay into the den. He was hoping for a sight of Dr. Hornegay’s wife, whom no one had seen in years because, word was, Dr. Hornegay’s wife was ridden down by sadness and an extra one hundred and fifty pounds and no longer came up out of their basement. The only thing the middle brother could see in the den was a stretched-out La-Z-Boy on the headrest of which lay a scrawny yellow cat, looking right back at him. It gave him the creeps.
What would you need medicine for? Dr. Hornegay said then, scratching at the squirrel pelts.
The brothers told him they needed it for their mother, who was afflicted with sadness and rage and who was threatening to walk out of their house and never come back. Is there a medicine for that? the youngest brother said.
Plenty, Dr. Hornegay said. He laughed as if to himself. Oh, ho, yeah, lots of tinctures and remedies for that malady. What time does your mama get off from work?
About five, the middle brother said.
I’ll be down at six, Dr. Hornegay said, and closed the door gently in their faces.
I don’t know, the middle brother said as they walked back down to their house. If he can’t do anything to help his own wife, how’s he going to help her? Meaning their mother.
The only thing wrong with Doc Hornegay’s old fat wife is she’s a drunk, the oldest brother said. Who told you that? the middle brother said. Everybody knows that, the oldest brother said, you igmo. Yeah, the youngest brother said. You did not know that, the middle brother said to him. I did, too, the youngest brother said, you igmo.
That afternoon when the mother came home the boys were all three sitting in a row on the sofa in the den with their hair combed, their shirttails tucked in, their shoes on and their shoelaces tied. My goodness, their mother said, to what do I owe the honor? The boys smiled at her and kept their mouths shut. She stopped where she was, standing beside the kitchen table, holding the sack of groceries she’d picked up on the way home from work, and looked at them. What are y’all up to? she said then. Nothing, the oldest brother said. The middle brother and the youngest brother shook their heads and said nothing. The mother set the bag of groceries carefully down on the kitchen counter, as if its contents were very fragile, and looked at the boys as if they were hiding something like a bomb or a stray cat or a snake somewhere in their clothing, and with that expression on her face and her jaw cocked in curiosity and wariness, she walked past them, looking at them sideways, and went down the hallway to her bedroom to do whatever she did before she got started on cooking their supper.