A Matter of Souls by Denise Lewis Patrick Read Free Book Online

Clotille had always been helpful in pointing out those small things that separated the Reeds from the most cultivated,
ideal
Colored class. At every turn she had a little idea, or suggestion or correction. Miss Clotille had taken Hazel under her wing, brought her to work in her home to…
    To what?
    It occurred to her that as long as Hazel felt too brown and far from correct, Miss Clotille’s tiny person stayed lofty, light, and proud.
    Sudden, urgent tapping on the door interrupted Hazel’s discoveries.
    â€œHazel! I need to get in there!” Without thinking, Hazel leaned to open the door.
    Jurdine rushed to the mirror. In silence, Hazel watchedher older sister, conscious for the first time of how much Jurdine and Miss Clotille were alike.
    Jurdine wasn’t small, but she was perfect in figure, curving exactly where she should. She had lovely ankles. Her creamy skin had to be some kind of throwback to Mama Vee’s White grandfather, and the blood mix had straightened every curl out of Jurdine’s shoulder-length black hair even when it was wet. She had the full lips and wide dark eyes of their father, and the only thing of Mama’s that Jurdine had gotten was the husky tone of her words.
    The ideal Colored woman.
    Jurdine must have felt her sister’s stare, because she paused and narrowed her eyes. She spun around, smoothing the lines of her tight black skirt. The white explosion of ruffles she wore to top it fell away neatly from her ample cleavage, which she shook in Hazel’s stunned direction.
    â€œWhat?” she breathed arrogantly.
    â€œWhere are you going this time of night?”
    â€œNot to any dance with a piss-poor piano player!” Jurdine smacked her ruby lips together to even her lipstick. She had just the right hint of rouge on her cheeks.
    Hazel set her jaw. She didn’t want to be provoked, and it was so easy for Jurdine, who had learned from the mistress of provocation in this house, their grandmother.
    â€œDoes he know you’re secretly trying to make yourself light, bright, and damned near White—like me?”
    Hazel tried to grip the jar tightly, but it slipped from her fingers and rolled to the floor. Jurdine bent to pick it up.
    â€œYou are what you are, Hazey,” she said, throwing the words out as if Hazel’s being anything wasn’t important in the scheme of life.
    â€œAnd what are you, Jurdine Marie? Johnson C. Johnson gets paid to play the piano. What you get paid to do, Jurdine?”
    Jurdine blanched.
    â€œHow many chickens are you gonna pluck tonight when you sneak out?”
    The pride slumped out of her shoulders. Her luscious lips parted and closed, but she couldn’t seem to manage even a quick drop of meanness.
    Hazel stood up, lightheaded—so much had changed, so much was changing—and opened the bathroom door. “You better be careful, Jurdine.” Hazel pulled the door closed behind her with a soft click and made her way to the bedroom, where she collapsed across the bed she would share with Jurdine whenever she came home. If she came home.
    Hazel didn’t sleep. Later, in the last humid hours of night, she felt Jurdine’s presence in the room, felt the mattress move as she sat to peel off her clothes and push them carelessly underneath the bed. Hazel heard the soft crying and knew she wasn’t meant to. She almost got up to give comfort.
    But she didn’t. She curled away from the pain to dream.

    The next morning Hazel felt terrible when she woke. While she’d dreamed, a sadness about Jurdine and Miss Clotille had somehow settled in her bones. Even thinking of getting up seemed too much effort. She blinked in surprise at the empty, quiet room.
    Jurdine was long gone, and so were Velma Jean and Violet. Miriam and George Ann’s cots were already closed and rolled into the corner. Hazel pushed herself up onto an elbow. What time was it?
    â€œChile, lay back in that bed!”