The Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara Read Free Book Online

certain that she was leaving a red-brown smear on the chair. “Who’s called in every time there’s work to be done, coffee made, a program sold? Every time some miscellaneous nobody with a five-minute commitment and an opportunist’s nose for a self-promoting break gets an idea, here we go. And we have yet to see any of you so much as roll up your sleeves to empty an ashtray. Everybody gets paid off but us. Do any of you have a grant for one of us? Any government contracts? Any no-work-all-pay posts at a college, those of youon boards? Is there ever any thing you all do on your own other than rent out the Italian restaurant on the Heights to discuss the Humphrey-Hawkins bill over wine?”
    “And the place is bugged, of course.”
    “Ruby, hush.”
    “Drinking at the bar is all we’ve witnessed yet. You all say we need a conference, we book the hotel and set it all up and yawl drink at the bar. We shuttle back and forth to the airport, yawl drink at the bar. We caucus, vote, lay out the resolutions, yawl drink at the bar. We’re trying to build a union, a guild, an organization. You are all welcome to continue operating as a social club, but not on our time, okay?”
    “Amen.”
    “And from now on, when you want some ‘input,’ don’t call us—”
    “We’ll call you.”
    “We’ll notify you about the meetings. And you are welcome to join us at my sister’s studio, which will be the temporary headquarters of Women for Action until we get a more permanent place.” Velma felt Jan’s eyes trying to get hers, felt Palma tugging at her dress. But she went on. “You all continue lollygagging at Del Giorgio’s, renting limousines and pussyfooting around town profiling in your three-piece suits and imported pajamas while the people sweat it out through hard times.” Palma had yanked her down in her chair as Ruby got to her feet.
    “I heard that, Vee. You all hear that? We all hear that? Well, this is it, my honeys. We’re at the crossroads and are gonna have to decide the shape, scope, thrust and general whatnot and so forth of this group. Let’s take some time out to think it through and then we’ll hear from whoever wants to speak they speak. Two-minute limit, if you please. This is it, the crossroads.”
    *   *   *
    The roads had been washed out. The walkways between the tents were a joke. The children had found dry planks from somewhere and laid them down, but they weren’t dry for long or effective. It kept raining and the walkways were mud, planks too, tents too, everybody caked with red mud. The older women paying it no mind, moving about with slop jars or buckets of fresh water or food like ancient mud mothers from the caves, hair matted and shining with henna, hands red, streaks and slashes across their faces to denote clan kinship. The tents were collapsing, the bedrolls mildewed. The portable toilets had long since not worked. The children on errands in indescribable clothes and barefoot, red mud coming up between their toes like worms, and worms too. Many down with fevers. One doctor making rounds, stumbling with sleeplessness and impotence.
    Velma had gone up to the hotel, her shoes dangling around her neck, the clipboard in the ache of her left arm. She’d hitched but mostly walked, keeping her eyes strictly off her swollen feet. Gone up to the hotel to make some calls—find another doctor, locate the support group to bring food and aspirin, phone in the press notices, try to locate James’ group that had gone to meet up with King in D.C.
    She was hanging on to the counter with both hands, nails splitting, hands swollen, the phone too heavy to consider handling without a deep intake of breath and resolve. She could barely stand up, much less focus on the clipboard and flip pages. And behind her the easy laughter, that familiar voice. Oh those dulcet tones. And she looked into the mirror. The speaker and his cronies and the women, those women, coming down the