Never Too Late (25 page)

“And a fine han'some young lady you is too. Yo mama'd be proud.”

“What I'm trying to say is—I've been wondering, now that I am almost grown up, if maybe that promise you made goes both directions.”

“How you mean—bof directions?”

“That maybe I have something like a responsibility toward you too, Josepha.”

“You mean—like you needin' ter take care er me too, like I said I'd do ter you?”

“Maybe a little like that,” I said
.

“An' you has, chil'. You an' Miz Katie took me in an' you's given me a home like I never had before. An' I'm mo grateful den you kin know. Why, you done more fo me den I kin ever hope ter repay.”

“I'm glad, Josepha,” I said. “But that wasn't exactly what I meant.”

“What, den?”

“Well, I . . . I have something to say to you that I only say because I love you so much and care about you, and I . . . I hope you won't take it wrong, but—”

“Go on, chil'—git out whatever it is you gots ter say.”

“It's just . . . I think you have been a little hard on Mrs. Hammond with some of what you said about her. I think she was trying to reach out to us all . . . and you too, and . . . well, Josepha, I thought you were pretty cold to her.”

I let out a long breath. That was really hard to say!

It was quiet and awkward for several seconds
.

“So you think I oughter show da lady mo kindness, is dat it?”

“I suppose so,” I said
.

“Well, maybe you's jes' too young ter know how it is between whites an' coloreds,” said Josepha
.

I could tell from her tone and the flash of her eyes that she was angry
.

“How many years wuz you a slave? You wuz jes' a girl—what cud you know? How many people dat you loved did dey take away from you? You had a family, an' now you gots Katie an' yo papa an' Jeremiah. Who I eber had 'cept a friend dat died when he wuz too young? What kin you know 'bout what I's feelin' inside an' what it's like ter be all alone an' lonely wiff nobody ter look after you an' nobody ter care for you! You ain't got no call ter talk ter me like dat!”

She turned and stalked out of the kitchen and away from the house. I stood staring at her back in shock. My heart was breaking!

How could this have gone so terribly wrong? I sat down and began to cry
.

That's where Henry found me five minutes later. I looked up and there he was. I didn't know where Josepha had gone. She hadn't come back
.

Henry sat down
.

“You want ter tell yo ol' friend 'bout it?” he said
.

I started crying again. Then I gradually told him what had happened
.

Henry sat for a long time thinking about what I had said
.

“Growth's a fearsome thing sometimes,” he said at last. “Some folks ain't used ter soul-growin' inside demselves. When da trunks er dere souls start ter git wider an' stretching out, an' when dere roots start ter go deeper, all dat growin' an' stretchin' hurts an' dey don't like it.”

Henry sometimes had such a simple but profound way of putting things!

“But a tree can't grow wiffout its ol' bark stretchin' an' crackin' an' splittin',” he added. “You eber look at one er dem pine trees yonder in da woods?”

I smiled and nodded
.

“What's dere bark like? It all nice an' smooth?”

“No,” I answered. “It's rough and cracked.”

“Dat's what growth does ter make room fo da insides er dose trees ter git bigger. Da skin's gotter break fo da inside er dat tree ter grow. Da tree gits stronger, but da bark's gotter break. People's jes' da same. Ef we's gwine grow bigger inside, somethin's gotter stretch. An' sometimes dat ol' soul-skin's gotter break. Breakin' hurts, but sometimes breakin's da only way ter grow.”

“But I didn't want to hurt Josepha.”

“ 'Course you didn't. But maybe it's her time ter do a little growin'. Maybe it's time fo her soul ter git a little bigger. Maybe some ob da ol' bark's gotter break.”

“But I hurt her, Henry. Now she's angry at me.”

“She won't be fo long. Da lady's got too much love in her heart ter stay angry at you. But most folks
don't like it much when other folks shows 'em places where da trunk er dere tree's growin' a mite crooked. Seems like we'd want other folks' help, 'cause we need each other. But folks is funny dat way. Dey don't want no help wiff dere growin'.”

“What should I do, Henry?”

“You let me hab a little talk wiff her, dat is if you don't mind me tellin' her what you tol' me.”

“No, of course not.”

A C
OAT OF
A
LL
S
IZES AND
S
HAPES

33

H
ENRY FOUND JOSEPHA OUT IN THE VEGETABLE
garden with a hoe in her hand. From the way she was attacking the weeds, he knew she was still agitated.

“I came on Miz Mayme cryin' in da kitchen,” said Henry. “She tol' me what happened.”

“Did she tell you what she said ter me?”

“Dat she did.”

“Da nerve ob dat girl! What she thinkin' dat she kin talk ter me like dat!”

“It didn't sound ter me like she said anythin' mo den what da Lord himself might say ef He wuz talkin' ter you.”

“What you sayin', Henry Patterson—dat da Lord'd treat me wiff dat kind er disrespect?”

“It din't soun' ter me like Mayme treated you wiff disrespect. Ain't it da highest kind er respect ter try ter help a frien' be mo like da Lord hisse'f?”

“Not da way she done it!”

“An' ain't it da Lord hisse'f dat tol' us ter forgive our
enemies? Ef you figger she dun you wrong, den you gots ter forgive her.”

Henry's words stung. Josepha had no immediate reply except another whack at the ground with her hoe.

“An' I'm thinkin' maybe ol' Mrs. Hammond deserves da same.”

“Mrs. Hammond ain't my enemy,” snapped Josepha.

“Ain't dat all da mo reason?”

“I don't like her, dat's all, an' I don't figger it's none er Mayme's business, an' none er yers neither!”

“She's a lonely woman dat ain't got no frien's in da worl'.”

“An' I still say it ain't none er yo affair!”

“Who's business is it ef it ain't da business er folks dat loves you? Mayme loves you, Josepha. Her heart's like ter break right now.”

“What right she got ter say dat ter me?”

“Da right er love.”

“Love . . . hummph!”

“She loves you an' wants you ter be da bes' person you kin be. An' she knows it ain't bein' yo best fo you ter harbor sour feelin's in yo soul. You's a better person den dat, an' Mayme knows it. She's seein' da bes' Josepha, but right now you's not bein' da bes' Josepha.”

“Now dere you go getting' all high an' mighty an' talkin' ter me like you wuz my daddy or my master! What gib you da right ter git dat way wiff me?”

“Maybe da same right as Mayme's got.”

“Hummph! Mayme's jes' a girl!”

“But a mighty wise girl. An' she ain't a girl no mo, Josepha, she's a growed-up young lady. It sounds ter me
like you's got a dose er pride dat ain't altogether been dealt wiff.”

Josepha bristled and her eyes flashed.

“What dat surposed ter mean?” she shot back. “Pride! Whatchu mean, pride!”

“Jes' what I said. Soun's ter me dat Mayme picked at somethin' dat you need ter take a look at.”

Josepha hit the ground with a vengeance.

“Da devil's got a coat er pride jes' made ter fit each one ob us,” Henry went on. “It fits so nice an' snug, we gits so's we like wearin' it. We don't eben know we's got it on cuz it feels so good an' warm. It comes in all shapes an' sizes. Dat's what pride does. But it's da devil's coat.”

“Why you know so much 'bout dat ol' coat?”

“Cuz I got my own dat I had ter git rid ob. I had ter learn da hard way. My own pride might er cost me my family. I'll neber know. But even tryin' ter stand up fo truf, I had a streak er pride. I tol' you 'bout it before. Dat wuz my coat er pride, made ter fit nobody but me.”

“An' you figger I's too proud ter be nice ter Mrs. Hammond?”

“I don't know,” said Henry. “I can't rightly say what you's thinkin'. But it seems a mite like you think you's better'n her. An' dat's pride, pure an' simple.”

“Dere you go agin! What business is it er yers ter say dat ter me?” said Josepha, more angrily this time.

“Maybe none, but I figgered it oughter be said.”

Josepha stared at Henry another second or two, then threw down the hoe at his feet and turned and walked away in a huff.

Dejected and even more heartbroken than Mayme,
Henry returned to his cabin, sat down on his bed, and buried his face in his hands.

Josepha, meanwhile, was in a turmoil of emotions. She walked across the field toward nowhere, stomping at the ground as she went. When she came to herself she was standing beside the river, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Her anger had subsided, replaced by grief for the things she had said to the two people she loved more than any other two people in the world. But now it would take twice the humility and courage to get rid of the coat as before, because now she had to say she was sorry, a thing that's sometimes hardest to do to those we love the most.

Josepha's heart stung her for her outbursts. Mayme was right. Henry was right. They had both been right. Her anger only showed how right they had been. Her pride had gotten the better of her, just like Henry said.

She sat down at the river's edge, remembering the happy time she and Henry had spent in this very spot, playing in the water like two happy children.

How quickly it had all changed.

Again tears welled up in her eyes, and slowly her body began to shake with heart-wrenching sobs.

Henry had seen Josepha walk away and knew she couldn't go far. He had been watching from his cabin window for her return. At last, some thirty or forty minutes later, he saw her ambling slowly toward the house.

They had been thirty or forty minutes of the hardest thinking and praying Henry Patterson had ever done in his life. The turbulence of the exchange with Josepha had sent
unexpected emotions and thoughts rising in his brain and heart.

It was not just the last thirty or forty minutes. Henry now realized that it had been growing invisibly within him for the better part of a year.

And now that he saw it for what it was, what ought he to do about it?

He left his cabin and went out into the grassy pasture where a few horses were grazing.

He needed to go for a walk and fetch a few things.

An hour later Henry appeared at the kitchen door. What he had to say was for Josepha alone. He was relieved to find her by herself in the kitchen.

She answered the door. He knew instantly that she'd been crying.

“I brung you dese,” said Henry, holding out the small bouquet of wild flowers he'd picked in the field.

A look of confusion spread over her face. No one had ever given her flowers!

“I wants ter apologize fo bein' so hard on you,” he said. “Maybe I didn't hab no right ter say dose things.”

“You had every right, Henry Patterson,” said Josepha emphatically, “cuz every word wuz true.”