Miss Muriel and Other Stories


 
 
 Dedication
 This book is for Walter J. Petry
 
 Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Miss Muriel
 The New Mirror
 Has Anybody Seen Miss Dora Dean?
 The Migraine Workers
 Mother Africa
 The Bones of Louella Brown
 Olaf and His Girl Friend
 Like a Winding Sheet
 The Witness
 Solo on the Drums
 The Necessary Knocking on the Door
 In Darkness and Confusion
 Doby’s Gone
 About the Author
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 Miss Muriel
 ALMOST EVERY DAY, RUTH DAVIS and I walk home from school together. We walk very slowly because we like to talk to each other and we don’t get much chance in school or after school either. We are very much alike. We are both twelve years old and we are freshmen in high school and we never study—well, not very much, because we learn faster than the rest of the class. We laugh about the same things and we are curious about the same things. We even wear our hair in the same style—thick braids halfway down our backs. We are not alike in one respect. She is white and I am black.
 Yesterday when we reached the building that houses my father’s drugstore, we sat down on the front steps—long wooden steps that go all the way across the front of the building. Ruth said, “I wish I lived here,” and patted the steps though they are very splintery.
 Aunt Sophronia must have heard our voices, because she came to the door and said, “I left my shoes at the shoemaker’s this morning. Please go and get them for me,” and she handed me a little cardboard ticket with a number on it.
 “You want to come with me, Ruth?”
 “I’ve got to go home. I’m sure my aunt will have things for me to do. Just like your aunt.” She smiled at Aunt Sophronia.
 I walked partway home with Ruth and then turned back and went up Petticoat Lane toward the shoemaker’s shop. Mr. Bemish, the shoemaker, is a little white man with gray hair. He has a glass eye. This eye is not the same color as his own eye. It is a deeper gray. If I stand too close to him, I get a squeamish feeling because one eye moves in its socket and the other eye does not.
 Mr. Bemish and I are friends. I am always taking shoes to his shop to be repaired. We do not own a horse and buggy and so we walk a great deal. In fact, there is a family rule that we must walk any distance under three miles. As a result, our shoes are in constant need of repair, the soles and heels have to be replaced, and we always seem to be in need of shoelaces. Quite often I snag the uppers on the bull briars in the woods and then the tears have to be stitched.
 When I went to get Aunt Sophronia’s shoes, Mr. Bemish was sitting near the window. It is a big window and he has a very nice view of the street. He had on his leather apron and his eyeglasses. His glasses are small and they have steel rims. He was sewing a shoe and he had a long length of waxed linen thread in his needle. He waxes the thread himself.
 I handed him the ticket and he got up from his workbench to get the shoes. I saw that he had separated them from the other shoes. These are Aunt Sophronia’s store shoes. They had been polished so that they shone like patent leather. They lay alone, near the front of the table where he keeps the shoes he has repaired. He leaned toward me and I moved away from him. I did not like being so close to his glass eye.
 “The lady who brought these shoes in. Who is she?”
 I looked at him and raised one eyebrow. It has taken me two months of constant practice in front of a mirror to master the art of lifting one eyebrow.
 Mr. Bemish said, “What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you hear what I said? Who was that lady who brought these shoes in?”
 I moved further away from him. He didn’t know it but I was imitating Dottle Smith, my favorite person in all the world. Dottle tells the most wonderful stories and he can act and recite poetry. He visits our family every summer. Anyway, I bowed to Mr. Bemish and I bowed to an imaginary group of people seated somewhere on my right and I said, “Gentlemen, be seated. Mr. Bones, who was that lady I saw you with last night?” I lowered the pitch of my voice and said, “That wasn’t no lady. That was my wife.”
 “Girlie—”
 “Why do you keep calling me girlie? I have a name.”
 “I cannot remember people’s names. I’m too old. I’ve told you that before.”
 “How old are you, Mr. Bemish?”
 “None of your business,” he said pettishly. “Who—”
 “Well, I only asked in order to decide whether to agree with you that you’re old enough to be forgetful. Does the past seem more real to you than the present?”
 Mr. Bemish scowled his annoyance. “The town is full of children,” he said. “It’s the children who bring the shoes in and come and get them after I’ve fixed them. They run the errands. All those children look just alike to me. I can’t remember their names. I don’t even try. I don’t plan to clutter up my mind with a lot of children’s names. I don’t see the same children that often. So I call the boys boy, and I call the girls girlie. I’ve told you this before. What’s the matter with you today?”
 “It’s spring and the church green is filled with robins looking for worms. Don’t you sometimes wish you were a robin looking for a worm?”
 He sighed. “Now tell me, who was that lady that