Ginny Gall

He missed the house, missed its smells of rich perfume and cornmeal and grease and silver polish — missed the streets of Red Row that smelled of dreaminess and stewed collards and deep green shade and mica and ashes and kerosene and a hundred kinds of panbread — but mostly he missed his mother. At supper, listening to the little orange-haired boy, Winston, he had experienced the sinking, falling sensation in his chest. His whole body tingled and what was usually compact and strong inside him began to dissolve. He drank water and ate the hard bread in an attempt to replace it. If his mother had been there he would have thrown himself into her arms and made her hold him tight. Every day at home, sometime during the day, maybe more than once, she would grab him up and squeeze so tight he couldn’t take a breath. In her arms there was no need to breathe.

He got out of his bed and ducked under the curtain and got into his sister Coolmist’s bed. Coolmist was crying and at first seeing her little brother made her ashamed of her tears. But she couldn’t stop and she liked anyway to have little Delvin to snuggle in with her. They clasped each other in their arms. Down the row the twins were hugging each other. Miss Pearl as she walked the rows saw this and left the lamp burning longer than usual. Whimpering and moaning and sobbing, even yells, shrill cries and yips, were a common feature of foundling home nights.

The room smelled like a field in the country. Delvin was on his back on his own pallet. He heard a small chirping sound — a cricket — and stayed still, listening. The cricket was nearby. He raised himself and waited in the half-lit dark. The cricket chirped at the edge of his mattress. It was caught inside, in the fresh timothy hay stuffing, near the top that was closed with two big Bakelite buttons. Delvin couldn’t undo the buttons but he could still reach his hand inside. He lay quietly waiting for the cricket. When it chirped again he had its location. He slipped his hand under the canvas and caught the insect. It was a shiny black handsome creature with a swashbuckling set of feelers.

“Hidy, bug.”

He wished he had something to keep the cricket in, but there was nothing, not even in the little bundle of clothes he had been allowed to bring with him from the house (“What the hell you wearing?” one policeman said). He held the cricket loosely in his hand. His face scrunched with worry. “I’m sorry I caught you.”

Despite himself he was getting sleepy.

“All right,” he said.

He put the cricket in the pocket of the frilly dress shirt he had taken off to get into the coarse nightshirt the home made all the children wear. He lay down but almost immediately raised up to check on the cricket. It was already gone, sailed off into the dark. Delvin felt a pang in his heart.

“Oh me,” he said and lay back. “Mama,” he said into the dark, his lips barely moving, “where are you?”

On his back, looking up into the dark that was dimly lit by high long narrow windows, he felt the tears start, brim, spill and trail down his cheeks. He didn’t think to wipe them away. I wonder how tall I am, he thought. Wonder how tall Mama is. And then he was asleep.

Cappie did not reappear, and after the pumping of informants and interviews of the girls over at the Emporium and a few neighborhood householders and the personal searches and tracking expeditions into the woods and bulletins issued to surrounding states, the police department decided they probably wouldn’t find her. Delvin, if anybody had looked for him, spent the next year and a half living the orphan’s life, first in the local foundlings home and then out in the Homeless African House in Tullawa where he spent mornings at school and afternoons working in the apple orchards pining springlings. Despite his willingness to prove he could he was informed that he did not know how to read and was forced to learn all over following the confusing Boatwright method taught at the time in Tennessee schools. He chafed but went along and relearned or overlearned first his ABCs and then the puny words and pitiful sentences printed under the pictures of white children in the books passed out each afternoon by Moneen Butler, a cinnamon-colored girl originally from the high mountains in east Tennessee.