Lavender-Green Magic (6 page)

“I'm in fifth grade,” Judy broke in eagerly. “Will she be my teacher?”

“That she will. Now you, Holly, you'll probably have Mrs. Finch. She's a lot older'n Mrs. Dale. Some folks think she's strict. But she's fair an' she treats you right. Only she'll expect you to try hard—”

“Holly got an honor report card last time,” Judy supplied. “Mom let her choose a prize and she chose going to the movies—all of us. We saw a Walt Disney, about Bambi. It was an old picture, but we'd never seen it before, only a little bit of it on the TV. It was good, all about a baby deer.”

“Was it now? Well, come a little later you'll maybe get to see a real deer. Luther, he takes kindly to animals. He puts out hay when th' weather turns bad. Th' deer come in last year—”

“Grandma—” Judy turned to look at the hearth—“the kitten, what happened to the kitten?”

“He dried hisself off after he'd had a good feed. Then he went explorin', likely to turn up most anywheres about. Cats is like that, they is curious, want to know all about a place 'fore they settle in. There now—he might have known we was talkin' about him.”

The gray cat appeared, as if he were a shadow able to detach himself from the other shadows, to sit before his very empty, well-polished plate on the hearth. When he saw that they were watching him, he opened his mouth as if he were mewing, only Holly could not hear a sound. Certainly he did not look as bedraggled as when Grandpa had brought him in. However, he was still so thin his bones stood out visibly under his fur.

“Eatin' time again?” Grandma shook her head, but she
poured milk into his bowl and added crumbled dark bread. “Seems he has a likin' for bread—some cats have queer tastes that way.”

“Are you going to keep him?” Holly wanted to know. The cat did not bear much resemblance to those in the pictures of the cat books she had brought home from the library. She had always hoped that someday they could own a Siamese or a Persian. This cat looked like one of the half-starved prowlers they sometimes caught a glimpse of in the city.

“If he chooses to stay, he's welcome,” Grandma said. “A cat chooses a home mostly, won't stay with folks he don't like nor in a place he don't take a fancy to. We'll see what he decides.”

“What will you call him?” Judy wanted to know.

“Tomkit!” Holly was surprised at her own prompt answer. Tomkit—such a silly name! She couldn't remember ever having heard it before! Why had she said that?

“Tomkit,” repeated Judy. “Oh, you mean like Tom Kitten, Mom used to read about—the one in the Roly-Poly Pudding story. I'd almost forgotten about him. 'Cause that was a book we had when we were very little.”

“Tomkit,” repeated Grandma thoughtfully. “All right, Tomkit he is.”

The gray cat stopped gobbling down the contents of the bowl and looked up—straight at Holly, she was certain. Just as if he knew that name. Perhaps she had had it in mind from that long-ago storybook. Only somehow she doubted that. However, it seemed just right for this stray.

She and Judy helped Grandma, to “straighten up” the
barn-house, as she put it. Then they went to see the things Grandpa and Crock were dragging out of the end stall. There were two bicycles, both pretty much wrecks; a wagon without a wheel, some stuffed toys, part of a train set. Most were so broken that Holly could not see much use for them. And she did not like getting into the mess. Finally she went and told Grandma she would write a letter to Mom, then climbed the stairs to find her paper and ballpoint pen.

She had them in hand, and was ready to go down into the warmer section of the barn-house, when she heard noise below and guessed that Mrs. Dale and her Cub Scouts had arrived. They sounded as if they were all talking at once—about a hundred of them, or at least ten. Holly sat down on her bed. She did not want to go down, to meet all those strangers. Junkyard—what would they think of the Wades living in a junkyard, even helping to collect dirty old rubbish as they had this morning? This was a junkyard and they lived in an old barn full of junk—and—and—

She threw herself face down on the bed and bit hard at the quilt where it covered her pillow. No, she was not going to cry! But Mom! Now she did not want to write to Mom, she wanted to see her right here in this room—Mom coming to say it was all a mistake, they were going home and all would be just what it had been before.

“Holly?”

That was Judy. She did not even want to look at her. But if she didn't, then maybe Judy would go back and tell Grandma Holly was crying or something like that.

“What do you want?” she demanded fiercely.

“Holly, aren't you coming down? Grandma's giving us all doughnuts, and Mrs. Dale's so nice. Come on, Holly—”

She supposed she would have to go. But didn't Judy remember Mom at all? Didn't she want to be home again? Holly swung around on the bed.

If Judy had cleaned herself up before lunch, she was not very clean now. There was dust and something which looked like oil on the front of her shirt. One of her braids had come loose and flopped over her eyes. As she pushed the hair back impatiently, she left a very dark streak on her brown forehead.

“All right.” Holly wanted to stay where she was. Only fear of what might happen with Grandma (who she was now sure missed seeing very little) got her to her feet, down the stairs, and brought her behind Judy, who was bubbling over with descriptions of what they had found and what could be done with it.

Mrs. Dale was pleasant, Holly had to admit, though she begrudged even that much of a surrender. The boys burrowing into the junk Grandpa and Crock had brought out said “Hello” in an offhand way, as if they did not really see her. But boys always acted like that. Holly was more noticing of one thing—they were all white.

What if there were no blacks in the new school? Would that make a difference? Who could Judy and she be friends with? She wasn't going to push in where she wasn't wanted. And she must see that Judy didn't either. All the time that she talked politely to Mrs. Dale, as Mom had taught her, Holly wondered and worried. She couldn't come right out
and ask, somehow. Only how she wished there were some way of knowing.

The thought of the new school and what it might mean was in Holly's mind all during the weekend. On Sunday they went to church with Grandma and Grandpa, but that was not to a town church. They took a longer drive, over the river, to what had once been an old one-room schoolhouse. There were all Grandma and Grandpa's old friends, and most of them were old, also. There weren't too many of them, and the minister they called Brother Williams, he was really an old man. No children except some who weren't more than babies or others who were grown up—or thought they were. It seemed to Holly a very queer kind of church, and without Mom there—

In the afternoon, for want of something better to do, they explored Grandma's library. Sure enough, there were some old books supposed to be for children. Judy fastened on a Nancy Drew mystery that had lost one cover and had a lot of pages mended with Scotch tape. Crock found a pile of
National Geographics
. But Holly, feeling very dull and unhappy, pulled out books listlessly, glanced at them, and shoved them back on the shelves again. She finally discovered a very battered copy of what seemed to be six magazines bound together. The title on the stained red cover could hardly be read, but she made out the words “St. Nicholas.” Inside, the pages were stained and mended, and the pictures were very queer. But it was very old because the date also appearing inside was 1895. She turned over the pages, trying not to tear them any more, until it was suppertime.

Monday morning they were up when it was still dark and had a chilly walk down to the lane's end, to wait there for the school bus. They waited so long that Holly began to hope the driver had forgotten their stop and they would have another day's reprieve.

But the bus came at last and they got in. The seats were crowded, there was nothing to do but push toward the back, facing all the strangers, who stared at them as they went. Crock saw one of the Cub Scouts, who hailed him, and he sat down there. But Judy and Holly had to go to the very end. Holly was sure her worst fears were proven true. There was not a single black child there.

“Judy.” She caught at her sister's elbow, gave it a hard squeeze to ensure Judy was listening. “You be careful—”

“Careful about what, Holly?”

“Don't you see? These are all whites, they may not like us. Don't push, Judy, don't you look as if you want to be friends unless they're friendly first. You be good and careful. They—they may say things—”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, that we live in a dump, and we're different, things like that.”

Some of the brightness faded from Judy's face. She looked anxious. “But that boy—he called to Crock to sit with him.”

“It's different with boys,” Holly told her. “Don't you give these white girls any reason to think they're better than we are—to laugh at us. Just be careful until you see how they're going to act.”

“Holly, are you scared?”

That was one thing Holly was not going to admit to Judy, who was a whole year younger and sometimes quite childish.

“No. I just want to be careful. And you be careful, too.”

“All right, Holly.” Judy's voice was very low. She sat looking down at her school bag where it rested on her knees, Grandma's lunch making a big bump in the middle.

Holly was careful, very careful. She spoke when she was spoken to, but she made no advances. She did not volunteer in class, even when she knew the answers. And she did not try to join the other girls at recess or lunchtime, but hunted out Judy to stay with her. She went on being careful, waiting for someone to say “junkyard,” or “black,” or make some remark she could resent. The other girls, some of them, did talk at first, but when she herself did not make any effort to be friendly, they let her alone. That suited her—just fine. She wasn't going to try to get in where she was not welcome.

There were only three other blacks in the whole school, and they were all in the lower grades. On Thursday, Judy looked unhappy when Holly hunted her at lunchtime.

“Debbie asked me to eat with her today,” she said. “Debbie's nice. Why can't I go with Debbie, Holly?”

“Go on.” Holly stood up, clutching her lunch bag. “Be with her, let them laugh at you behind your back if you want it that way, Judy Wade! I don't!”

“No, please, Holly.” Judy caught at her jacket. “You stay. Debbie eats with Ruth and Betty, and I guess they don't really want me anyway.”

But Holly was uncomfortable as they sat together, knowing that Judy was unhappy. Maybe this Debbie would be different—like the girls at home. Only—she found that she could not finish the mince tart which was at the bottom of her bag and gave it to Judy.

When they got home that night they found Tomkit in his favorite place on the hearth, but he was kneading his paws on that small pillow Holly had forgotten all about. She rescued it from him (though he growled at being deprived of something he had manifestly taken a liking for) and squeezed it a little. The scent seemed as strong as ever. Grandma said it was made for people who could not sleep. But what might it do about dreams?

Dreams! Last night she had had such a bad one, she had wakened up crying, and nearly frightened Judy into doing the same. Then Judy had confessed that she kept dreaming, too, about Mom and Daddy, and how they were lost someplace where she could not find them.

“Listen, Judy,” Holly said now, “you remember what Grandma said about this pillow—that it made people sleep? Maybe it could keep away the bad dreams. Suppose, suppose we try it—”

“We can't both sleep on that one little pillow,” Judy objected.

“Sure.” Crock had come up behind them. “You can take chances for it.”

Holly held the pillow tight against her. She wanted it so much, the need for it was so strong she longed to say right
now that it was going to be hers. After all, she had really found it, hadn't she? But Crock was right, Daddy had always said “take chances.”

As she waited for Crock to turn his back and get two unequal pieces of paper strips to pull out from between his fingers, Holly tried to understand why she wanted the pillow so fiercely. It was strange, but not frightening—rather as if the pillow not only belonged to her but was something she needed. Just as years and years ago, when she had not been able to go to bed without her Pooh Bear on the bed beside her.

“All right, you first, Judy.” Crock swung around.

“You have three pieces.” Holly was surprised.

“Sure, I got to see what all the fuss's about, don't I? You first, Judy,” he repeated.

She hesitated for a long moment over her choice and then jerked free the middle strip. Holly took the one to her right, leaving the last to Crock. When they measured them—Judy had won.

Reluctantly Holly surrendered the pillow, thinking deep within herself that this was just one more thing which was not in the least fair.

There were no bad dreams that night, but Holly awoke early. The room she and Judy shared had only one small window, which did not let in much light. As she sat up in bed to glance over at Judy, she saw the long, furred body of Tomkit, stretched to the full extent of legs and tail. His face was next to Judy's, so they appeared to share the dream pillow between them. Now Holly could sniff that herb smell as if the pillow were able to scent the whole room.

“Judy!” Holly shivered, as she slipped from between her covers, put her toes into the furry slippers waiting by her bedside.

But Judy did not stir. Holly went over to her bed. Judy must be asleep. Yet now and then Holly was surprised to hear the faintest of murmurs. Her sister's lips moved, too, as if she were saying something, but in so low a whisper Holly could not make out the words, even when she leaned very close.