The Bluest Eye

We sat on the steps of the porch, where my mother's words could reach us only in spurts. It was a lonesome Saturday. The house smelled of Pels Naphtha and the sharp odor of mustard greens cooking. Saturdays were lonesome, tossy, soapy days. Second in misery only to those tight, starchy, cough-drop Sundays, so full of "don'ts" and "set'cha self downs." If my mother was in a singing mood, it wasn't so bad. She would sing about hard times, bad times, and somebody-donegoneandleft-me times. But her voice was so sweet and her singing-eyes so melty I found myself longing for those hard times, yearning to be grown without "a thin di-i-ime to my name." I looked forward to the delicious time when "my man" would leave me, when I would "hate to see that evening sun go down…" 'cause then I would know "my man has left this town." Misery colored by the greens and blues in my mother's voice took all of the grief out of the words and left me with a conviction that pain was not only endurable, it was sweet. But without song, those Saturdays sat on my head like a coal scuttle, and if Mama was fussing, as she was now, it was like somebody throwing stones at it. "… and here I am poor as a bowl of yak-me. What do they think I am? Some kind of Sandy Claus? Well, they can just take they stocking down 'cause it ain't Christmas…" We fidgeted. "Let's do something," Frieda said. "What do you want to do?" I asked. "I don't know. Nothing."

Frieda stared at the tops of the trees. Pecola looked at her feet. "You want to go up to Mr. Henry's room and look at his girlie magazines?" Frieda made an ugly face. She didn't like to look at dirty pictures. "Well," I continued, "we could look at his Bible. That's pretty." Frieda sucked her teeth and made iphttt sound with her lips. "O.K., then. We could go thread needles for the half-blind lady. She'll give us a pe

"I don't care," she said.

"Anything you want." I had another idea. "We could go up the alley and see what's in the trash cans."

"Too cold," said Frieda.

She was bored and irritable.

"I know. We could make some fudge."

"You kidding? With Mama in there fussing? When she starts fussing at the walls, you know she's go

"Well, let's go over to the Greek hotel and listen to them cuss."

"Oh, who wants to do that? Besides, they say the same old words all the time." My supply of ideas exhausted, I began to concentrate on the white spots on my fingernails. The total signified the number of boyfriends I would have. Seven. Mama's soliloquy slid into the silence "… Bible say feed the hungry. That's fine.

That's all right. But I ain't feeding no elephants… Anybody need three quarts of milk to live need to get out of here. They in the wrong place. What is this? Some kind of dairy farm?"

Suddenly Pecola bolted straight up, her eyes wide with terror. A whi

Frieda said, "Oh. Lordy! I know. I know what that is!"

"What?"

Pecola's fingers went to her mouth. "That's ministratin'."

"What's that?"

"You know."

"Am I going to die?" she asked.

"Noooo. You won't die. It just means you can have a baby!"

"What?"

"How do you know?" I was sick and tired of Frieda knowing everything. "Mildred told me, and Mama too."

"I don't believe it."

"You don't have to, dummy. Look. Wait here.

Sit down, Pecola. Right here." Frieda was all authority and zest.

"And you," she said to me, "you go get some water."

"Water?"

"Yes, stupid. Water. And be quiet, or Mama will hear you." Pecola sat down again, a little less fear in her eyes. I went into the kitchen. "What you want, girl?" Mama was rinsing curtains in the sink. "Some water, ma'am."

"Right where I'm working, naturally.

Well, get a glass. Not no clean one neither. Use that jar." I got a Mason jar and filled it with water from the faucet. It seemed a long time filling. "Don't nobody never want nothing till they see me at the sink. Then everybody got to drink water…" When the jar was full, I moved to leave the room. "Where you going?"

"Outside."

"Drink that water right here!"

"I ain't go

"You don't know what you go

"Yes, ma'am. I do.

Lemme take it out. I won't spill none."

"You bed' not." I got to the porch and stood there with the Mason jar of water. Pecola was crying. "What you crying for? Does it hurt?" She shook her head.

"Then stop slinging snot." Frieda opened the back door. She had something tucked in her blouse. She looked at me in amazement and pointed to the jar. "What's that supposed to do?"

"You told me.

You said get some water."

"Not a little old jar full. Lots of water. To scrub the steps with, dumbbell!"

"How was I supposed to know?"

"Yeah. How was you. Come on." She pulled Pecola up by the arm. "Let's go back here." They headed for the side of the house where the bushes were thick.

"Hey. What about me? I want to go."

"Shut uuuup," Frieda stage-whispered. "Mama will hear you. You wash the steps." They disappeared around the corner of the house. I was going to miss something. Again. Here was something important, and I had to stay behind and not see any of it. I poured the water on the steps, sloshed it with my shoe, and ran to join them. Frieda was on her knees; a white rectangle of cotton was near her on the ground.

She was pulling Pecola's pants off. "Come on. Step out of them."

She managed to get the soiled pants down and flung them at me.

"Here."

"What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Bury them, moron." Frieda told Pecola to hold the cotton thing between her legs. "How she go

I picked up the pants with two fingers and looked about for something to dig a hole with. A rustling noise in the bushes startled me, and turning toward it, I saw a pair of fascinated eyes in a dough-white face. Rosemary was watching us. I grabbed for her face and succeeded in scratching her nose. She screamed and jumped back. "Mrs. MacTeer! Mrs. MacTeer!" Rosemary hollered.

"Frieda and Claudia are out here playing nasty! Mrs. MacTeer!"

Mama opened the window and looked down at us. "What?"

"They're playing nasty, Mrs. MacTeer. Look. And Claudia hit me 'cause I seen them!" Mama slammed the window shut and came ru

Uh-huh. Playing nasty, huh?" She reached into the bushes and pulled off a switch. "I'd rather raise pigs than some nasty girls. Least I can slaughter them!" We began to shriek. "No, Mama. No, ma'am. We wasn't! She's a liar! No, ma'am, Mama! No, ma'am, Mama!" Mama grabbed Frieda by the shoulder, turned her around, and gave her three or four stinging cuts on her legs.

"Go

Whippings wounded and insulted her. Mama looked at Pecola. "You too!" she said. "Child of mine or not!" She grabbed Pecola and spun her around. The safety pin snapped open on one end of the napkin, and Mama saw it fall from under her dress. The switch hovered in the air while Mama blinked. "What the devil is going on here?" Frieda was sobbing. I, next in line, began to explain.

"She was bleeding. We was just trying to stop the blood!" Mama looked at Frieda for verification. Frieda nodded. "She's ministratin'. We was just helping." Mama released Pecola and stood looking at her. Then she pulled both of them toward her, their heads against her stomach. Her eyes were sorry. "All right, all right. Now, stop crying. I didn't know. Come on, now. Get on in the house. Go on home, Rosemary. The show is over." We trooped in, Frieda sobbing quietly, Pecola carrying a white tail, me carrying the little-girl-gone-to-woman pants. Mama led us to the bathroom. She prodded Pecola inside, and taking the underwear from me, told us to stay out. We could hear water ru