As the old woman talked, Sandy, thinking of his grandmother, gazed out of the window towards the house next door, where he had lived with Aunt Hager. Some small children were playing in the backyard, running and yelling. They belonged to the Southern family to whom Tempy had rented the place. … Madam de Carter, who still owned the second house, had been made a national grand officer in the women’s division of the lodge and many of the members of the order now had on the walls of their homes a large picture of her dressed in full regalia, inscribed: “Yours in His Grace,” and signed: “Madam Fannie Rosalie de Carter.”
“Used to just plain old Rose Carter befo’ she got so important,” said Sister Johnson, explaining her neighbor’s lengthy name. “All these womens dey mammy named Jane an’ Mary an’ Cora, soon’s dey gets a little somethin’, dey changes dey names to Janette or Mariana or Corina or somethin’ mo’ flowery then what dey had. Willie-Mae say she gwine change her’n to Willetta-Mayola, an’ I tole her if she do, I’ll beat her—don’t care how old she is!”
Sandy liked to listen to the rambling talk of old colored folks. “I guess there won’t be many like that in Chicago,” he thought, as he doubled back his long legs under the green-plush seat of the day coach. “I better try to get to sleep—there’s a longways to go until morning.”
Although it was not yet June, the heat was terrific when, with the old bags that Tempy had given him, Sandy got out of the dusty train in Chicago and walked the length of the sheds into the station. He caught sight of his mother waiting in the crowd, a fatter and much older woman than he had remembered her to be; and at first she didn’t know him among the stream of people coming from the train. Perhaps, unconsciously, she was looking for the little boy she left in Stanton; but Sandy was taller than Annjee now and he looked quite a young man in his blue serge suit with long trousers. His mother threw both plump arms around him and hugged and kissed him for a long time.
They went uptown in the streetcars, Annjee a trifle out of breath from helping with the bags, and both of them perspiring freely from the heat. And they were not very talkative either. A strange and unexpected silence seemed to come between them. Annjee had been away from her son for five growing years and he was no longer her baby boy, small and eager for a kiss. She could see from the little cuts on his face that he had even begun to shave on the chin. And his voice was like a man’s, deep and musical as Jimboy’s, but not so sure of itself.
But Sandy was not thinking of his mother as they rode uptown on the streetcar. He was looking out of the windows at the blocks of dirty grey warehouses lining the streets through which they were passing. He hadn’t expected the great city to be monotonous and ugly like this and he was vaguely disappointed. No towers, no dreams come true! Where were the thrilling visions of grandeur he had held? Hidden in the dusty streets? Hidden in the long, hot alleys through which he could see at a distance the tracks of the elevated trains?
“Streetcars are slower but I ain’t got used to them air lines yet,” said Annjee, searching her mind for something to say. “I always think maybe them elevated cars’ll fall off o’ there sometimes. They go so fast!”
“I believe I’d rather ride on them, though,” said Sandy, as he looked at the monotonous boxlike tenements and dismal alleys on the ground level. No trees, no yards, no grass such as he had known at home, and yet, on the other hand, no bigness or beauty about the bleak warehouses and sorry shops that hugged the sidewalk. Soon, however, the street began to take on a racial aspect and to become more darkly alive. Negroes leaned from windows with heads uncombed, or sat fanning in doorways with legs apart, talking in kimonos and lounging in overalls, and more and more they became a part of the passing panorama.
“This is State Street,” said Annjee. “They call it the Black Belt. We have to get off in a minute. You got your suitcase?”
She rang the bell and at Thirty-seventh Street they walked over to Wabash Avenue. The cool shade of the tiny porch that Annjee mounted was more than welcome, and as she took out her key to unlock the front door, Sandy sat on the steps and mopped his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. Inside, there was a dusky gloom in the hallway, that smelled of hair-oil and cabbage steaming.
“Guess Mis’ Harris is in the kitchen,” said Annjee. “Come on—we’ll go upstairs and I’ll show you our room. I guess we can both stay together till we can do better. You’re still little enough to sleep with your mother, ain’t you?”
They went down the completely dark hall on the second floor, and his mother opened a door that led into a rear room with two windows looking
