The Bernice L. McFadden Collection. Bernice L. McFadden
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man swabbed his forehead for a second time. “Look, I ain’t coming back out here again, you hear me? It’s today or never.”
Hemmingway eyed him. “Like I said, I ain’t order no phone, I ain’t got no money for no phone, and so I don’t want no phone.”
“Look, lady, you ain’t got to worry about paying for anything. The person on the order,” he said as she shook the paper in her face, “he already done covered that, and he’s the one who will pay the monthly charges.”
Hemmingway leaned back on one leg. “What name you say was on the order?”
That evening, Hemmingway and Tass sat and stared at the black rotary phone waiting for it to ring.
“This is so nice of him,” Hemmingway kept saying.
“You see, Tass, I told you he was a good man.”
When it finally did ring, both Hemmingway and Tass nearly jumped out of their skin. Tass answered the phone with a meek “Hello,” and Fish’s jovial voice boomed from the other end.
“I installed this phone for your mama, so you two can talk when I marry you and move you to Detroit.”
That was his proposal and Tass, not really caring if she stayed or left, lived or died, said, “Okay.”
A month after she graduated and three days after she turned eighteen, Tass Hilson became Tass May.
Remember those ten crisp hundred-dollar bills? Hemmingway used three of them to pay for the wedding. Fancy invitations and a church ceremony, followed by a reception at the colored social hall.
Tass looked lovely in her white, laced, trimmed wedding gown. Instead of a veil, she wore a wreath of pink flowers in her hair. Padagonia was her maid of honor, and although she was not one for dresses, for her friend she happily donned the lilac-colored frock and white panty hose.
Tass asked Moe Wright if he would walk her down the aisle, and he agreed, and broke down in tears when he presented her to Fish.
Tass and Fish jumped the broom and shared a long, hard kiss and guests whooped with joy.
At the social hall, the new couple and their guests danced, ate, and drank until the sun went down.
It was a beautiful day.
When it was time to go, Fish wrapped his arm affectionately around Tass’s waist and said, “We gotta get on the road, baby.”
“No tears now,” Hemmingway warned as she dabbed her own wet eyes with a napkin. “You ain’t going to the moon. It’s just Detroit.”
Fish loaded Hemmingway’s belongings into the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat and lit a cigar. In the rearview mirror he watched Hemmingway and Tass clinging to one another and rocking. The mother was the one who finally broke the embrace.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hemmingway squealed, and clapped her hands. “Wait a minute.”
She rushed back into the hall and returned seconds later, carrying a small clay flowerpot filled with dandelions. “It’ll be like bringing a little bit of Money to Detroit,” she said.
Tass smiled, and reached out and stroked her mother’s arm. “Thank you for everything.”
In the car, Fish glanced at the pot Tass clutched in her lap and laughed. “That ain’t nothing but a weed. We got weeds in Detroit!”
“I know,” Tass said as she laid her head on his shoulder. “I know.”
And that’s how I followed Tass Hilson-May all the way to the Motor City.
Her new home was an old Victorian on a broad street lined with oak trees. Across from the house stood a three-story redbrick hospital.
Tass pointed her finger at the structure and said, “That’s convenient. We don’t have to go far if we get sick.”
“They don’t treat colored folk in that hospital, baby.”
The neighborhood, once all white, was now speckled with brown families. At first, the whites moved out under cover of night, but now they left in broad daylight, in a steady stream of moving trucks.
The house was a mansion compared to what Tass had grown up in. Two floors, four bedrooms, and one bathroom. A parlor, dining room, and den were packed tight with all manner of things that should have been stored in a garage or toolshed.
The lace curtains covering the windows were dry rot. At the slightest touch, the lace disintegrated into dust. The wooden floors were black with age and dirt, and the throw rugs riddled with bald spots. Who knew what color the kitchen walls were beneath the layers of grease and grime? Every pot and pan in that house was filled with nuts, bolts, screws, and nails, and the kitchen sink was piled high with dirty dishes sprouting mold.
“I know,” Fish stammered when he saw the aston-ished look on Tass’s face. “It’s a mess, but I’m sure you’ll have this house spotless in a day or two.”
Tass stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Maybe you should have hired a maid instead of taking a wife.”
The first time Tass saw snow was on May 16, 1957, just two days after she’d arrived in Detroit. The sight of it was accompanied by thunder that clapped and marched across the sky, and fork lightning.
The snow began to fall an hour after the orchestra of BOOM—BANG—Brrrr-RUMMM drove people off the streets and into the safety of their homes. It came down soft, like tufts of cotton, and covered everything. It laid white sheets over the rooftops and the high school football field. It clasped hold to tree limbs, coated cars like flour, and sugared the daffodils and tulips.
Harsh winds swept the snow into molehills and mountains that blocked doorways and driveways. In a matter of hours Detroit was buried beneath twelve inches of late-spring snow and Tass was left wondering just how she would manage—newly arrived from the sweltering state of Mississippi without galoshes, winter coat, knit hat, or mittens.
She had set the clay flowerpot on the windowsill and now she stood there staring at the yellow blooms against the bright white of the snow and began to long for the time before that moment, when she wasn’t a wife—just Tass Hilson, daughter of Hemmingway Hilson, best friend to Padagonia Tucker, and fool in love for the first time in her life.
“What you doing, huh?” Fish called from their bed. “Come on, Tass, ole boy ain’t had his fill yet.”
She looked over her shoulder to see her husband waving his dick like a kid with a flag at an Arbor Day parade.
When it rained, the roof would leak and Tass would sob.
Pails, pots, and bowls were set out to catch the water. Tass caught her tears in napkins and spilled sick into the toilet. Her breasts swelled and her nipples started to look like water plugs. The scent of cooking meat turned her stomach. Her feet expanded like dough. The cravings for ice cream and salted peanuts nearly drove her out of her mind.
Tass called her mother and explained, “I’m gonna have a baby.”
And Hemmingway replied, “Awww, that’s nice.”
It was midnight when the first pain struck low in her womb, and Tass sat straight up in bed. Fish was across town, playing poker with friends. The second pain grew fingers that grabbed hold of her uterus and squeezed. Tass howled, stumbled out of the house and over to her neighbors. She banged on the door until her water broke.
The third pain balled its fist and punched her in the back, and Tass yanked a patch of hair from her scalp and nearly bit through her tongue. She waddled across the street and into the hospital that didn’t cater to coloreds.
Her bare feet slapped noisily across