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Allan Street
By  Barbara Martin

Marge wanted to remember the day Aunt Rossi died. Marge lived a neat, solitary and organized life tucked away in her cottage in the suburbs, but she felt deprived. The events of 75 years ago played in slow motion in her memory like the truism of black and white movies because color couldn’t capture the depth of her observations of life as well. Remembering that day kept her alive (alert?), kept a raging fire in her heart, in her voice and in her eyes.

That cold crisp autumn day began innocently enough. Little Marge gathered the firewood Papa chopped before daylight. Then she started the fire in the dining room stove that also heated the living room and the two front rooms. Mama darted back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room with a breakfast of fried fish, grits and light bread before getting ready to go off to her maid’s job. During breakfast, Papa told Marge folk tales about animals that bore a striking resemblance to some of Papa’s friends. Marge loved Papa’s stories because they made her laugh. Marge knew that Mama’s meals always made Papa happy. He especially liked her strong, hot, black coffee in his caffeine stained mug. Very few things in Papa’s life made him happy these days. Papa hadn’t worked for a year since he got hurt working the coal chute at the train yard. Marge thought it must have grieved Papa that Mama became the primary breadwinner. Papa also bore the weight of holding the family together emotionally.

Marge loved when Papa’s sister, Aunt Rossi, stopped by. She allowed Marge to rummage through her pocket book to look for the chewing gum or candy hidden just for Marge to find.  Later events of the day helped Marge finally understand the cloud that came over Aunt Rossi’s beautiful dark brown face when she and Mama whispered in the kitchen. Aunt Rossi’s husband, Jake, seldom came to visit. When he did, he and Papa usually got into a heated discussion that ended with Aunt Rossi crying and her husband yelling that they had to go home.

Aunt Rossi and her husband lived around the corner just past rich Miss Beulah lamb’s house on Allan Street. Allan Street was not really a street. It should have been called Allan Alley or Allan Way because it was dead end. The short, unpaved, dusty road ended at the edge of a small acreage of woods. When it rained, cars dared not go onto Allan Street. Marge often saw well dressed passengers pushing a vehicle while the driver sweat and the passengers rocked the car back and forth to pull it from its muddy prison. There were only two houses on Allan Street – Miss Beulah Lamb’s and Aunt Rossi’s. Miss Beulah’s big, white four bedroom house sat on a lush lawn on the corner lot of Allan Street and Warren Street where Marge lived. It looked like a mansion to Marge. From her front porch, Marge could see Aunt Rossi’s house on the other side of Miss Beaulah’s. Aunt Rossi’s house was the unpainted wooden shack with the bare earth front yard at the far end of Allan Street next to the woods.

Miss Beulah Lamb had money. She was one of the few people in Black Bottom who had a telephone and a gramophone. Every other day, Marge sat in the ditch beside Miss Beulah’s house and listened to the jazz sounds that came through the windows. When she grew up, she wanted to be as nice as Aunt Rossi and as rich as Miss Beulah Lamb. Miss Beulah wore all the latest fashions and went to the beauty parlor to get her hair straightened. She didn’t have to work like Mama and Aunt Rossi because she had a pension from her late husband’s war service and all of the property that stretched from Allan Street to Catawba Street in the back of her house.

Marge was happy when she was allowed to spend the night at Aunt Rossi’s. Aunt Rossi’s house smelled like cinnamon when she cooked special syrup cakes for Marge. Marge liked the way Aunt Rossi’s petite frame moved around the kitchen when she cooked. She made it look so easy that the supper of bland pork and beans with rice tasted good to Marge. Aunt Rossi’s husband was the only unpleasant thing about being with Aunt Rossi. He usually sat silently during supper, until he drank his tea, then he began to talk in a funny, slurry kind of speech. After she went to bed, Marge thought she heard him yelling and Aunt Rossi crying. Some things were not right in Aunt Rossi’s house.
That autumn day, as Mama opened the door to leave for work, Marge heard Aunt Rossi scream. Mama told Papa that she thought Aunt Rossi’s husband was drunk again. She clinched her fists as Papa rushed out of the front door running toward Aunt Rossi’s house. “Call the Sheriff,” Papa whispered to Mama. Mama told Marge to stay inside as she hurried across the street to Miss Lamb’s to make the call. Marge felt a twinge of fear as she peeked through the squeaky screen door. She thought abut sneaking across the street to the ditch to find out more, but she heard Aunt Rossi scream once more and all was silent. She saw Papa run around the corner of Allan Street with Mama not far behind. Eternity seemed to pass before Marge heard the wail of the police siren. She didn’t see Papa after he went into Aunt Rossi’s house. She saw Mama leave miss Beulah Lamb’s house and start toward Aunt Rossi’s

The Sheriff’s car careened around the corner to Allan Street. Marge saw Old Buford, the biggest, whitest, meanest deputy Sheriff in the county get out of the police car and go into Aunt Rossi’s house. Hooked onto the belt under his large round belly was the big black bullwhip that scared everybody. Marge prayed for Papa to leave Aunt Rossi’s house and come home. She saw Mama turn and head back home when Old Buford went into Aunt Rossi’s house. Then Marge heard a different sound. A deep guttural yell, half scream and half whimper came from Aunt Rossi’s house. Marge’s throat dried. Her fear increased because Aunt Rossi and Papa were inside that house.
Suddenly, Marge saw Aunt Rossi’s husband, Uncle Jake, fly out of the front door of the house. He landed on the dilapidated porch with a thud. Old Buford emerged from the house and kicked Uncle Jake off the porch and into the dusty front yard. Marge saw blood gushing from Uncle Jake’s back through the shirt that was half ripped off. Old Buford kept kicking Uncle Jake and yelling “Niggers can’t even take care they business right. Got me comin’ down here to Black Bottom near every week.” Then he raised that bullwhip and began to lash Uncle Jake over and over and over. After about the tenth lash, Uncle Jake stopped moving, but Old Buford kept whipping him and talking to him.

Marge didn’t realize that she was on her porch, trembling and crying, until Mama said, “Marge go in the house and stay there.” Marge’s breath came in short, gasping beats. She felt her heart racing. A strange feeling of sadness came over her, as if the world were coming to an end. Marge saw Papa walk slowly back home as Old Buford got in the police car and drove away. She saw Uncle Jake’s lifeless body lay in a pool of blood that slowly seeped into the yard. Marge wondered why they left him there, uncovered, until the mortuary wagon came. Marge learned later that Aunt Rossi’s husband, in a drunken rage, had slit Aunt Rossi’s throat. Mama didn’t go to work that day. Papa just sat by the stove and stared. Some of his church brothers came to help with the funeral, but Papa didn’t speak to anyone until after Aunt Rossi was buried a week later. To this day, Marge still doesn’t know who to hate.