Coras kitchen, p.1
Cora's Kitchen, page 1
Cora’s Kitchen
Cora’s Kitchen
KIMBERLY GARRETT BROWN
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
www.inanna.ca
Copyright © 2022 Kimberly Garrett Brown
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.
Cover design: Val Fullard
Cover art: Janet McClean
Cora’s Kitchen is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
All trademarks and copyrights mentioned within the work are included for literary effect only and are the property of their respective owners.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Cora’s kitchen / Kimberly Garrett Brown.
Names: Garrett Brown, Kimberly, author.
Series: Inanna poetry & fiction series.
Description: Series statement: Inanna poetry & fiction
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220274592 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220274606 | ISBN 9781771338516 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771338523 (HTML) | ISBN 9781771339056 (PDF)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3607.A775 C67 2022 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada
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Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765
Email: inanna.publications@inanna.ca Website: www.inanna.ca
She stands
In the quiet darkness,
This troubled woman
Bowed by
Weariness and pain
Like an
Autumn flower
In the frozen rain,
Like a
Wind-blown autumn flower
That never lifts its head
Again.
— Langston Hughes, “Troubled Woman” From The Weary Blues (1926)
March 29, 1928
The last thing I wanted to do after working all day was traipse around Harlem looking for that boy, but Mr. Peterson called the house again this evening. Junior didn’t show up for work for the second time this week. I contemplated waking Earl to go look for him, but he’s ornery if he doesn’t get a nap before he goes to the club.
I checked the park between our house and the school, but Junior wasn’t there. A couple of girls who looked his age told me they talked to him right after school, although they didn’t remember which way he went. I searched alleys, basement apartment stairwells and every other hidden corner I could think of until I wound up at Shorty’s bar. Young boys like to hang out there because they can drink and gamble. I have told Junior if I ever caught him there, I’d wear his hide out. But he thinks at 13 he’s grown.
The place was practically empty, still reeking of musty cigar smoke and alcohol. Three men sitting at a table just inside the door stopped talking when I came in. The floor was so sticky I feared my shoes would get stuck. I walked over to the bar and asked the bartender if he had seen Junior. He hadn’t. I turned to leave but noticed the men at the table watching me. One of them, wearing a gray pinstriped suit, nodded as he swirled his glass. I stopped at the table to ask if they had seen Junior even though I knew they wouldn’t tell the truth if they had. Of course they said they had not.
On my way out, I recognized a boy from our building. He ducked his head when he saw me. Young folks today don’t respect their elders as they did when I was coming up. If someone’s mother from the neighborhood was looking for them, I would have spoken up — mostly out of fear that she would tell my mother I hadn’t helped. Nowadays, there’s no telling how the parents might react if you tell them about their children. It’s best to mind your own business unless you know the parents well.
I walked up and down a few more blocks and then to Peterson’s Market to see if Junior had shown up. Lo and behold, there he was sweeping the floor behind the counter.
“What you doing down here, Mama?” he asked as if he had been there all along.
I had half a mind to take off my shoe and beat the living daylights out of Junior, but Mr. Peterson was standing next to him.
“Mrs. James, what brings you down here?” he asked.
“I need some collards for dinner,” I said.
I bought three bundles of collards so I didn’t look like a fool. But I tossed them in the first rubbish bin I passed on my way home because they smelled sour. A quarter wasted. Mr. Peterson ought to be ashamed of himself, selling near-rotten fruits and vegetables for twice as much as you can get at the markets uptown, but he knows no one is going to complain. He’s the only market for almost a mile. Most people don’t have money or time to search for a better deal. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, though. At least Junior has a job.
When I got home, Earl was getting dressed for work. He fussed all through dinner after I told him what happened. Junior was lucky his father left for the club before he got home from work. Hopefully, Earl will have calmed down by the time he sees Junior in the morning.
The whole incident reminded me of the Langston Hughes poem I came across shelving books this afternoon called “Troubled Woman.” I cried as I read it. It felt as if Langston was standing in my kitchen watching me hunched over the sink, washing dishes. I’d never thought of myself as a troubled woman before, but I am. My days are becoming more and more wearisome. Sometimes I wonder how I’m going to make it. I copied the poem onto a piece of paper to study when I got home. It makes me want to write, but I don’t know where or how to start. It’s too bad I can’t write like Langston. I sure would have a lot of stories to tell about being a troubled woman.
I wonder how he came up with that idea anyway. If he wasn’t away at college, I’d ask him. I miss seeing him at the library forums and the Booklover’s Club.
New York, New York
April 2, 1928
Dear Langston,
I read one of your poems a few days ago and thought I would write you a letter. I hope you don’t mind.
The library has not been the same since you went away to school. There are still spirited discussions about race issues at the forums and new authors reading at the Booklover’s Club meeting, but no one talks about poetry, books or writing the way you and I did over the last year.
I know it sounds odd to say no one talks about books at the library. People have conversations all the time, but they are mostly superficial discussions. Someone will say I loved this or that about a book but then will not be able to describe why. It’s like there is no appreciation for the words. No one takes the time to savor the story. A patron came in to return a copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I asked him what he thought of “Song of Myself,” particularly 21, and he responded: It was nice.
I stood there, astonished. How can you come away from Whitman with “it was nice?” The opening of stanza 21 takes my breath away:
“I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell
are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.”
One stanza conveys the urging of the body and the longing of the soul. I feel the complexity of heaven and hell within my own life.
It’s a blessing to work at the library surrounded by books and words and ideas. I have a friend who studied to be a teacher, but no school would hire her because she’s colored. She works for a white family as a maid. She helps the children with their lessons from time to time, but she will always be more mammy than tutor. So, while there are times I feel more like a clerk than a librarian, I know working here is better than cooking or cleaning for a white woman.
And yet, I don’t feel any closer to accomplishing my dreams than my friend is to teaching school. It’s as if I’m trapped in purgatory, knowing I want more from life, but unable to do anything about it. Then I feel guilty for not being satisfied. I have a good job, a roof over my head, and a family who loves me. But like Whitman says, “the pains of hell are with me.”
When I met my husband, he explained his life would be worthless if he had to give up music. Part of the pain of hell for me is I don’t think I’m being who I need to be. If I were, my writing wouldn’t be limited to my journal.
All of this comes to the surface when I read those words in Whitman’s poetry. It can’t be whittled down to simply saying, “It’s nice.”
Don’t feel obligated to write back. Knowing you’re reading my letters is enough.
Sincerely yours,
Cora James
April 5, 1928
I can’t stop thinking about that poem. The words “quiet darkness” and “troubled woman” keep rumbling through my mind. It’s been a few days, and I still haven’t heard from Langston. I wonder if he got my letter. What if he’s angry and wrote to Mrs. Rose to complain? She will most certainly chastise me for taking such liberties.
I probably would have worked myself into a real lather if Dorothy’s huffing and puffing hadn’t started to get on my nerves. She has taken to pouting whenever I make her help me in the kitchen.
“You’ve got a lot of years of cooking ahead of you,” I said.
“I’ll be too busy taking care of patients,” she said.
Her expression reminded me of Mama. They have the same features: almond-shaped eyes, short, flat nose, plump cheeks. The only things missing are the deep lines that were carved into Mama’s face and the sadness in her eyes. Time and disappointment do that to you, I guess. Seems like every time I look in the mirror, there are deeper lines in my face.
Truth is, when I was 11 years old, I hated being stuck in the house cooking, too. It didn’t seem fair. My brothers got to do whatever they wanted. Of course, I never dared let Mama see me sulking. Laziness was always met with a stern warning from scripture: “By much slothfulness the building decayeth; and through idleness of the hands the house droppeth through.”
The only good thing about being in the kitchen with Mama was she loved to tell stories, especially about the beaus who courted her before she married my father. She’d go over every detail, as if she were savoring a piece of rock candy. I once suggested we write down her stories and send them to the Ladies’ Home Journal.
Ain’t nobody interested in stories about a colored woman. Don’t let all that reading go to your head, she said, not even bothering to look up from what she was doing.
“You look like my mother,” I said as I stood up from the kitchen table.
“I thought you said she looked like Aunt Lucy,” Dorothy said, turning up her nose.
“She did, but prettier,” I said with a wink.
The redness in Mama’s brown skin and her high cheek bones made her look Indian, though she never wanted any part of that side of her family. She used to say she didn’t believe in them. I think what she meant was that she didn’t believe in their traditions. But she was just like them. Looking to the moon for signs. Blending plants and herbs to cure ailments. Watching animals for predictions.
It’s too bad she never got to see any of her grandchildren.
April 6, 1928
I can’t sleep. Something has been bothering me since Earl left for work tonight.
I was washing the dishes after dinner. My hair stood straight up on my head like Medusa, droplets of sweat trailing down the side of my face. I looked up and Earl was in the doorway watching me. Tuxedo freshly ironed. The crisp, white collar of his shirt resting against his smooth chestnut neck. Eyes dancing. He came over and pressed his lips into the crook of my neck. His warm breath thawed the tension in my shoulders. But then I thought: Why is he so happy?
It made me think of my mother sitting in that rocking chair by the window at night, with her Bible on her lap, waiting for my father to come home from the store. Every now and then I’d catch her glancing at the clock on the wall. The corners of her mouth would turn down as she slowly shook her head. Lord, have mercy, she’d say with a loud sigh. I promised myself I would never be sitting up at night waiting for a man, but here I am.
I’m not worried about who he’s with or what he’s doing. There will always be some temptation for him at the nightclub, but I’d run myself crazy if I didn’t trust him. So, I don’t think too much about that. What bothers me though is the ease of his life. He goes to work, plays the music he loves, and comes home. The rest is left to me.
What would life be like if I were a writer? Maybe I’d be like Zora Neale Hurston. She strides into the library with such fanfare and confidence. She’s not running around Harlem after a hard-headed 13-year-old. What made me think Langston would be interested in my dream of becoming a writer?
Lincoln University
Pennsylvania
April 5, 1928
Dear Cora,
What a wonderful surprise to hear from you. I’ve been awfully busy here working on a survey for a sociology assignment. The whole thing is causing quite a stir. But I found it so refreshing to hear from you in the midst of it all. So, by all means, please write.
I’m glad you enjoyed reading Whitman. His eye for observation helps me look deeper into my own world. I have used many of his themes as inspiration for my own poems. Of course, if you’re interested more in prose than poetry, you may want to look at his collection of notes and essays in Specimen Days. Following his example may help you to move beyond journaling. Imagine the observations you could make about people in the library. It is surely a magical place with fascinating people and interesting conversations.
Though a husband and family may make it more difficult to find time to write, you must write if by not writing “the pains of hell are with [you].” If you are looking for motivation, Opportunity is sponsoring a short story contest. The deadline is not until the end of August. That gives you a little over four months to write something. The details are on the last page of this month’s issue. If you decide to enter one of your stories, I would be happy to read it before you send it in.
I have a book recommendation for you: The Sport of the Gods. I know how much you love Paul Dunbar’s poetry. It was written at the turn of the century but still worth reading. I would love to hear your thoughts on it.
I can usually manage a quick trip to Harlem on the weekends, but lately I haven’t had a chance to get away. Unfortunately, it is not nearly as warm as friends tell me it has been in Harlem. There is nothing like spring in New York.
Respectfully,
Langston
April 9, 1928
I checked out a copy of Whitman’s Specimen Days. Truth is, I was a bit leery about what a white man might have to say about soldiers from the Civil War. They did such horrible things to colored people back then. I couldn’t imagine having to read about it. Back in Georgia there were always reminders. Some white folks never got over losing the war and made it their business to remind the colored folk in town the South was still the South.
Whenever things were especially stirred up, my grandmother would remark that it was still better than slavery days. She’d comb through the past for the most awful story she could remember about living on the plantation or working in the cookhouse. Mama would close her eyes and shake her head. After a while she’d say, “Thank you, Jesus, there is a time to keep, and a time to cast away.” Grandma would agree and the conversation would change to something else. But images of my grandmother’s stories would play through my mind for weeks. I still remember the story about the woman being beaten severely with a riding crop for burning the edges of the waffles. I’ll never understand why the white women didn’t do more to help the colored women.
Oddly enough, the notes in Specimen Days made my heart ache for the soldiers, Confederate and Union alike. So many lives lost. But I guess I should be grateful. Otherwise, I’d be on a plantation working in a cookhouse. Or I guess it would be a kitchen now.
April 11, 1928
I tried to write field notes when I got home from work, but to be honest, I couldn’t think of anything worth writing about. Whitman’s interactions with soldiers were certainly more interesting than people coming and going through the library. How can making notes about an ordinary day help me write?
April 12, 1928
Field Note – Observation
I sat down on the davenport to read but got distracted by the sag in the cushion, the foam finally giving way to years of Earl’s afternoon naps and Junior flopping on it. It used to be we sat straight-backed to read or to receive guests. The children weren’t even allowed to sit on it except in their Sunday clothes while they waited for Earl and me. Now, someone sprawls across the davenport daily as if it were a mattress. The whole room shows signs of age. The yellowed curtains. White threads bleeding through the pattern of roses in the rug. The lace shawl draped over the back of the davenport was the only thing of beauty in the room, even though it’s older than everything else. I crocheted it while I was pregnant with Junior. Back when I used to wait for Earl to get home at night. I haven’t crocheted anything in years. You only need so many shawls.
