Beulah:
an excerpt from her novel
"Standing Up Inside Myself"

by J. Henri Williams

“A-h-shiiiiiite!!!,” Junior shouted in an exaggerated sneeze. The ruse worked. Everyone laughed, some out of startled embarrassment. 

“Excuse yourself, boy,” Mother commanded after the laughter died.

“Sorry, Mother. Sorry, I – I just had to – to sneeze, you know.”

Junior delivered a devilish grin with his new dentures.

Mother rolled her eyes in good-natured impatience and went back to opening her Christmas presents.

“Bow bag, bow bag, where’s the bag for the Christmas ribbons?” she chanted. Other family members took up the chant. It was all part of the holiday tradition.

Junior’s fake sneeze was meant to deflect attention from the moisture in his eyes.  His “baby” sister, Memoleigh, gave him a miniature red wagon for Christmas and its strong affects caught him off guard. He had to get rid of those tears before anyone noticed. Yes, he felt sentimental about some things. His brothers and sisters didn’t know it, but that’s because he had a reputation to uphold. Black men can’t go around looking soft.  That wouldn’t be right.

Yet, one small replica and he was catapulted into the past. One look at the tiny wagon and Junior was no longer arthritic, or balding, or lame from a poorly set ankle. One look and he was a scrawny, pale-faced black kid back in Cincinnati’s most neglected neighborhood. A quick glance and in his mind he was stumbling down cobble stone streets and waving hello to the rag collector. The wagon turned out to be one of those defining moments in Junior’s life, the kind they like to talk about on change-your-life TV shows. 

He remembered that year well. All six brothers and sisters were supposed to share the wagon but Junior, the oldest, knew it was mostly going to be his. From the moment the wrapping paper was off, he was smitten. Even when he was old enough to know the difference, he described the feeling as almost analogous to love. The shiny wagon glistened from under that limp Christmas tree like a crimson star in the night sky. It wasn’t absolutely brand new, but that never diminished its glory. There must have been other gifts that year, but Junior couldn’t remember what they were. His twelve-year-old eyes were fixated on Beulah. Yes, Beulah. Every wagon needs a name. Junior had Beulah’s picked out long before she arrived. He had no way of knowing then how pivotal the wagon would be in his life.

At first, it was all fun and games. Junior used Beulah to win lightening fast races down Carlyle Street and carry empty soda pop bottles to Mr. Bob’s store. Later Beulah hauled groceries and took mountains of dirty clothes to the Laundromat-most often with Memoleigh or Juice perched on top. The two youngest always had special perks. Junior took Beulah everywhere. He chained her to the bike racks at school, and rode her home everyday with one knee in her belly and one foot pushing on the ground.  They were a team.

Beulah came the same year Dad left. Until she arrived, there hadn’t been much to smile about for months. Junior remembered how his parents called him into the cold kitchen that January. They delivered the news with wet, puppy dog eyes and slow, sullen voices.

“Mother and Dad have decided not to live together any more.  We think it’s better if Dad lives somewhere else.” Mother spoke and Dad just nodded most of the time.

Junior dropped his head and tried to take on a sorrowful expression. Inside he was jumping for joy. He just didn’t want to hurt their feelings. The years of tension and tempers were about to be over. The yelling, uncertainty, and warnings of “quiet, don’t wake your father,” were about to end. He was happy. Besides, quiet as it was kept, Junior believed his father didn’t like him very much. 

Most of the other children felt the same way. Junior remembered feeling sorry for both parents. They seemed to try so hard to be good at being married. It never panned out. As far as he could see, all they ever did was work and fight.

“Earth to Junior, earth to Junior,” Rocky teased while elbowing his brother in the ribs. Junior jumped to attention, spun the wheels on the tiny red and black model and looked up smiling. 

“I’m here on earth,” he countered in his usual gruff manner.

  “You’d better check with your space cadet sister over there.” 

He gestured toward Memoleigh who was dressed like Santa and teasing Mother mercilessly. The gift giving ceremony focused on her antics, giving him another chance to retreat into his retroactive daydream.

Back then the other kids might have been too young to understand the break up, but the situation was clear in his mind. He was grown before he figured out that his parent’s marriage was in trouble long before he saw his father gambling on the corner. It was in trouble before Junior followed his father to Cincinnati’s Cotton Club where Dad kissed the pretty, brown bottom of one of the singers. The marriage was certainly over before Junior jumped between his parents to protect Mother. He thought his father was going to hit her.

When Dad left, Junior knew Mother wanted to prove she could raise her children on her own. He was determined to help her. Things started off with a flair but fizzled quickly. Mother marched out of that two bedroom, cold water flat with nothing but a bible and a garment bag. She piled the rest in the middle of the kitchen floor, toys, dishes, furniture, and all.

“Leave that mess! It was nothing but junk from the start,” She said, tossing her head in the air as if she was almost afraid to look at it.

The new place was the first real house they’d ever lived in.  It had an upstairs and a downstairs. No one needed to sleep in the living room because they each had real beds in real bedrooms. It had a fireplace and a tiny yard where only Willard children could play. It was heaven. 

Heaven lasted three delirious months. In that short time their new home, decked out in new-to-you furniture from the second hand store, was condemned and tagged for destruction. The city planned to pave over the entire neighborhood to construct what would become the Cincinnati’s first expressway. Mother cried for a week, then put her name on the mile long waiting list for government housing. It was more than seven months before the call came. When it did, Mother was recovering from surgery so couldn’t do the work of moving. She hid out in her upstairs bedroom, praying and crying over the many yellow cardboard notices that the construction crew nailed to the door. She filed for so many extensions with the government housing office that they refused her last request. After a while the Willard house was the only occupied one on the block.

Seven-year-old Memoleigh came up with an idea.  She was supposed to be in bed. Instead, she wandered into the living room where Junior and the older children were discussing solutions.

“We have to move in two weeks or they’re going to put us back at the end of the housing list.” Junior was saying. “We’ve had all the extensions they’re going to give.” 

“Good,” Jamie piped in, “Good, who wants to live in the Laurel Homes Projects any way? Ain’t nothing there but drunks and poor people who scratch and spit.”

“Jamie, you’d better get down off your high horse. What do you think we are? We’re poor too. We’re poorer than they are. They have hot water and indoor toilets. Before we moved to this house, we didn’t have either one.”

“Shhh, You’ll wake Mother up,” Angela reminded.

Jamie put her hand over her mouth by way of apology. It was then that she saw Memoleigh out of the corner of her eye. 

“What are you doing up?” she screeched.

“Go to bed!” the three older children shouted in unison.

“Shhh,” Angela reminded again.

Memoleigh, undaunted, walk over to the gold velvet sofa and plunked down.

“I’m thirsty.”

“Then get some water and go to bed,” Junior commanded.

“I want to listen. I’ll be quiet. I want to help.”

“You’re too little to help. Now go to bed.”

Memoleigh remained indifferent, swing her skinny legs in the air one by one.

They gave up and went on with their conversation.

“You know what?  I wish we could do the moving. Then Mother could save money and keep on resting. She won’t have to tear her stitches.”

“Jamie, what are you talking about? You don’t know nothing.” Junior asserted.

“I know she had an operation. I know she has stitches in her stomach. That’s why she has to stay off the stairs and can’t lift nothing. . . Now!  Don’t you feel stupid?”

“Let’s get back to the subject. How far away from here is Laurel Homes?”

“Ten long blocks,” Jamie offered. “I counted them on the way home from school.  If we could find a way to move all this stuff ten blocks, Mother would stop crying.”

 “I know how we can move,” Memoleigh chimed in.

“How?” Junior snapped.

“We can let Beulah do it.”

“Beulah! You are out of your mind.  Go to bed!”

Memoleigh got up to leave when Junior brightened.

“Wait . . . she might be right. Jamie, couldn’t we put stuff in Beulah and take it to the new house? That could work.”

“Yeah!  We could do a load at a time like we do the laundry, right?”

“Hell yeah,” Junior said, more excited now. “Memoleigh, you had a good idea, a very good idea. But you and Juice have to help. We can’t have any of that baby girl, baby boy crap. If we’re going to do this, we all have to help. You hear me?”

Memoleigh nodded and grinned big enough to show her gums and the four spaces where front teeth should have been.

 “We could come straight home from school, I mean straight home.” Junior narrowed his eyes. “Load up Beulah and drop the stuff off in the new apartment. Angie, can you get the key?”

“Yeah, I sign Mother’s name all the time. It looks just like she did it. I’ll write a letter saying they should give the key to her daughter because she is sick from the operation. Don’t worry. I’ll get the key from the office. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“Y’all wait, moving a house in Beulah will take a thousand trips.” Jamie whined.

“Yeah, yeah,” Junior agreed,  “Then we’d better do more than one trip a day. You know what else? Don’t - tell -Mother. We’ll surprise her when we’re almost finished . . . Okay . . . Okay?”

“Okay!” the others agreed, joining hands in the center of the room and stooping down so Memoleigh could reach the tangled fingers.

 That night, the most famous project in Willard family history was born. Junior secretly organized the rest of the children. In lieu of suitcases, they used bed sheets, big flat ones. They were perfect from the children’s point of view. The younger kids piled clothes and household items in the center of the sheets. Junior and the older children tied the bundles in giant hobo knots and hoisted them onto Beulah.

 The rest was easy, almost. The new apartment was on the third floor. Junior led Beulah and the other children down the sidewalks with speed and determination. He was in a tremendous rush, so took on the serious mannerisms of a pint sized corporate executive. Fueled by the excitement that comes only with the secret missions of the very young, the brothers and sisters cooperated in the biggest adventure of their lives.

Each day after hurried trips from school, more items were bundled into bed sheets, more bundles were piled on Beulah. Each trip made them feel stronger, more capable, and most importantly, in control of grownup affairs. When the small items were gone, they started moving the larger objects one and two at a time – the ironing board, the side chairs, the chrome legged kitchen table, turned upside down on Beulah for balance.

Once in a while, adults tried to question them about what they were doing, but they didn’t respond. Never talk about family business outside the house, especially not to white people. That was a Willard rule, a big fat rule, one that could end up in a whipping if it was broken. The Willard’s knew too many children who ended up in foster care because they talked too much.

Restricted to her upstairs bedroom, Mother was not fully aware of what was happening until it was time to move her bed and the sofa. Then, they were forced to tell her.

“We can do it Mother, I swear.”

Junior was arguing for all he was worth. At that moment, finishing the moving job was more important to him than anything he’d ever done. He didn’t know why, it just was. Every other child in the house, even little Juice, shared his sentiment. They offered their supportive pleas in squeaky little voices. 

It took a while before Mother realized the significance of the effort and gave her blessing. Besides, the children out numbered her six to one.

“Okay, okay, but if you drop that sofa, we’ll be sitting on the floor in the new living room for the next year.”

Four days later, the doctor said she was able to climb stairs, but only if she did so backward. She visited the new apartment for the first time. When the door swung open, her six children rushed to stand bunched in the new living room behind the gold sofa. Giant hobo bundles of various hues and sizes slumped in the corners. The children’s faces wore the trademark toothy Willard smile in its most brilliant form. Mother put both hands to her mouth, gasped, and cried out with a mixture of pride and shock “Children, what have you done!” 

They all pointed to Beulah.

Always, that’s how the story is told at family gatherings, and that’s pretty much what happened. Six children between four and twelve years of age moved a five-bedroom home with one red, red wagon. 

There were many times before and after this, that they worked together on projects. None affected them like this one.  None had the same impact, caused that same hot flame of adventure to flare up in the middle of their chests. None forced their attentions and energies into a single, concentrated, laser beam of focus. None registered so profoundly on the universal consciousness of them all. That is, not until now, with Angela’s new illness. That truth may have occurred to Memoleigh when she went looking for Junior’s Christmas gift, a simple, miniature crimson red wagon – good old Beulah.