Free Francie by Karen English Page A

some hotwater corn bread.
    There were about six or seven of them, both black and white. Someone had built a lean-to out of an old packing crate, and two men were cooking some food over a fire right in front of it. The music was coming from the one sitting by the river’s edge. He was singing along with his banjo and then he closed his mouth and let his fingers fly, making a lively tune, making himself feel good, I guess—for a time. I was blessed to have picked just this time to watch for my train. It was almost as good as a picture show, looking at them. One was mending a shirt, another tying his bedroll, and there was another sitting on a flat rock just staring out at the water. Probably thinking about what a miserable turn his life had taken.
    The lonely little figure who’d been gazing out at the
river stood up. Something strange about that one, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He began to climb the hill in my direction. When he drew closer, I saw that he wasn’t a he at all. He was a she —dressed in men’s clothes. She had a sharp birdlike face, with sad, startled eyes. She was colored, caramel skin. Adjusting the man’s cap, she turned and shaded her eyes in my direction. She clutched a lumpy satchel like she wasn’t ever gonna let it go.
    I sat up and let myself be seen. She jumped a little and stopped in her tracks.
    â€œHey, you,” she called out. “What you doin’?” She climbed closer, grabbing at a bush with her free hand to pull herself up.
    She came right up to me and squatted down. She set her bag in front of her and looked at it as if measuring whether it was safe so close to a stranger. She was skinnier than I’d thought, her arms wiry and ropy with veins. Her lean face, all sharp chin and cheekbones, showed that she was older, as well. As old as twenty-five, maybe.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked.
    â€œFrancie.”
    â€œMy name’s Alberta—after my daddy.”
    â€œAlberta … There was a character named Alberta in a book I read once.”
    She studied my face to see if I was lying, it seemed. Then she shoved some stray hair back under her cap. “You read?” she said.
    â€œCourse.”

    Her mouth flicked down at the corners like Prez’s when he was trying not to cry. But she recovered quickly and said, “I never got to go to school.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œNever mind.”
    She sat there silent for a while. I kept quiet too. Her eyes dropped to my Scooter Pie with the one bite out of it and I saw her swallow.
    â€œYou hungry?”
    â€œNaw.”
    â€œMe neither. Here, take my Scooter Pie.” Mama had told me you shouldn’t ever let someone go hungry if you had something to share. It was sinful.
    She shrugged and took it. She ate it quickly, almost choking on it. She licked the inside of the wrapper. “I came up here to look for some place—away from them mens—to go to the bathroom.”
    â€œDo they know you’re a girl?”
    â€œI don’t know. I keep to myself and they don’t bother me none.” She licked her fingers.
    â€œYou traveling with them?”
    â€œI’m traveling on my own. I’m going to New Orleans, then hopping a freight out to California.”
    â€œCalifornia?”
    â€œIt seem like the place to go. Land of opportunity …” Her voice drifted off and she had that getting-ready-to-cry look again.
    â€œWhere are your people? Where’s your folks?”

    â€œHere and there.”
    I stared at her in wonder. Imagine traveling alone like that. Just picking a place and deciding to go.
    She stood up and looked around. “I‘ma go behind them bushes over yonder. You tell me if anybody be comin’.” She slipped and slid down a bit of incline to a row of thick brush. Then she disappeared behind it. I checked the camp at the base of the hill again, deciding her privacy was