Free The Wedding by Dorothy West Page A

off. It’s real hair—it stayed on her scalp. God may have given some coloreds light skin, but He never gave them blond hair. And those eyes! Does it make any sense now? That she couldn’t be colored?” Shelby watched in awe as every jerk of the woman’s arm tugged up her crisp navy-blue cotton shirt and revealed a sharp barrier of crimson between dry rust and creamy white.
    “I suppose so,” said the mother uncertainly. But she was still not completely convinced, perhaps because deep in herheart she knew that too many people had blended too many colors not to strike a combination that looked as real as the real thing.
    The sunburned woman brushed her hands briskly. “That takes care of that. The other name probably wasn’t Coles at all. Forget it and call the police. See you later—I’ve got things to do.” She looked down at Shelby and clucked.
    “Come on, dear,” the mother said to Shelby. “We’ll go to my house, and pretty soon someone will come to take you home.”
    “Will Mummy come?”
    “No, a nice policeman will come and take you home to Mummy.”
    But Shelby knew the policeman would only get mad again because she and the puppy were still hanging around. And maybe he would ask her if she were colored and pull her hair harder and harder, pull it right out of her scalp, until she had no hair left at all. She began to cry bitterly at the thought.
    The mother swept Shelby into her arms. The puppy clawed at the mother’s skirt and whimpered, impatient to be carried too. And so they walked, and with the mother’s scolding and the puppy’s misbehaving and the mother’s strong arms that felt like vises, Shelby was so frightened of what the mother might do to her and the puppy and what the policeman might do that she went limp and white, and mute.
    She did not speak again for some time. A policeman came, not the one who was mad at her but a Santa Claus policeman—fat, ruddy, and kind-talking. He did not pullher hair or ask her if she was colored. But she would not talk to him or raise her eyes to him, not even when he petted the puppy and said that a dog was a fine friend who never let you get lost alone.
    When they drove into the Oval, her name began to sing, soaring to a crescendo burst out of screen doors and running after the car on legs stout and thin, repeating itself over and over. There was no uncertainty. She had her identity back; she was Shelby, one and indivisible, a girl with real hair.
    She sat up straight and looked out the car window, feeling her name caressing her face—“Shelby, Shelby, Shelby”— and seeing the waving hands like so many colored banners. For the first time in her short life she knew the joy of returning home after a journey among strangers.
    The car stopped, and the police chief lifted Shelby out. The puppy prepared to follow, but Shelby gently pushed him back inside. She said softly, “This isn’t really my doggie. He lost himself, and I found him. I think he’s a white doggy, but I don’t know. But please don’t pull his tail to see.”
    The sayings of children were not easy to interpret, and he who took the time had time to waste. The police chief was too busy to ponder Shelby’s words. “So this is the little fellow! Somebody called us about him this afternoon. I’ll tell his folks you took good care of him. They’ll be glad he had you for company. Now let’s go show Momma you’re safe.” He took her hand and led her up the walk.
    The small group of people on the lawn stared over her head at the chief, freezing their smiles, trying to chill him with cold silence. They let him pass without a handshake and then closed in behind him like sentinels on guard, as ifto imply that they had to see the child safe inside before they would disperse. With Shelby safe, they could release the bitter gall they had swallowed for hours, not wanting to risk God’s displeasure by mixing prayer with venom. Now that Shelby was whole and unharmed and God had presumably