Free Celeste's Harlem Renaissance by Eleanora E. Tate

lying around. So first I’d get dressed. It might be fun wearing my aunt’s clothes. These weren’t fancy like hers that I’d tried on back home, and they were still too big, but this was all that I could wear, for now. Next I needed to wash my dress and stockings so I’d have something clean, too, not just dry. I could write in my journal about my trip; I could write to Poppa, Aunt Society, and to my Butterflies friends. I might play Dede. Maybe I’d even go meet that lady next door. I set my cup on the night table by the bed. Things might not be so bad up here in New York, if I worked at it.
    With the tray in my hands, I slid out of bed. But my right foot tangled in the quilt, and I hit the floor. A yellow stream of slimy egg rose into the air and splattered on the quilt.
    “Oh, my heavenly Father!”
Quick, soap, rags!
With the quilt still snarled around my ankle, I crawled across the floor and scrounged around in the drawers for rags and soap, but couldn’t find anything. We sure had had enough last night.
    Besides runny eggs, the toast had also hit the quilt, but at least not butter-side down. I scraped the eggs off with my fingers, then ate the egg and bread. If Aunt Valentina kicked me out for destroying her quilt, at least I’d have some food in my gut.
    Hurry, girl, hurry!
She might return any minute.
I wet the toe of one of my stockings and rubbed at the remaining egg. That only spread the yellow stain. Maybe the lady in 9A would know what to do. Quickly I dressed in Aunti’s clothes, smoothed down my hair that was sticking out like porcupine quills all over my head, and rinsed my mouth with the last of the tea.
    When 9A’s door opened at my knock, I jumped back. A monster head draped with wet brown and green strips peered at me through small oval slits. The skin on its face was a gooey white. A thin twig dangled from the red gash that probably was its mouth.
    “I — I —”
    “You must be Valentina’s niece, enty?” the thing said, waving rubbery hands, which I saw were actually rubber gloves. “I’m Miz Dillahunt, but call me Miss D. Don’t I look a sight? My head pain me so bad I got to use this home cure.”
    “Hello,” I squeaked. Suddenly a miniature monster stuck its white face around Mrs. Dillahunt’s hip. I did my back-away dance again.
    “And this is Gertie, my grandbaby.” Mrs. Dillahunt pushed the little monster toward me. “I babysit her now and then. Say hello to Celeste, Gertie. She’s eight. That’s why I got the head-hurt. My beauty mask fights off wrinkles. Gertie likes to wear it, too.”
    Gertie made a face at me. Or was she smiling? I didn’t see any teeth in her mouth. Mrs. Dillahunt pulled the brown strips from her head. “They say paper and collard greens soaked in vinegar and wrapped around the head like this draw out the hurt, see.”
    Now I knew that drinking everlasting life tea or inhaling smoke from burning pine tar knots cured headaches, but I kept that to myself. Grown folks sometimes didn’t like someone young telling them things they didn’t know.
    “So you come aknocking on my door. What you want?”
    “Yes, ma’am, I need to clean some egg off something.”
    Her white eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “Like off a pan been scorched?”
    “No, ma’am, like off a quilt.”
    “Oh, blessed assurance, not that Seven Sisters quilt!” She pushed past me into Aunti’s room.
    Gertie followed. “Your aunt’s gonna beat your butt,” she said.
    “No, she won’t,” I replied. “It was an accident.” Or would she?
    “Where t’is? Oh, here t’is.” Miss D held up the quilt and eyed it carefully. “Well, this won’t be your death, nor the quilt’s, either.” She carried it to the sink and splashed water over the stains. Opening a cupboard above the sink, she removed a bar of lye soap and rubbed it over the quilt. I frowned. Why hadn’t I thought to look up there?
    “Some better.” She studied the wet quilt. “I’ll sling it over these