Mostly White. Alison Hart

      I help her pull the canoe out to the shore, and we climb in, careful not to tip over. We drift down the river in silence as flames consume our house, lighting the night sky.

      We paddle underneath a wharf in Eastport. Long wooden planks hold up a sardine factory above us. The smell of rotting fish sickens me. Mama hides the canoe and we unload our bags. We walk underneath tall planks along the side of the factory and up a bank. Mama carries the basket with the bottles and we step onto the dirt street. Factory workers scurry past us, some recognize Mama and ask for a bottle. A white man with a brown cap and beard nods at her. Mama lifts the white cloth covering the bottles and quickly slips him a bottle. He hands her a coin, hides the bottle in his sleeve and hurries off. We stay on that street until all the bottles are gone. Most of the time I hide my face in Mama’s skirt like she told me to do. We walk back to the canoe and Mama pushes it into the water. The river takes it under the starry sky. Mama bends down scraping wet dirt into her hands, and she pulls me to her, rubbing the dirt on my face. “Still,” she commands and I don’t squirm because I know blows will come if I do.

      “Why, Mama?”

      “You need to be darker.” She wipes her hands on her skirt, and I follow behind her as we climb the bank to the factory and onto the street. Children run past us in ragged clothes and bare feet, a loud bell rings and people rush out of the factory. Bodies bump into us. I cling to Mama’s skirt as hard as I can all the way to the railroad station.

      At the station Mama speaks to a man behind a window and says, “Two, Brunswick.” He glances over to me and I hide my face.

      “Next train is in two hours.” Mama gives him money and gets the tickets. We head outside and sit on a bench facing the tracks.

      The screeching sound of the train startles me. I lift my head and in front of me is the giant metal creature. It’s the first time I’ve seen a train. We climb aboard and find our seats. I take the window seat and say goodbye to the river as the train chugs away.

      “Brunswick!” the conductor yells. Mama shakes me awake, and we gather our bags and head down the aisle. The conductor helps me off the train. He has dark skin like the dirt Mama rubbed on my face. We walk through the depot station and sit on the steps. Mama takes a piece of dried salmon from the lunch pail and hands me a piece. In front of the depot, an Indian family sells baskets. We approach them and Mama offers them dried salmon. They talk in the old language I don’t understand. I miss Papa.

      We say our goodbyes to the family and Mama hurries me along past the train station and onto the crowded street. Lines of cars are parked on the side of the huge dirt road. Ladies dressed in fancy skirts and huge hats with satin bows stroll in pairs stopping at storefronts. We pass a market with wooden crates of overflowing oranges and apples. I pull Mama’s skirt. “I’m hungry,” I say. We rest on a bench and she gives me the last bit of dried salmon.

      “Sleep,” Mama commands. Images of Papa in the hole, the house burning in flames, flood my head. I lay my head in Mama’s lap, willing myself to hear Papa singing.

      Sun peeks through the clouds. People are milling about on the street. Mama takes ahold of me and rubs more dirt on my face. My tummy rumbles; I’m hungry. Mama sits us down right in the middle of people passing, places the empty lunch pail in front of us and pulls me in her lap. We wait for people to drop coins in our pail. Some people ignore us; others rush past us shaking their heads in scorn. Someone spits at us; a few people drop coins in our pail.

      Mama counts the coins and we gather our belongings and walk to a market. Mama buys salami and bread, we sit on a bench and eat. We walk, we walk so long, past the busy streets, farmhouses, fields; we walk until sundown. We approach a small house with a water pump in the front yard. Mama points to the house. “Aunt Julia.” As we come closer, a group of dark children run to greet us. They surround me, asking questions.

      “Who are you?”

      “Are you Indian?”

      “Where you from?”

      Except one sullen boy with big eyes is quiet. Mama steps up to the front porch and knocks on the door. A dark woman with a face as round as the moon opens it.

      “Emma?” She says wiping her hands on her apron.

      “Auntie.” Mama’s eyes water, she pulls me in front of her. “This is Deliah.”

      Aunt Julia pats my head. “Oh that hair chile and those smart eyes! Hmmm, you all need to get cleaned up, you must been walking for hours. We don’t have a lot of space but y’all are welcome, Deliah and Emma. Boys! Get some water for the tub.” The boys scamper out, the sullen one lags behind. He glances at me before he rushes out the door. The tub is set in the back of the room separated by a curtain. Mama scrubs me in the tub as I listen to Aunt Julia sing. Mama makes a pallet for me to sleep on with a blanket and old towel. I fall asleep to the sound of Aunt Julia’s deep voice.

      The morning light makes me squint. Mama is already moving about the kitchen with Aunt Julia. Three boys crowd around me. I pull the blanket over my head. One pokes me. “Is she awake?”

      “Does she talk?” another voice asks. I throw the blanket off and shout for my mama, running to the folds of her skirt. “I guess she can talk.” They laugh and run outdoors. Mama hands me a biscuit and motions me to sit down at the table. Aunt Julia reassures me.

      “Now Deliah, those children don’t mean a thing. Just eat your biscuit and join them outside, they’ll show you around.” I finish my biscuit, climb off the chair, and put on my dress and shoes, curious to find out what they are doing outside. I’ve never been around other children before, except at church with Papa. They all sat still like me—afraid of moving too much to cause alarm to the adults around them. These boys have dark skin, darker than the dirt Mama rubbed on my face, dark like Aunt Julia’s. When Aunt Julia smiled, her white teeth shone, unlike Mama who didn’t smile much at all.

      Outside, the boys chase each other except for the quiet boy who digs the dirt with his toe and every so often glances sheepishly at me. I stand close to him as the others play, kicking up dirt as they race past us. The boy is a head taller than me; his eyebrows knit together like he’s trying to solve a mystery.

      “Where did you come from?”

      “The river,” I say.

      “How’d you get here?”

      “A train.” I want to run with the other children but I don’t know what they’re playing.

      “What’s your name?”

      “Deliah, what’s yours?”

      “Henry. Are you Indian?”

      “I’m Irish.”

      “You’re Indian, that’s what they say.”

      One of the boys tags me, “You’re it!” They all laugh and scamper away from me.

      “Go on,” Henry says. “Go on and catch someone, don’t you know how to play tag?”

      I chase the boys—even sullen-eyes Henry plays. I catch the smallest one, he cries, so I go after another boy. They run in circles around me until I’m tired. Aunt Julia shouts from the door, “Come on, children, time to do your chores—enough of that playing.” I follow the boys, mimicking them as they pull weeds in the garden, feed the chickens, fetch water from the pump, until Mama calls me in and I help peel potatoes in the kitchen.

      After chores, we eat lunch and get to play again. The boys can’t wait and they burst out the door. I follow behind them. Henry asks me, “Where’s your father?”

      I stop in my tracks. The afternoon air is warm with a slight breeze. “At the river,” I say. My poor papa sits in a hole so far away from me. I push the thought away. “Where’s yours?”

      “Dead.” He picks up a stone and throws it as far as he can.

      “But your mama is here.”

      “She ain’t my mama, my mama