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The Land of Cotton
- University of Georgia Press
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The Land of Cotton D own the stairs from the bedrooms to the floor of his store, past the blouses and pants under dust covers waiting for day to begin, Morris Kleinman made his wayto the front door thanking God,blessed be Hisname,for aregularnight's sleep, his devoted Miriam, four healthy children, and strength enough, after anaggingcold, to be the first one up on UpperDauphin Street wielding his broom against the walk in preparation for the Confederate Veteran'sparade. Above him the swallowslooped their crazy script against the chalky Mobile sky. They circled abovethe Lebaneseclothing store and Syrian pressing shop, turned and soared above the Greek bakery where Matranga wasbaking his NewYork twist bread that would sell, in today's busy crowd, for a nickel a loaf.Asthe Holy Cathedral bell gonged sixtimes Father O'Connor scraped hisway on one good leg toward the church steps, calling out to Morris, "May peacebe with you,"to which Morris calledback, thinking of the silent, glaring Orthodox priest of his Romanianvillage, "Good morning, Monseignur, and shalom to you." Horsehair,wood shavings,tobacco, goatdroppings, melon rind, ashes, alone shoelace—hisbroom whiskedaway last night's debris onto the wood-brick street. He reached down into the gutter and retrieved the shoelace, slipping it into hispocket for Miriam's scrap box;yesterdayshe'd kissedhim whenhe salvagedan ivorybutton. 3 4 CHICKEN DREAMING CORN As he wheeled out the clothes racks he looked down the street, past the red-brick and stained-glass Cathedral, past the tattered Star Theater marquee and the humble mercantile storefronts ofHabeeb and Zoghby and Kalifeh, toward LowerDauphin where the likes of prosperous Greenbaum and Leinkauf were nowhere yet to be seen. O/z, he shook his head, the German Jewish merchants still blithely asleep in their canopied beds. The ritual morning prayershumming at hislips, he turned togo back in, eyeing a crate to be opened. Facing east, tallit over his shoulders, he laced the prayer straps through his fingers and intoned the Hebrew, rocking gently,trying not to think about the work pants he'd ordered from Schwartzin Memphis or the dresses from Besser in New Orleans, landsmen with their own ties to the Carpathian vistas of Romania. The sun fanned out like palmetto leaves across the storefronts where cedar bread boxes awaited Smith's Bakerydeliveries and, in the doorway of the Norwegian Seamen's Hall, men curled hoping for dayjobs cleaning stables or lugging bananas from the docks.AsFather O'Connor said his first "amen"in the incensed recesses of Holy Cathedral, Morris said his last "o main" standing behind the cash register of his store. He added a prayer for safekeeping of Papa, dwelling still with sister Golda, so far away. "You willjoin us here in Alabama,"he vowed. "Soon." He folded awayhis prayer shawl,picked up a crowbar and faced the shoulder-high crate:BesserFashions.New Orleans. Thinking of his sons curled in alazycocoon, he went back upstairs. In the front room,his own,Miriam laycurledin their bed before the French doors half-opened to the balcony. The collar of her embroidered gown camehigh on the neck,her dark hair coiled in a bun.Without turning sheraised her hand to signal shewasawake: the eyes and earsof the house evenasshedozed in reverie,heknew, of the villagelanes and kitchen tables of her Romanian home. Hepassed his daughter's room. Lillianhad kicked off the covers, her twelve-year-oldlegs sprawledto the far corners of the mattress, [54.84.65.73] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 08:14 GMT) Tbe Land of Cotton 5 her gowntwisted up to beyond her knees.The color wasrobust in her face, blessed be HisName,but after her rheumatic fever—three years ago, this day of the Confederates—who could ever be sure? He stole in and draped the sheet back over her. Heturned into the front room wherebabyHannah snored in her bed. Justthe other side of a muslin curtain dividing the room, tenyear -oldAbraham and eight-year-oldHermanlayelbowto shoulder, mouths open like fish. He leaned over and stroked the back of his hand overAbe'scheek;his son groaned.He wiggledhis fingertip on the peachfuzz overthe boy's upperlip;Abebrushed away thefinger. "Gutte morgen, mein boychik" Morris whispered. "Mornin,"Abemoaned back. "Lunger loksh," he exhorted, using the nickname,"long legs,"for his lanky son. "No school today,Daddy." "Up!" "Sun's not even up." "This son is the first who will make good at Barton?" "Hm,mm." "Who will make a good marriage to a nice shayna madde...