Illuminating Fiction

Stamford: A Short Story by Edward P. Jones

2 Stamford A Short Story by Edward P. Jones The day and the sun all about him told that was true. Now, it mattered not how long he had wandered in the wilderness, how long they had kept him in chains, how long he had helped them and kept himself in his own chains; none of that mattered now. He saw Ellwood turn onto the street where he had business, the same street he would come back on to get to the Richmond Home for Colored Orphans. No, it did not matter, Stamford told himself. It mattered only that those kind of chains were gone and that he had crawled out into the clearing and was able to stand up on his hind legs and look around and appreciate the difference between then and now, even on the awful days when the now came dressed as the then. He was standing now on the very corner where more than a hundred years later they would put that first street sign—STAMFORD AND DELPHIE CROW BLUEBERRY STREET. HERE IS WHERE HE BEGINS TO SING TO THE BABY. The white child, having found the safety of sleep, released Stamford’s little finger. He would miss the little darling and he would worry that the place they had waiting for her in Germany would not make her happy and healthy. If the money could be found, he might have to send Delphie back with her to see what kind of place that Germany was. He might have to go himself. It was a pity that the child herself was not old enough to write back a letter that he would have to get someone to read, a letter saying, “I have found home, Papa Stamford, and I am settled in at last.” So somebody else would have to investigate how Germany treated her children. Delphie turned and sighed in her sleep. Stamford stood, waited to make certain she was fast asleep and then placed the child in her crib. He knew how much she loved that crib and some way would have to be found for them to take it with her to Germany. He checked on Billie in his own crib and was satisfied that all was right. In the hall, he looked up beyond the second floor, up to the ceiling on the third floor, and saw that nothing was out of place. In all the house there was only the sound that angels made when people let them sleep in peace. Edward P. Jones 3 He knocked on Delphie’s door and she opened it before there was a need for a second knock. “I been puttin my mind to studyin on why you and me don’t get together,” Stamford said. Delphie said, “What?” Stamford grinned. The road to young stuff takes you through the forest of wide grins, the man had advised him. He grinned some more. “You and me. Us together. Me and you puttin up together and bein as one human bein, is what I’m sayin.” Delphie stepped out of the cabin. She was not smiling because she was not very happy. “I would not want that, Stamford. I would not want that at all.” “Sure you do. You sure do. I’m tellin you I got what ails you, honey. Got that and more to spare. Just gimme one chance to show you what I gots, honey. Just one chance.” Delphie looked up and down the lane. The rain was gentle, not hard, and she could see that just by how the sparse patches of grass did not lean and complain when the rain hit them. Her eyes came back to Stamford and she realized that she pitied him more than she had ever pitied any human being. More than even a dead child laying dead and motherless in the road. Stamford reached up and touched her breast. Now the titty, the man had advised, is the real talker on a woman, see. You have to tell it what you want even when that damn woman is saying you don’t really want that young stuff. Talk to the titty first and the door will open just like that. Delphie took his hand from her breast, firmly, and let it drop down to his side. The rain stopped and, still grinning, he looked around to see what the commotion was all about. When he returned, she was waiting. “I would not ever be with...