legs, the backs of which strained in their desire to watch something that was happening in the very corner of her sight on the far edge of the stage. She saw the first man that came out, an old black man she did not recognize. He walked out on the stage to the strain of the small metal mouth organ he played, his hand working, his wrist flicking as he set the notes to ripple. As he moved across the stage she quickly lost sight of him but his music remained, and she gave her sore neck a rest and let the lid fall down.
Darkness, ’til she heard a curious spring of laughter. Though she knew she shouldn’t, she pushed her way up again so that she could just see who next crossed the stage. They were, she understood right off, meant to be black men. What they were instead were white men with their faces soot-smeared to a shining solid black. Their lips were reddened out to huge false smiles as gleaming and ugly as bleeding wounds. As one they skipped and tapped their way from the makeshift wings, propelling themselves out from behind the heavy red curtains like they’d been given a swift boot to the behind by some unseen foot.
The last man in that line lingered in Rue’s sights as he paused to raise his white gloved hand in an enthusiastic wave. He reached up and tipped his tall black hat to reveal a crop of black wool beneath that stuck up in wild tufts. The crowd shook as one with laughter at the mottled wig. Between the pristine white gloves and the sleeve of his threadbare overcoat, Rue saw the true pink skin of his bony wrist before it disappeared again beneath the fold of cloth and he too moved on, obscured to her by the nodding heads of his captive audience. They jerked in time to the swelling music of the black fiddle player starting up again.
If she shifted her weight she could see clear only the last man, the one who’d so delighted the crowd with the unruly kink of his false black curls. He’d taken up a seat on the edge of the stage, and he sat with his legs comically wide. He leaned in now and then to watch his fellow performers or to react to their clowning by slapping his hand at his knees in an overdone imitation of mirth.
They introduced themselves with a comic lack of humility as the world-renowned Ethiop Choir, promising the crowd the most authentic Negro melodies they’d ever had occasion to hear. At this, the one on the end jumped up, stomped his foot as if a thought had hopped on him like a flea.
“Whee,” he began with a low whistle through his front teeth. “Why, y’all ever hear how it came to be that us black folks gotsta be so black?”
His fellow players moaned like they’d heard this one before, but the audience chuckled, shook their heads. Some amused themselves by baldly calling out their own punch lines: Tar. Paint. Falling asleep during sunup.
“I tell you it goes back to when the good Lawd was handin’ out colors.” His accent was overthick. Sludgy. “The good Lawd says one day to all his peoples, ‘A’ight now I’mma start handin’ out colors tomorrow and y’all better come through on time if y’all want ’em, ya hear? So’s the next day folks is lined up and the Lawd, he say, ‘You there, y’all Chinamans? Y’all folks be yellow. And, y’all Injuns, y’all folks be red. And you there, you fine folks, you will be white.’
“And then the Lawd, he look round hisself and find one of the groups of his people is missin’. He draw out his pocket-y watch”—a dim laugh rose from the audience at his overdone pantomime— “?‘Di’n’t I tell y’all folks to be on time if you wantin’ yo’ colors?’?”
Rue had heard this joke before. It was one her mama liked to tell, berating the lateness of this or that person. Miss May Belle did it better, didn’t belabor the telling as a long walk for a small drink of water. God was never angry in her version, just benignly amused at the way things were.
“So’s finally