The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

thought the Maginot Line’s face, hidden under all that fat, was really sweet, I had heard too many black and red words about her, seen too many mouths go triangle at the mention of her name, to dwell on any redeeming features she might have.
    Showing brown teeth, China seemed to be genuinely enjoying Mr. Henry. The sight of him licking her fingers brought to mind the girlie magazines in his room. A cold wind blew somewhere in me, lifting little leaves of terror and obscure longing. I thought I saw a mild lonesomeness cross the face of the Maginot Line. But it may have been my own image that I saw in the slow flaring of her nostrils, in her eyes that reminded me of waterfalls in movies about Hawaii.
    The Maginot Line yawned and said, “Come on, China. We can’t hang in here all day. Them people be home soon.” She moved toward the door.
    Frieda and I dropped down to the ground, looking wildly into each other’s eyes. When the women were some distance away, we went inside. Mr. Henry was in the kitchen opening a bottle of pop.
    “Back already?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Cream all gone?” His little teeth looked so kindly and helpless. Was that really our Mr. Henry with China’s fingers?
    “We got candy instead.”
    “You did huh? Ole sugar-tooth Greta Garbo.”
    He wiped the bottle sweat and turned it up to his lips—a gesture that made me uncomfortable.
    “Who were those women, Mr. Henry?”
    He choked on the pop and looked at Frieda. “What you say?”
    “Those women,” she repeated, “who just left. Who were they?”
    “Oh.” He laughed the grown-up getting-ready-to-lie laugh. A heh-heh we knew well.
    “Those were some members of my Bible class. We read the scriptures together, and so they came today to read with me.”
    “Oh,” said Frieda. I was looking at his house slippers to keep from seeing those kindly teeth frame a lie. He walked toward the stairs and then turned back to us.
    “Bed’ not mention it to your mother. She don’t take to so much Bible study and don’t like me having visitors, even if they good Christians.”
    “No, sir, Mr. Henry. We won’t.”
    He rapidly mounted the stairs.
    “Should we?” I asked. “Tell Mama?”
    Frieda sighed. She had not even opened her Powerhouse bar or her potato chips, and now she traced the letters on the candy wrappers with her fingers. Suddenly she lifted her head and began to look all around the kitchen.
    “No. I guess not. No plates are out.”
    “Plates? What you talking about now?”
    “No plates are out. The Maginot Line didn’t eat out of one of Mama’s plates. Besides, Mama would just fuss all day if we told her.”
    We sat down and looked at the graham-cracker anthills we had made.
    “We better cut off the turnips. They’ll burn, and Mama will whip us,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “But if we let them burn, we won’t have to eat them.”
    “Heyyy, what a lovely idea,” I thought.
    “Which you want? A whipping and no turnips, or turnips and no whippings?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe we could burn them just a little so Mama and Daddy can eat them, but we can say we can’t.”
    “O.K.”
    I made a volcano out of my anthill.
    “Frieda?”
    “What?”
    “What did Woodrow do that you was gonna tell?”
    “Wet the bed. Mrs. Cain told Mama he won’t quit.”
    “Old nasty.”
    The sky was getting dark; I looked out of the window and saw snow falling. I poked my finger down into the mouth of my volcano, and it toppled, dispersing the golden grains into little swirls. The turnip pot crackled.

         
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    They come from Mobile. Aiken. From Newport News. From Marietta. From Meridian. And the sound of these places in their mouths make you think of love. When you ask them where they are from, they tilt their heads and say “Mobile” and you think you’ve been kissed. They say “Aiken” and you see a white butterfly glance off a fence with a