January 16, 1953

Dear Claudine

Yes I still here at the Poker house. Everybody come and gone for Miss Louisa's funeral and now I here alone with Miss Patricia and Mr. Poker. I can't stay here much longer with them, this a crazy house. Mr. Poker, he ain't been right since she died. All night I hear him walking in the bedroom up above mine at night, the room where Miss Louisa breathe her last. He go back and forth, back and forth, talking. Crying too. Going through her clothes and spreading them all on the bed and pressing his face down in them, smelling for her. I know cause I saw him, when the door was crack open. One time he got the child up out of her bed to pray with him way pass midnight in the bitter freezing cold. Had her down on the floor with him on her knees and she ain't got nothing on but her little cotton nightdress. I march up there and raise the child up and say Mr. Poker, this child stay in my room with me tonight, she need her rest and I do too. Miss Patricia she follow me like nothing wrong. She climb up in the bed next to me like it was hers, lean her head back on the pillow next to mine. She don't sleep though. Don't cry neither. She lie there so still and straight. I say go on and sleep now, go on and sleep, but she don't. About three I ask her why she ain't slep and she say she thinking about how cold her mama must be in that ground. I say don't you know your mama in heaven with Jesus? She don't say nothing. She turn on her side and face the wall.

Miss Louisa she fade so quick, I never seen nobody go so fast. It was like she wanted to hurry on through her sickness and get the dying over with as quick as she could. Wouldn't take no food cep an egg I would fix for her with a little milk whip up in it. She said I believe I take a little egg like you fix me, but no bread, no butter, no meat. She sit up in bed and write out her funeral service, letters. She got her jewelry box out and portion it out. She leave this to her sister, this to somebody else. She tell me get down this box and she write somebody name on it, wrap this up in newspaper and put it over here. She terrify me, the way she sat up so high in bed, her head prop up against the bolster, all gaunt and drawn, and her eyes burning, telling me do this, do that. I say Miss Louisa please let me ease you back in bed so you can rest, but she refuse. She say she got too much to do and too little time to do it.

Only when the end came near did her pride slip. Then she cry out for Jesus, for mercy, then she moan from the pain. She say what Jesus suffered on the cross was nothing compare to what she living through, with something eating her alive inside. She say let it be soon, let it be soon, it hurt too much to take one more breath, like teeth cutting into her flesh. And then late one night she tell me something, clutching my hand so hard I thought she'd crack my bones. She said Mrs. Charles left me some money in her will when she died but that her and her father fix it so I wouldn't get it. She cry out and ask me to forgive her. She wail so loud that Mr. Poker came in to see what was the matter. And by the time he was gone she was asleep, her breathing rough, catching every time she breathe out like she might not draw in another.

Next morning I came in and she was sitting up in bed like she feeling better. She had put her lipstick on and comb her hair herself. And I ask her what she meant last night about a will and she act like she don't know what I mean. She say bring her robe, she think she get up a spell. But she never rose from that bed again. Because near about 11:00 she start breathing real ragged again and she lay there a long time with her eyes open with her head turn toward the window, but she don't see nothing, just breathe slower and slower, rougher and rougher. Mr. Poker went to get the doctor but by the time he get back she was gone. Her breath catch a final time, she breathe in once more, a long strained breath, then she still. She so still, lying there with her eyes open that don't see nothing no more. I had to close them myself.

I habent told nobody about the will. I don't know who to tell or what to say. Ain't nothing to say, like as not. The will is made and the money gone and Mrs. Charles and Miss Louisa is dead and I'm here in this crazy house with a man who ain't right in his head and a child who ought not be here. I say to Mr. Charles this child don't blong in this house, she need to be where somebody can look after her. And if she go I go. My hip bother me too much to be running around this cold house. Yesterday it pop as I was carrying a tray up the stairs and I nearly dropped it. I put some salve on my side Brother Webb prepare for me but it ain't help none.

Give my love to Drucie. I in close five dollars for her books. Tell her to study hard and get her lessons every night cause she smart enough to do something sides carry trays and run around for white folks.

Love,

Essie