Heart Tales is a monthly newsletter for people on an adventure toward wholeness. It is published by Jim Cyr, storyteller, author, crisis intervention specialist, and minister.

Adapted from the 1963 short story by Langston Hughes

She was a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but a hammer and nails. It had a long strap, and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about eleven o’clock at night and she was walking home from work, alone, when a boy ran up from behind her and tried to snatch her purse.

The sudden single tug the boy gave it from behind caused the purse strap to break. But the boy’s weight and the weight of the purse combined caused him to lose his balance. Instead of taking off full blast as he had hoped, the boy fell on his back on the sidewalk and his legs flew up.

The large woman simply turned around and kicked him right square in his blue-jeaned butt. Then she reached down, picked the boy up by the front of his shirt, and shook him until his teeth rattled. After that the woman said, “Pick up my pocketbook, boy, and give it here.”

She still held him tightly. But she bent down enough to permit him to stoop and pick up her purse.

Then she said, “Now ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”

Firmly gripped by his shirt front, the boy said, “Yes ma’am.”

The woman said, “What did you want to do it for?” The boy said, “I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re a liar!”

By that time two or three people passed, stopped, turned to look, and some stood watching.

“If I turn you loose, will you run?”  “Yes ma’am.”

Then I won’t turn you loose,” said the woman. She did not release him.  “Lady, I’m sorry,” whispered the boy.

“Um-hum! Your face is dirty. I have a good mind to wash your face for you. Ain’t you got nobody home to tell you to wash your face?” “No ma’am.”  “Then it will get washed this evening,” said the large woman, starting up the street, dragging the frightened boy behind her.

He looked as if he were fourteen or fifteen, frail, and untamed in worn out tennis shoes and blue jeans.

The woman said, “You ought to be my son, I would teach you right from wrong. Least I can do now is to wash your face. Are you hungry?”

“No ma’am,” said the being dragged boy. “I just want you to turn me loose.”

“Was I bothering you when I turned that corner?”

 “No ma’am.”

“But you put yourself in contact with me,” said the woman. “If you think that that contact is not going to last awhile, you got another thing coming. When I get through with you, sir, you are going to remember Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones.”

Sweat popped out on the boy’s face, and he began to struggle. Mrs. Jones stopped, jerked him around in front of her, put a half-nelson about his neck, and continued to drag him up the street.

When she got to her door, she dragged the boy inside, down a hall, and into a large efficiency apartment at the rear of the house. She switched on the light and left the door open. The boy could hear other tenants laughing and talking. Some of their doors were open too, so he knew he and the woman were not alone. The woman still had him by the neck in the middle of the room.

She said, “What’s your name?”  “Kasheef,” answered the boy.

“Then, Kasheef, you go to that sink and wash your face,” and she turned him loose at last. Kasheef looked at the door and went to the sink.

“Let the water run until it gets warm. Here’s a clean towel.”

“You gonna take me to jail?” asked the boy, bending over the sink.

“Not with that face, I would not take you nowhere. Here I am trying to get home to cook me a bite to eat, and you snatch my pocketbook! Maybe you ain’t had your supper either, late as it be. Have you?”

“There’s nobody home at my house,” said the boy.

“Then we’ll eat. I believe you’re hungry—or been hungry—to try and snatch my pocketbook!”

“I want a pair of Nike Air Force 1 sneakers,” said the boy.

“Well, you didn’t have to snatch my pocketbook to get some Nike Air Force 1 sneakers,” said Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones. “You could have asked me.”

“Ma’am?” The water dripping from his face, the boy looked at her. There was a pause, a very long pause. After he had dried his face and not knowing what else to do, dried it again, the boy turned around, wondering what next. The door was open. He could make a dash for it down the hall. He could run, run, run, run!

The woman was setting on the day bed. After a while she said, “I were young once and wanted things I could not get.” There was another long pause. The boy’s mouth opened. Then he frowned, not knowing he frowned.

The woman said, “Um-hmm! You thought I was going to say ‘but,’ didn’t you? You thought I was going to say, ‘But I did not snatch people’s pocketbooks.’ Well, I wasn’t going to say that.”

After a long silence Luella said, “I have done things, too, which I could not tell you, son—neither tell God, if he didn’t already know. Everybody’s got something in common. So you set down while I fix us something to eat. You might run that comb through your hair so you look presentable.”

In another corner of the room there was a gas plate and a small refrigerator. Mrs. Jones got up and went behind the screen. The woman did not watch the boy to see if he was going to run now, nor did she watch her purse, which she left behind her on the day bed.

But the boy took care to sit on the far side of the room, away from the purse, where he thought she could easily see him out of the corner of her eye if she wanted to. He did not trust the woman not to trust him. And he did not want to be mistrusted now.

“Do you need somebody to go to the store,” asked the boy, “maybe to get some milk or something?”

“Don’t believe I do,” said the woman, “unless you want something besides what I have. I was going to make cocoa out of this canned milk I got here.”

“That will be fine,” said the boy.

She heated some lima beans and ham she had in the refrigerator, made the cocoa, and set the table. The woman did not ask the boy about where he lived, or his folks, or anything else that would embarrass him.

Instead, as they ate, she told him about her job in the hotel beauty shop that stayed open late, what the work was like, and how all kinds of women came in and out, blondes, redheads, and Hispanic.

Then she cut him half of her ninety-nine cent cake. “Eat some more, son,” she said.

When they were finished eating, she got up and said, “Now here, take this one hundred and seventy-five dollars and buy yourself some Nike Air Force 1 sneakers. And then next time, do not make the mistake of latching onto my pocketbook nor nobody else’s—because shoes got by devilish ways will burn your feet.”

“I got to get my rest now. But from here on in, son, I hope you’ll behave yourself.”
She led him down the hall to the front door and opened it.
“Good night!” Behave yourself, boy!” she said.

The boy wanted to say something other than, “Thank you, ma’am,” to Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones, but although his lips moved, he couldn’t even say that as he turned at the door and looked up at the large woman.

Then, Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones smiled at him and shut the door.

I invite you to send me your thoughts about “Thank You, Ma’am.” You can email me at jim@hearttales.net

Book

My book, The Cracked Pot: Finding Grace in the Cracks of Childhood Abuse, is available at Amazon.com.

“This is one man’s true story of the unspeakable things that were done to him as a child and his rocky journey through adulthood to find God, peace AND his true self. “

Blog

If you enjoy this newsletter, check out The Heart Tales Blog at http://hearttales.net/blog. The blog is published every Monday and Thursday and contains a story with a brief reflection.

Telecast

If you missed the telecast of my interview with Diane Eble you can hear the replay at http://www.askjimcyr.com/replay.php

The true spirit of my work is to lead people on a life-changing adventure toward wholeness by connecting their hearts to their true selves, to others, and to God, through stories of healing, wisdom, and faith. My life-changing adventure toward wholeness includes performances of folk and fairy tales, sacred stories, and personal stories, and workshops on how to tell stories in therapeutic settings.

“Jim’s storytelling spoke to many of the problems our women face on the road to recovery from addiction and gave them options for handling those problems they had not considered before.”
Helen Raytek, Program Director, Crawford House

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“…Thank you once again, Jim, for sharing your stories/your story and influencing my healing.”
Eileen