Betsey Brown (18 page)

“Now everybody go on and pretty up for dinner. Dr. Brown likes you lookin' neat and clean when he comes through the door. He's been feeling mighty low since, well you know, since your mama's been gone. So don't nobody be putting on no show of niggerness. And Betsey, don't you be doin' every little thing that Eugene tells ya. You and me gotta heap of talkin to do, a heap of talkin, I'd say. Sharon and Margot, take them nasty plants out yo' mouth. Come, get ready for dinner. Y'all just suffer so from malnutrition of your manners, and comin from a good family, too. If I'm holding company, don't y'all come mess with me. There's many a fool who got on my wrong side and never got up to get on the right side.”

Carrie buzzed and mumbled all the way to the back stairs where she could see Mr. Jeff was lingering for a sweet good-bye. How could she do it with Vida coming up the way? She beckoned him to the back, but he insisted on the near side porch. And sure enough Vida came strolling by to see the whole of it.

“Mr. Jeff, aren't you workin a bit late this evening?”

“Why yes, M'am, Mrs. Murray. Those geraniums been givin me the dickens these days.”

“I can't imagine why a geranium or two could hold you as long as twilight, but I guess there's some things I'll never understand.” Vida raised her eyebrows in Carrie's direction. “I'll never understand some things.”

“Mrs. Murray, dinner's bout ready.” Carrie smiled.

“Bout time, I'd say.” Vida retreated to the parlor. Jeff and Carrie stole a bit more brandy and some refined country loving in the doorwell at the side porch.

Carrie wasn't worried bout anything. She had these chirren under control. Set the table just like that. Simmer, don't boil the potatoes. Lift the chicken and porkchops ever so lightly and lay em on a napkin so the oil seeps right on out. Comb your hair. Wash your hands. We're gonna make this house be as grand as we want it to be. It aint white folks what set the style of manners nohow. It was a colored left to do the prettiness round them tables.

Mr. Jeff had fallen for Carrie, not cause of her looks, but on account of her sense of style. She brought some color to his garden and some wildness to his heart. Sweet brandy. Loose honey.

“Carrie, everything's ready,” Betsey screamed out the back door. Sweet young thing. Sweet brandy had a lot to learn.

“I'm comin, honey. Watch now, don't let anything overcook.”

Betsey looked at the table set ever so delicately. She and Carrie had decided to make everything wonderful for her father, since Jane had gone, but Betsey couldn't bear to look at the empty chair at the other end of the table from her father, so she hid it in her room where she sat at night wishing her mother back.

In her mother's chair Betsey enjoyed memories she thought
were only hers, like the time they'd fallen out the canoe at Kentucky Lakes and swam like fishes insteada catching them. Or the nights Jane dressed up in white satin and asked Betsey to do the rear snaps. The special nights Jane read Shakespeare's sonnets or Langston Hughes to the whole passel gathered at the foot of her bed. Then it was time to clean teeth and scatter through the halls to the bedrooms till morning. Betsey thought on her mother's running away, like she'd run away to get something she didn't have. But what it was that the children and Greer couldn't offer Jane was beyond Betsey's comprehension. Betsey'd cry sometimes, or dress up like her mother, parade by the mirrors, checking herself as Jane had for a hanging slip or a chipped nail. Now, that was the way to behave like a lady: nothing out of order and smelling delicious.

“Betsey, c'mon down for your supper,” Carrie whispered in the child's ear. “Your mama's gonna come on back heah directly. Don't you be frettin bout that. She'll be back.”

With that Carrie rubbed Betsey's shoulders, loosening them a bit. A child shouldn't be so nervous to Carrie's mind, and Carrie'd had six of her own, so she should know a lot about boys and girls, men and women, loss and treasure.

“Carrie, did you love your mother more than anything?” Betsey asked hesitantly.

“Why yes, I did, chile. Far as I was concerned the sun rose and set on my mama. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She worked so hard and loved us so much, even them lickings we got never changed my mind bout my mama. Mamas only do things cause they love you so much. They can't help it. It's flesh to flesh, blood to blood. No matter how old you get, how grown and on your own, your mama always loves you like a newborn. Yeah. I love my mama even though she's dead and
gone. I think on her sometimes. Then I think on my own chirren all round the world, whether they know I love them all, even though they seemed to have forgotten bout me.” Carrie's face softened for a moment.

“But Carrie, I don't think children ever forget their mothers. I'm sure your children haven't forgotten about you. I wouldn't, Carrie. I won't ever forget about you, or my real mother.”

Carrie hugged Betsey and led her to the dinner table, where they said grace the way Jane did and asked that Jesus bless her.

Carrie had established a routine for after meals. Margot and Sharon cleared the table. Betsey or Charlie washed the dishes and stove. Everybody helped take the trash outside, on accounta really big waterbugs and roaches that loved crumbs. Carrie swept the floors and saw to it everybody had room to do their homework, while Vida crocheted by the veranda watching the sun go down, or the moon rise.

Something had definitely come over the children. Vida wasn't sure if she liked it or not. Things went so smoothly, even on Carrie's day off, that Vida's heart condition was alleviated. Vida could take strolls up the street to visit her only real friends, the Williams sisters, who were also up in age. These strolls reminded Vida of her Frank and her youth. She wondered if Frank would have liked St. Louis at all. Did he see her marching about the world, and their children all grown up and married?

When Vida disappeared on one of her sojourns, Carrie'd give lessons on what a good Negro woman was supposed to know if she wanted a good Negro man. It was appalling to her when she realized that not one of the girls knew what a good Negro man appreciated most in his ever-loving heart: a finely pressed dress shirt. Simple as that.

“Do you know how to cook?”

“No.” The girls looked askance.

“Well, can you sew?”

“No, of course not,” was their retort.

“It must be you can iron,” Carrie proclaimed.

“No,” they giggled back.

“It's not that you don't look good and got fine features, and you got no criminal charges against you, but how do you expect to catch a fine young man if all you can do is look nice most of the time? A skillful hand and a pretty face is what you want to present to a man with good taste. You've got the genes and your health, but you've got to know how to iron, or at least how to starch clothes.”

The girls said nothing.

“Caint starch clothes, either, huh? Well we've got our tasks laid before us.”

With that Carrie gave detailed explanations of how to starch and iron ruffles. How to sew a seam and peel a potato as close as possible. She was going to see to it that these girls were educated in the common everyday things of life.

Now it wasn't like Betsey didn't singe a few things, and Margot and Sharon weren't quite gifted needleworkers, but there was an inkling of reality in their lives now. These children always playing make-believe in their mother's bedroom with negligees, high heels, feathered hats. There was more to being a woman than that. Carrie knew these things. A Negro man wanted a clean shirt, dinner on the table, and some quiet round the house.

Before Carrie came, the children would answer the phone shouting: “Mama, it's a white man” or “Daddy, it's somebody colored.” Now they all knew to say “Good Afternoon, Brown Residence,” or “Good Evening, Brown Residence.” Carrie would have no shenanigans with her brood. She figured there were
enough hoodlums in the world already and she was gonna do her best to make sure her charges didn't join them.

She kept everybody busy polishing the stairwells, removing little bits of dust from corners nobody would ever see, turning the blinds at midday so the furniture wouldn't show sun-streaks. When all that was done they could go and play, but not before the house was just perfect. Carrie wanted Mrs. Brown to be pleased when she returned. Carrie had a spirit-feeling that Mrs. Brown wasn't gonna be gone for too much longer. Dr. Brown was too good a man to run off on and a good man was hard to find.

Now that the Boyd boy was hanging around all the time, Carrie was sure she'd have her hands full trying to explain some important facts to Miss Betsey Brown. Carrie'd had six children of her own and Betsey was getting to that stage where a girl's body is way ahead of her brain.

Vida prayed for Jane's return every day. She couldn't imagine her daughter had run off crazy mad. Just up and gone. Forcing that Greer to find this strange woman, Carrie, to take over the chirren, when she could have done it by herself, even with a bad heart. Vida's trips around the house were not merely walks. She was keeping her eyes out, poking around and spying on Carrie.

“She works roots. I'm sure of it,” whispered Vida from the rocking chair on the front porch. She goes out on the town. Roots and goes out on the town with that silly rope dangling from her waist. Good Jesus, give me some peace. I know she's got some honey by her bed, persimmon by her head. I can feel it in my bones. Bet you she's got blueing underneath the toilet. She talks low-down and acts the same.

Vida pulled herself from the rocking chair to go look for
her fan. It was getting much too quiet. She was usedta the noise of the chirren who no longer made that kinda noise. Carrie had them under a spell. Since she'd come they acted as if they respected each other, and grown folks, too. Vida went looking for her fan, she needed a breeze, something to calm her nerves. It was just too much to share the same roof with a woman like that. Why, ever since she'd come, the chirren acted as if they had some sense. Her fan was around there somewhere. She'd climb the back stairs cautiously. Come down the front stairs regally. No fan. No drawings on the wall. No dust. No cobwebs hanging from the ceilings. “Huh hum hum, what's become of the colored race?” Then Vida would go take her afternoon nap, praying in her sleep for Jesus to solve the mystery of this Carrie woman. Get her out of the house and bring Jane back.

While the children were away at school, Carrie had plenty of time to tend to the preparation of dinner or the small needs of Mr. Jeff. Mr. Jeff stopped by afternoons with sprigs of fresh mint and a couple of flowers from the other yards he kept so exquisitely. A touch of something special and a round of southern whiskey. Now, Carrie wasn't swept off her feet. She liked to entertain and have some company. In a house that soon to be fulla children, a moment of quiet adult conversation was a treasure, Jeff and Carrie found so little time to hold company; either the children would come bouncing through the garden and the porches, or Vida would be stirred from her afternoon nap, which was always calamitous.

Vida would peer through the screen door or come right up to them, saying: “Why, Mr. Jeff. Why are you botherin yourself with the flowers in this garden. Carrie'd been so careful with all the blossoms and other things, she surely must have mentioned.
And indeed, we have no plans to hire a gardener who comes by more than once every two weeks.”

Mr. Jeff rose slowly, slipping the flask of hard liquor to Carrie.

“Oh no, M'am, I'm sure I am so overbooked, I couldn't possibly add another home to my list of bookings. Yes, I am a fully booked man. I stopped by here on accounta Carrie told me there was some malodorous growths by your back fence. I came to dig them up before they spread, and to check the grounds to make sure they won't spread. That's all.”

“Why, you know, Missus, there's some mint I came across way out back by the fence. In Arkansas we make a batch of sweet mint tea, specially when there's this kinda heat. Then we mix it with the smallest drop of southern bourbon, just for fighting off the chill.”

Vida was still suspecting something else to be revealed.

“Mr. Jeff, is that thing Carrie holdin in her hand some mint, or some other kinda root.”

“Oh that's definitely mint. Yerba buena by it's proper appellation, I do believe.”

“Well,” said Carrie, “I think we might as well share a bit of southern delight with his home grown, how do you call it, Mr. Jeff?”

“Yerba buena.”

“Yes, with this heah yerba bueno. I'll run on to the house and make up a good ol' pot of tea, laced with just the tiniest drop of southern whiskey. That ought to help you out with your heart, Missus. Calm your nerves and all, relax your whole system. I'm gointa check on the chirren, though I caint say I heah em. They might be into mischief, though I doubt it. They must be doing their chores, bout now. I'll be coming on back. Don't you worry none.”

Carrie ambled to the kitchen with a small smile on herface.

Vida chirped away to Mr. Jeff, “She has really got to go. She's workin roots, Mr. Jeff, don't you think? The chirren are under some terrible spell. They're all so quiet. I swear, she gotta go. There's something hellish bout this rapid downright civilized behavior. It's absolute hellbent.”

“No, M'am, I think it's opposite of what you say. I think the chirren are growin up, that's all.” Jeff took a flower from his little bouquet and handed it to Vida. “I'll be coming back shortly to check the rest of the yard for fungus and such.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Jeff, but keep an eye out for Carrie's meanderin round the garden. See if she hasn't planted some things unbeknownst to you. I'm goin in the kitchen to see after supper. Can't be too careful. With chirren, I mean.” Vida sighed.