Betsey Brown (7 page)

“You can't even talk.”

“I say bring that nappy head on over heah!”

The ruckus sent Jane flying down the stairs to find the blinds at a 45-degree angle in the front room. The curtains in the parlor all over. Six crystals from her chandelier on the floor. Chicken grease on the kitchen floor. A table full of grits and eggs. Not one combed head. Allard with matches in both pockets. Betsey quietly gazing out the window at Vida working with her dahlias. Plus, no one had brought up the morning's coffee. Now this was just too much. No coffee and the house in a shambles. It was better with her mother tending to the children, even though it was hard on her heart. The likes of this never happened.

“And, Miss Calhoun, just what do you call yourself doing this morning?”

“Well, M'am, I fixed the chirren they breakfast. Then I put the chicken on for dinner. Then I was bout to start doing heads, but Betsey told them they could climb through windows and steal my money, take them fish out the water. Oh Mrs. Brown, they been a mess today.”

“Bernice, don't you wanta see me make fires?” Allard grinned. Jane grabbed the matches from his hands and all his pockets, slapped his backside good. She turned to Miss Calhoun with Sharon between her legs wrapped up in the wet sheet smelling of urine.

“Miss Calhoun, I just don't think this is going to work out.”

At that moment Vida was about to come into the kitchen through the back door. Betsey ran to her aid: “Oh, Grandma, be careful. Bernice left chicken grease all on the floor. You hold on to me or you might slip and fall.”

Vida cut her eyes first at Jane, then at Bernice. “Well, I should have known that a body with no upbringing couldn't very well bring up these chirren of mine. Thank you, Betsey, you are always so helpful.”

The children ran gleefully to school shouting: “How's she gonna do something with us. She can't even talk. She can't even walk. How's she gonna do something with us.”

Bernice sat glumly on her small bed. She felt sucha big fool. Mrs. Brown had let her go in one day, she hadn't even had one Friday night off to wear her red dress. She couldn't hardly begin to pack her things. She heard the folks in Arkansas laughing at her. Big ol' flat-faced Bernice gointa to St. Louis. Hahahaha.

Jane made her own coffee, sat at the kitchen table with the children's breakfasts surrounding her and played a game of solitaire. There was no way in the world she could go to work today. Thank God for Betsey. There was one child with a head on her shoulders. Jane tried to think of what might have happened if Betsey hadn't been there to mind the children.

Betsey could hardly wait to tell Veejay and Charlotte Ann what had happened at her house. She wanted to brag that she herself had run old Bernice out the house. When she saw Charlotte Ann talking through the fence to Seymour Bournes, who was from the high school and a friend of Eugene Boyd, she rushed up. Charlotte Ann's eyes were sparkling and her hips were wiggling totally out of control.

“Charlotte Ann, how are you doing? Hi, Seymour,” Betsey blurted, full of herself and inquisitive bout the relationship tween Seymour and Charlotte Ann, who'd always said she was ascared of boys, but apparently not this one. Seymour was a tallish boy with curly black hair and large ears that flew from the sides of his head like propellers. They would have looked like ordinary ears had his face been any fuller, but Seymour's face was thin, like a taffy pulled way far out. Seymour had seen
Betsey before, but didn't actually know her. Her cousin Charlie played ball real good, but it was Eugene who'd pointed her out to him. Eugene liked her. As a matter of fact, Eugene had taken to being friends with Charlie just so he'd have a reason to visit, but Betsey and Charlotte Ann knew nothing of this. All Charlotte Ann knew was Betsey was beside herself about something that would have to wait till Seymour went cross the street to class.

Betsey saw Veejay coming through the schoolyard with her books up under her left arm, as always chewing gum to make sounds like a popping snare drum. Realizing that Charlotte Ann and Seymour were no longer aware of her, Betsey ran toward Veejay yelling, “Hey, Veejay, guess what?”

“What ya mean, ‘guess what'? Can't you say hello or good day or something?” Veejay retorted tween smacks of cherry gum.

“Well, Good Day, then, Miz Veejay, M'am.” The two girls laughed and kept on tittering M'ams and Good Mornings till Betsey told Veejay bout Bernice and how bad they'd all been and how Bernice had gotten her walking papers and the house was theirs again. Betsey'd opened her lunch bag awready, chewing on a bright apple, waiting for Veejay to cry out with a “Go on, girl” or “I bet that was a lot of fun,” but Veejay was just looking mad and hurt all at once.

“Whatsa matter, Veejay? She's gone now. That's what counts, isn't it? She told on us. She would have ruined everything.”

“Betsey, you know what my mama does for a living?”

“No.”

“Well, she takes care of nasty white chirren who act up like y'all acted up this morning. She don't do it cause she likes it neither. She does it so I could have clothes and food and a place
to live. That's all that Bernice woman was trying to do, and you so stupid you don't even know if she's got somewhere to live or if she's got chirren of her own in Arkansas. Y'all act like white people, always trying to make things hard on the colored. Lying on em and making a mess of things. Thinking it's so funny. I don't even know if I want to be your friend. That could have been my mama lost her job on accounta you and your ol' tree. You shouldn'ta been up no tree no how, big as you are. You don't have no sense at all.”

Veejay turned to go anywhere away from Betsey. She'd known that Betsey was from over there where the rich colored lived, but she liked her anyway. Till now, that is. Now Betsey was the same as anybody who made fun of her mother for doing daywork and looking after white children while her own waited anxiously at the door for her to come home. It was one thing to take mess from white folks, cause that was to be expected, but to have the colored—or the “Negro,” as Betsey would say—do it too, was hurting to Veejay, who just kept mumbling, “That coulda been my mama and you don't care.”

“Veejay, I didn't mean any harm.” Betsey rushed alongside Veejay, who wouldn't look at her. “Really, I didn't think, that's all. I'll tell my mother that it was all my fault. I will, Veejay, I promise. Just please stay my friend.” Betsey tugged Veejay's arm, wanting her to stop so they could talk before Mrs. Mitchell quieted the class for morning announcements about Assembly, band practice, girls' volleyball, and the Pledge of Allegiance and the Lord's Prayer.

Veejay stopped. “Take your hands off me. Betsey Brown, you a selfish somebody. I don't want you to call my name. And don't you tell nobody that I'm your friend, or that I ever was, ya hear me.”

Veejay stalked off to class, leaving Betsey on the stairwell with a half-eaten apple and a lot on her mind.

It was true that Veejay wore the same plaid skirt and white blouse every other day, but Betsey thought that was cause Veejay wanted it that way. Veejay'd never invited her or Charlotte Ann to visit her at home, either. And it was always Veejay who had words from her mama on what white folks were really like.

A heavy red glow came over Betsey's body. Shame. She was ashamed of herself and her sisters and Charlie and Allard. Veejay was right. Bernice just talked funny was all. Betsey'd passed over the paper bags fulla worn-out clothes, the two shoes of that woven cotton, fraying by the toes, and the calluses on the palms of the woman's hands. Betsey Brown had been so busy seeing to herself and the skies, she'd let a woman who coulda been Veejay's mama look a fool and lose her job.

Betsey threw the apple in the trash and peeked round her carefully. She was gonna run home fast as she could, to see if she could catch her mother and tell her the truth. Maybe there was time to stop Bernice from leaving. Why, Betsey didn't know if Bernice had a girl her own age or not. Betsey didn't know if Bernice had anyplace to go, or anyone to go to. Betsey had to get home and apologize to Bernice.

It was awfully hard to sneak out of Clark School once you were in it. Hall patrols and Mr. Wichiten wandered arbitrarily hither and yon, but Betsey made a good run for it, down the south corridor to the door that opened toward the high school. Sometimes that door was locked or chained to keep out vagrants or bad elements, which really meant gangs, but today the door was open and out Betsey went, praying she'd catch her mother or Bernice to say “I'm sorry, please stay.”

But all the running in the world and all the praying in the
world couldn't catch up with the misery Bernice Calhoun knew that morning. Bernice was stepping up into the Hodiamont streetcar when Betsey spied her grandma on the front porch chattering with the wind bout what a blessing it was that trashy country gal was gone. How it was goin' to take days to put the house back in order. Betsey backed down from the porch before her grandma could lay eyes on her. Running round the back she saw her mother on her hands and knees cleaning the chicken grease off the floor. Mr. Jeff was in the parlor hanging the curtains back up.

“Betsey, what are you doing home?” Jane asked over her shoulder. Her hands were sudsy and sweat rimmed her brow, but she didn't seem to be in a bad mood like Betsey'd expected.

“I came home to help clean up, Mama, and I wanted to tell you something, too.”

“Don't worry, darling, I know you did your best this morning. I'm just going to have to screen these ladies more carefully from now on. Really, Betsey, I don't believe the house has ever been quite this much a mess. All because I didn't check the references, I guess. Can't be too careful nowadays.”

“But, Mama, don't you want me to help? It's my fault. I didn't do what you asked me to do.”

“Betsey, you go back to school where you belong. I never expected you to run this house all by yourself. That's why I hired that Calhoun woman. But you live and you learn.”

“Mama, that's not what I meant.”

“Doesn't matter, sweetheart.” Jane rose from the floor, wiping her hands on the back of her pants she'd rolled above her knees, and went to the table to write a note. She looked like a teenager, with a scarf over her bangs and a short-sleeved cotton shirt tied at the waist. “Just get along back to school before
you're marked truant, okay? Here's a note to give to Mr. Wichiten that says you've been home helping me.”

“Mama, it was all my fault.”

Jane drew Betsey close to her, tugging her ponytail, and said in a soft voice: “I don't want to hear any more of that, you understand? You did the best you could.” With that Jane patted Betsey on the rear: “Off to school with you now. Be good.”

Betsey didn't want to go back to school. Veejay'd be there, who usedta be her friend. She didn't want to go to her room either, or the basement where she'd made all the hateful plans to get rid of Bernice. She stole past her mother up the back stairs and out her window to her tree. The same tree that had started it all.

Closer to the sky and clouds, Betsey felt some of the pain wear away. She swore she'd do her best not to hurt or embarrass another Negro as long as she lived. She prayed Bernice would find another place with children not half so bad as she was. She asked God to let Veejay be her friend again. She decided not to go back to school, but to do penance instead. She sat in her tree on her knees till every bone in her body ached. Then she curled up on her favorite branch and wept for having cared so little. It could have been Veejay's mama. Maybe Veejay's mama talked funny too, but that didn't make her less a somebody, or liable to the antics of a whimsical girl who sometimes put dreams before real life, or confused them completely. It was absolutely impossible for her to have anything in common with nasty white children who bothered Veejay's mother. It was absolutely impossible for the colored to have somethin so much akin to the ways of white folks.

Seemed like her tree'd made a cradle for her and rocked her off to sleep. Betsey was nigh on heaven's doorstep with the rustling
and caws of the approaching evening, but a foreign motion interrupted her dreams. Swish. Blop. Blop. Swish. Blop. Blop. Charlie and none other than Eugene Boyd were throwing the ball over her curved body through the leaves, the limbs, the wind. Quite a challenge to Charlie's mind: make Betsey the basket and not wake her. That was the game. If his simple-minded cousin was asleep in a tree at her age, she deserved whatever a body could think up. Eugene on the other hand had every intention of waking the beauty up. If he needed a basketball, so be it. Charlie took the girl for granted, maybe cause she was his cousin or maybe cause she was not his type. Eugene wasn't exactly dawdling neath the awakening Betsey, who almost lost her balance when she realized that indeed it was the very Eugene Boyd from Soldan leaping up the tree trunk to dunk the ball on the other side of her head.

“What are y'all doing? Do I look like a basketball court to you, Charlie?”

Betsey immediately thought that Charlie'd brought Eugene over just to taunt her and make her look bad. Suddenly she changed her demeanor.

“Hi, Eugene. I'm Bets . . . Elizabeth, Charlie's cousin. He stays with us here. Oh, but I guess you know that awready.”

Betsey didn't know what to do. If she climbed down the tree, they'd think she was a tomboy. If she went through her window, she'd lose sight of Eugene. If she stayed where she was, they might knock her out of the tree. Not on purpose, but every shot is not a perfect one, not even for the likes of Eugene Boyd. Betsey sat up where she was, pulling her skirt over her knees to hide the scratch marks and to seem more grown, she thought. At least she wouldn't be up in the tree with her skirt hung up all round her waist like she was ten, or she didn't know that
boys liked to look up girls' dresses, big boys too. She knew that cause Charlie talked a lot, but Charlie had disappeared to the back where the real basketball net was justa yearning for him.