Little Black Girl Lost (13 page)

J
ohnnie was sitting in the breakfast nook of her kitchen, finishing an article about AT&T in the
Wall Street Journal.
The article chronicled AT&T's past technological achievements. It went on to discuss the coming transatlantic telephone cable and the launching of an earth-orbit commercial communication satellite. When she finished reading, she thought about what Martin Winters told her about AT&T and how innovative the company was. Sipping a hot cup of New Orleans blend, the corners of her mouth turned up when she thought about the money she was going to make. Her smile became even broader when she thought about being in her own kitchen, in her own home. For some odd reason, her thoughts shifted to what Robert Simmons told her about her mother and Richard Goode.

Johnnie heard some light tapping on the glass of her back door. When she looked up, she saw Sadie Lane looking at her through the glass. Sadie lifted a sweet potato pie so Johnnie could see it. Johnnie took another swallow of her coffee and went to the door.

“Hi, Sadie. Come on in.”

“I hope I wasn't disturbing you.”

“No, I was just doin' some thinkin'.”

“I hope you like sweet potato pie,” she said, placing it on the table. “I promised myself to bring you one and welcome you to the neighborhood when you moved in. You sure it's okay?”

“Yes. I could use some company, Sadie. Have a seat.”

Sadie sat down at the table. Johnnie went over to the sink and pulled a butter knife and plates from the dish rack.

“So, what do you do for a living, Johnnie?” Sadie asked when she returned with the knife.

Sadie suspected that the white man she'd seen her with that first day was her sugar daddy. Since Johnnie was only sixteen, Sadie also guessed that he was the one who purchased the house. She just wanted her suspicions confirmed.

“Nothing yet, but I plan to get a job as soon as I can,” Johnnie said, slicing the pie and placing a piece on each plate.

“Do you plan to work part-time after school, or what?” Sadie asked, attempting to ask personal questions as delicately as possible.

“I quit school, Sadie.”

“May I ask why?”

Do I tell her the real reason why I quit? She'll probably think less of me if I do.
“What good is it going to do me? When I graduate, what will I do then? Go to college? Even if I do that, what will I do afterwards?”

“There's plenty you could do. The neighborhood is full of professionals, Johnnie.”

“Professional men, not women, Sadie.”

“Well, we do have some women teachers in the neighborhood. There's also Lisa Cambridge, the owner of Cambridge Books and Publishing. And then there's Beverly and Michael Addison, who own the bakery on Main Street.”

“I don't mean to be rude, Sadie, but didn't you say you were a maid the other day?”

Using her fork, Sadie took another piece of the pie and put it in her mouth. She was trying not to react negatively to Johnnie's obvious antagonism to her suggestion of doing something with her life.

“Yes, I'm a maid, but you don't have to be,” she said softly. “I guess I was hoping that you wouldn't make the same mistakes that most black women make.”

“What mistakes?”

“Settling for second best. Or deeper still, taking what we can get instead of becoming who we really want to be. I wanted to be a choreographer, but I ended up working for the Mancinis in the Garden District, and here I am. Look at me, I'm twenty-nine years old and I've got three children by Santino Mancini.”

As Johnnie listened to her, she immediately felt a sort of kinship with Sadie. She wondered if this was something that happened to all black women.
Are we all destined to become whores for the white man? What is it about us that makes him want us so bad?

“So, does Mr. Mancini pay for your home?”

“Yes. I assumed you were in the same boat with that white man I saw you with that day.”

“I am,” Johnnie said, suddenly ashamed.

“Well, I hope you're using protection.”

“What do you mean, protection?”

“Johnnie, the last thing you want is to end up with that man's children. If you do, you can forget about any of those lofty dreams you have. And don't tell me you don't have them. I know you do.”

“Lately I've been thinkin' about becoming a stockbroker.”

“A stockbroker, huh?”

“Yes. Do you have any stocks in any of the major companies like Coke or Ford or General Motors?”

“No. Do you?”

“Yes, and I think there's a lot of money to be made doing it.”

Sadie shook her head in amazement, unable to believe how much further ahead Johnnie was in her thinking than she was at that age or even now. She laughed a little and said, “I came over here to give you some advice, but it seems as though you should be giving me advice.”

“Maybe we can advise each other, Sadie. I know a few things you don't, and you obviously know some things I don't.”

“Like what, Johnnie?”

“Like how to talk like white folks, for one. And two, what is this protection business?”

“You mean your mother never told you how not to get pregnant?”

Johnnie shook her head. She considered telling her how she and Earl came to know one another, but thought better of it.

“So, Marguerite never discussed the birds and the bees with you?”

“No, but I know some stuff that girls in school told me.”

“Did they tell you what prophylactics are?”

Johnnie shook her head. She felt stupid for not knowing what was obvious to Sadie. She wanted to ask her a thousand questions.
Mama was right. Sadie is a woman I can learn a lot from. How can she be so right about people and at the same time be so wrong about everything else?

“Listen, Johnnie, anything you want to know, I'll be glad to tell you. If you don't mind being a maid until you become a stockbroker, I can probably get you a job with the Beauregards. They live next door to the Mancinis.”

“I don't mean to be rude, Sadie, but if you knew about protection, why didn't you protect yourself from pregnancy?”

“I knew you were going to ask me that,” Sadie said, shaking her head slowly. “The first one was an accident. But after that, he wanted more children with me. Santino said he loved me and that he would take care of us for the rest of our lives. In other words, I took the easy way out. I just hope you do something different with your life. I haven't had a real relationship in so long that I've practically given up on the idea. So, I just try to make the best of what I have with Santino until something better comes along. But then I think . . . who's going to want me when I've got three kids to take care of? Besides, Santino would never let me go. He really does love me.”

“What is with these white men that they have to come to colored women for happiness?”

“It isn't just the white men, Johnnie. The colored men are doin' the same thing right here in Ashland Estates. When a man falls for a woman, I mean truly falls for a woman, he loves her for life, just like a woman. The trouble with men is most don't truly fall in love with the women they marry.”

“Then why do they marry them, Sadie?”

“I don't know, but I have a theory. You wanna hear it?”

“Yeah,” Johnnie said, feeling closer to her as the conversation progressed.

“I think men look for a woman they think is chaste and kind and a good homemaker, ignoring her sexual propensities. And when—”

“What does propensities mean?”

“Interests, or inclinations.”

“Oh, okay,” said Johnnie, looking at her with admiring eyes.

“What?” Sadie asked, wondering why she was looking at her like that.

“You're so much smarter than I am. I mean, you know all these big words and stuff. I wish I could talk like you do. You know, talk white.”

“First of all, it isn't talking white. It's being able to speak the King's English with proper diction.”

“You mean diction, as in dictionary?”

“No, I mean to use precise pronunciation. As for big words, all you need do is read. And when you come to words you don't understand, don't just keep reading in a futile attempt to understand them in the sentence. Take the time to develop a vocabulary of your own.”

“Okay, Sadie,” Johnnie said, feeling like a pupil with a new teacher who has taken a personal interest in her.

“Now, back to my theory. When a man marries a woman, he thinks very little about his sex life with her because she's going to be the mother of his children. For that reason, he puts her on some pseudo throne that she doesn't belong on. She wants sex just like he does but she can't tell him that because the moment she does, he'll look at her differently. Husbands often think their wives are simply giving into sex because he wants it. In many cases it's true, but that's only because she's given up on ever being a liberated sexual being.”

“Sadie, you sho' got a way with words.”

“Well, thank you. But if you ever start reading books, you'll have a way with them too.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. Now, is there anything you want to know about sex, Johnnie?”

“Yes, but first I want you to help me get the job with the Beauregards. And could you . . . this is really kind of embarrassing, but can you tell me what a dildo is?”

M
arguerite, overcome by deep-seated jealousy, was sitting in her Oldsmobile waiting for Richard Goode in the parking lot of a Cajun restaurant on the outskirts of town. All she could think about was how her sixteen-year-old daughter had bettered her. Johnnie had a nice house and Marguerite thought she deserved one too. After all, she had earned it, she told herself. If she was going to get a nice house like that, she was going to have to take some drastic steps. Marguerite threatened to tell the
Sentinel,
a liberal New Orleans newspaper, of Richard Goode's double life as the Grand Wizard preacher who regularly sleeps with a known black whore, if he didn't fork over twenty-five thousand dollars.

Goode quickly agreed to pay her off. He couldn't afford to have the Klan know of his flagrant hypocrisy. He had led them to believe that race mixing was not only evil, but no self-respecting white man would ever do such a thing. When he was asked why so many well-to-do white men did it during slavery, he explained it was necessary to create more mud people to increase profits. Since slavery was over, there was no need to create more mud people who would only end up dependent on good white Christians for their survival.

Goode told her he would pay her, but their relationship was over. Marguerite suggested meeting at their usual corner, but Goode refused that or the Savoy. He told her that not only didn't he trust her, he didn't trust Simmons or any other nigger anymore. Goode went on to tell her that if she could blackmail him, so could Simmons for the same reasons.

Marguerite smoked a cigarette while she waited and daydreamed about the kind of house she would buy in Ashland Estates. Johnnie told her that Earl paid twenty-five thousand for her house, and she hoped she could get one similar to hers for the same amount. Marguerite could see Goode's dark blue Chevrolet in her rearview mirror. Goode slowed down enough for her to see that it was him. She started the car and followed him. They drove about twenty minutes south of the restaurant on a dark road. Finally, Goode pulled over and got out of the car. He was holding a duffel bag. Anxious to get the money he promised, Marguerite got out of the Oldsmobile and walked over to Goode with a bright smile.

“Hi, Richard, honey.” Marguerite laughed. “Just to show you there's no hard feelin's, I'll give you one last spanking on the house.”

“Get in the car, bitch!”

Marguerite laughed a little more. She thought he was just playing his role as the dominant white man like they had done a hundred times before. She blinked twice when he pulled out the German Luger. She stared at the gun as though seeing a mirage.

“Get in, bitch!” he snarled and hit her in the head with the gun.

The blunt blow sent her reeling as a wave of blackness washed over her. She staggered like an old boxer fighting to maintain balance, and lost when her knees buckled. Marguerite heard another thump then she felt the pain just before crumbling to the ground. She could feel blood running down the side of her face. Desperate and weakened by the abrupt blows, she tried to crawl away from her brutal attacker.

“You black bitch!” Goode shouted and kicked her in the side as she crawled. “Did you really think you could blackmail me?”

“I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it!” Marguerite shouted, her mouth full of salty blood.

Goode kicked her again and she fell onto her back.

“Please don't kill me, Mr. Goode,” Marguerite pleaded. “Please don't kill me! I'll do whatever you want! I won't tell nobody! I swear I won't! Just don't kill me!”

Goode walked over to her and kicked her in the face. Marguerite could feel the side of her face swell like a helium-filled balloon. Somehow, she was able to get back on all fours. Her heart was pounding from intense fear. She crawled over to where he was standing and grabbed his boot, holding on for dear life.

“Beat me, Mr. Goode! But don't kill me!”

Goode reached down and grabbed her blouse, pulling her limp body forward with each blow he delivered with the Luger. The beating was so severe that blood began to spurt from her broken nose. Lying on the ground, unable to move and barely conscious, Marguerite realized he would kill her no matter what. Her only chance was to try to get the gun from him, but she was too debilitated.

“Get up, you black nigger bitch!”

Marguerite tried to lift her head, but couldn't. She knew she only had one chance to get the gun. She hoped he would come closer so she could try.

Goode stooped to see if she was conscious. When he tried to pick her up to continue the beating, Marguerite reached for the gun. She was so weak, all she could do was get her hand on it. He snatched the gun away with ease and backhanded her with it. She fell backward to the ground again. This time she was out cold. He went over to her car and let the air out of the driver's side front tire. He wanted it to look like she had gotten a flat. That way, people would think someone came along and killed her.

But Sheriff Tate was sitting in his squad car watching it all. Tate had followed Marguerite to the Cajun restaurant without being spotted. He felt powerless to do anything now. The Klan was powerful. Tate was afraid that if he did anything, it would give the Klan a reason to go on a rampage, maybe even kill him and his family. He sat in his squad car, hoping Goode wouldn't kill Margurite.

By the time Goode got back to Marguerite, she was conscious again, trying to crawl away. He kicked her in the side and she fell onto her back again. He put the Luger to her forehead and looked into her eyes. The terror he saw in them gave him a rush.

“Please, Mr. Goode,” she pleaded through bloody lips that had swollen to twice their original size. “Don't kill me. Please don't—”

Without mercy, Goode squeezed the trigger while she was still pleading, and ended her life. Pow! Then he got into his car and slowly drove away.

Sheriff Tate's body jerked violently when he heard the shot and saw a quick flash of light. He knew Marguerite was dead and he wept.