Mama (4 page)

Fletcher had green eyes and peach skin. He didn't associate with the regular black people of Point Haven because he thought he was better than they were. The closest he came was when he opened up the Shingle every afternoon and started heating up the grease in the kitchen for fried chicken and french fries and turned on the grill for the barbecued ribs he was famous for.

In one tight corner of the bar there was a platform barely big enough for a singer and piano player, but on many a night an entire four-piece combo managed to squeeze in and play forty-five-minute sets of jazz, blues, and rhythm-and-blues until the Shingle closed its doors at two o'clock in the morning, when most of the people were fatally drunk and still didn't want to go home. People like Ernestine Jackson.

Sure enough, when Mildred walked in she was sitting at the bar, with her stingy hair plastered down to her head with grease, and lint balls coating the tips of old curls. Ernestine was talking just as loud as always. Mildred sat down next to her and lit an L&M.

"I just want to tell you that you can have the sorry son-of-a-bitch if you want him. He's at the house. I'm divorcing him as soon as the courthouse open up in the morning, or God ain't my witness." Mildred got up from the bar stool, and walked toward the bathroom. She could hear the soles of Ernestine's shoes shuffling on the tile behind her.

Mildred was in front of the mirror when Ernestine barged in. She tucked in her lip and applied more lipstick on top of an already fresh coat.

Ernestine kicked the door shut and put her hands on her hips.

"Look, cunt, you ain't
giving
him to me, 'cause he was about to leave you anyway."

"Is that so," Mildred said, watching Ernestine from the mirror.

"Crook never loved you in the first place, and you know it. You tricked him into marrying you. You was supposed to be so goddamn respectable. Hah! Now look. He done come back to me and his daughter after all this time. Life is a bitch, ain't it, Mildred?"

Mildred wanted to reach inside her purse and blow Ernestine's brains out, but she knew this hussy didn't have any. Besides, she wasn't going to jail for shooting some scag who wanted her trifling husband. She simply looked at Ernestine like she was a bad joke, shook her head back and forth, laughed, and left the bathroom.

So after ten years of sneaking, waiting, and loving the man who had married her rival, Ernestine finally had her chance. And like a fool, Crook went with her. Mildred felt like she'd shed ten layers of dead skin. She knew she'd made the right decision because when she sat down to think about it, the only thing she'd ever appreciated about Crook all these years was the fact that he was a good lover when he was sober and had given her five beautiful and healthy kids. But like most handsome men, she thought, screwing and making babies was about the only thing they did with dedication and consistency, without much thought or consideration, and were so damn proud afterward, that you'd swear they'd won the Kentucky Derby or something.

Three

E
VEN AFTER THE FIRST YEAR
had passed and Mildred's endurance had sunk below sea level, she didn't have a single regret about divorcing Crook. She'd been fired from Diamond Crystal Salt because she'd called in sick too many times in the few short months she'd worked there. It was boring work to Mildred anyway. All she did from seven to three in the afternoon was add a free-flowing agent to the fine-grained salt so it wouldn't cake up from the humidity. It didn't make any sense to her. She always had to put a few grains of rice in her salt shaker when it caked up anyway, so what was the point?

It was mostly the kids who'd gotten sick, not her. Bad colds. Mumps. Measles. Then Freda started her period in the middle of her science class and threw up all over the bathroom floor when she got home. Now, Mildred was back out in Huronville on her knees six days a week, cleaning the Hales', Grahams', and Callingtons' houses.

Mildred hated cleaning up behind white folks (behind anybody, really), but it was steady work and most of the time they left her alone in the house and she was able to work at her own pace. Nobody was standing over her shoulder the way they had when she worked at Big Boy's and the Shingle, breathing out commands or hinting at what she should do next. Here she did everything the way she felt like doing it. Quickly.

One morning, after six months of listening to Freda beg her, Mildred let Freda come with her to see the rich folks' houses on the condition that Freda would help her clean, do something besides get in her way.

When they pulled up in the Mercury, Freda acted like she was getting out of a limousine. She walked proudly through the oak doors.

"Ooooooo, Mama, can you believe this?" Freda asked, as she glided through one room after another.

"Just don't touch nothing, girl, this shit ain't fake. Everything in here is real, and it's expensive. We barely had enough gas to get out here so you know we can't pay for nothing if you break it."

Freda promised her she wouldn't touch anything, but as soon as Mildred went about her business, Freda's fingers slid over the bronze and brass and alabaster. She was awestruck. When she heard the vacuum cleaner in the other room, she flopped down in the middle of the white couch and spread her arms across the back. Her bright black eyes scanned the airy room. She tried to guess how high the ceiling was. Fifteen or twenty feet? A chandelier with at least five thousand tiny lights glistened in the sun streaming through the tall windows. A fireplace big enough for her to walk in stood in the center of the room. Freda wondered how many times it had been lit, and if they roasted marshmallows or weenies there in the wintertime. What a way to live, she thought. She closed her eyes, let her head fall back on the couch, and imagined six of her best girlfriends lying by the fireplace in flannel nightgowns, eating popcorn and dreaming out loud about their prospective boyfriends. They were having a great time in Freda's house, and how they envied her. They loved her slumber parties because there was always plenty of everything to eat and her house was always spotless.

"Freda, what you doing in there, girl? You too quiet, and I know when you quiet you up to something. I told you not to touch nothing, didn't I?"

"I didn't touch nothing, Mama. I'm coming." Freda walked toward the yellow and white kitchen, where Mildred was running hot water into a tin pail.

"I'm hungry, Mama. Can I have something to eat?"

"Look in the icebox, girl." When Freda opened the door, her eyes zigzagged across each shelf. She had never seen so much food in a refrigerator. There were pickles and olives, a big leafy head of lettuce, stacks and stacks of lunch meat, and three different kinds of bread. There was fresh fruit—oranges and apples and grapes. Everything was neatly housed in plastic containers. But there was something so orderly about this refrigerator, Freda didn't feel comfortable about touching anything. Something was missing: it lacked a wholesome smell. She'd noticed it was missing in the rest of the house, too. That smell that meant somebody really lived here, tracked up the floors, burnt something on the stove every now and then. There was no smell of heat coming from the radiators, or any signs that rubber boots and wet mittens ever dried over them. Her own house smelled rich from fried chicken and collard greens and corn bread, from Pine-Sol and washing powder and Windex and Aero Wax and the little coned incense Mildred burned after she'd finished giving the house a good cleaning.

Freda decided she wasn't hungry and closed the refrigerator. Mildred hollered from the living room for her to go upstairs and start cleaning the bathroom. Freda slowly made her way up the winding staircase to the blue tiled bathroom in the hallway. The towels were folded neatly across the silver racks and looked like they had never been used. The blue bathtub was shining like a satin bedspread. Nothing in here needed cleaning. Freda pulled down her slacks to use the toilet, then remembered her mama had told her never to use a toilet when she didn't know the owners. So she put her hands on the seat and let her small behind support itself in midair. When she'd finished, she washed her hands, dried them on her slacks, and ran back downstairs.

"I'm done, Mama."

"Good. You may think we playing house, but I'm counting dollars and cents. All I gotta do now is wax this floor and we through. Look in that pantry over there and get the duster and swish it across the furniture in the front room and dining room, even if don't nothing look dusty."

'While Freda was dusting, the real reason they were there finally hit her. Cleaning. She wondered just how long her mama would have to do this kind of work. Until something better came along? Like a new husband for her and a new daddy for them? One who could afford them all. When Freda finished, she stood in the doorway watching Mildred work on her hands and knees. She saw the sweat oozing down Mildred's temples, which made her red headrag look like it was soaked in fresh blood. Freda didn't like seeing her mama like this. Didn't care how much money she was getting for it. And on the way home, Freda tried to figure out the best way to tell her mama that one day if she had anything to do with it, she would see to it that Mildred wouldn't have to work so hard to get so little.

"Mama, guess what," she said, as they drove down the winding road along the river. It was a clear fall afternoon, the kind that children are anxious to go out and play in, and come home sniffling and hungry, their fingers too stiff to unbutton their own coats.

"What?" replied Mildred, only half paying attention.

"I'ma be rich when I grow up and I'ma buy us a better and bigger house than the Hales' and you ain't gon' have to scrub no floors for no white folks."

"That's what I need to hear, chile. I sure wish you was grown now. But you got plenty of time to be worrying about millions of thangs. Take your mama's word for it. And you don't have to worry about me. I
know
I ain't gon' be on my knees for the rest of my life. I got way too much sense for that. This is what I gotta do right now so I don't have to ask nobody for nothing. Ain't no sense in me whining like some chessy cat. This ain't killing me. Women've done worse thangs to earn a living, and this may not be the bottom for me."

Mildred pulled up to a stoplight and reached for her purse to get a cigarette. The light changed so she handed the purse to Freda.

"Light me a cigarette, would you?"

Freda found the pack of Tareytons (Mildred'd quit L&Ms right after she and Crook had broken up because they reminded her of him), and lit it. Freda thought of inhaling that first puff, but decided against it. She handed it to Mildred.

"One thang I do know," Mildred continued, "and you can mark my words. Y'all ain't never gon' have to worry about eating, that's for damn sure. It may not be steak and onions and mashed potatoes and gravy, but you won't go hungry. And y'all ain't gon' never be caught looking like no damn orphans, either. If I can't give you what you need, you ain't gon' get it, and I don't care if I have to beg, borrow, or steal, every last one of < y'all is going to college. I mean it. All y'all got good sense, and I'ma make sure you stretch it to the fullest."

Mildred took two quick puffs on the cigarette and tossed it out the window. Freda listened intently. She loved it when her mama went off on a tangent like this.

"And baby, let me tell you something so you can get this straight. That big fancy house ain't the only thang in life Worth striving for. Decency. A good husband. Some healthy babies. Peace of mind. Them is the thangs you try to get out of life. Everything else'll fall in place. It always do. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you, Mama," she said.

"What'd you say?"

"I mean yes. But I'm still gon' be rich anyway, 'cause from what I see being poor don't get you nowhere and just about everybody we know except white people is poor. Why is that, Mama?"

"'Cause niggahs is stupid, that's why. They thank they can get something for nothing and that that God they keep praying to every Sunday is gon' rush down from the sky and save 'em. But look at 'em. What it takes is real hard work. Ain't nobody gon' give you nothing in this world unless you work for it. I don't care what they tell you in church. One thang is true, and this is the tricky part. White folks own every damn thang 'cause they was here first and took it all. They don't like to see niggahs getting ahead and when they feel like it, they can stop you and make it just that much harder. But with all you learn in them books at school, least you can do is learn how to get around some shit like that. Anybody can see through something that's crystal clear. Just keep your eyes open and don't believe everythang—naw, don't believe half the shit people tell you 'cause don't nobody know everythang. Not even your mama. Believe me, I ain't gon' steer you too far off in the wrong direction. Mark my words. If y'all just learn to thank for yourself, don't take nobody's bullshit, I won't have to worry about you. I don't care if they white, purple, or green. Always remember that you just as good as the next person. How many times I told y'all that? All you gotta do is believe it."

Mildred pressed her foot down on the accelerator and the car jutted forward in spurts. They began to see smaller houses ahead. Freda didn't like Point Haven and dreamed of leaving after she graduated. She had no idea where she would go, but she knew that there had to be a better place to live than here. Mildred had never given any thought to living anywhere else.

Most people who didn't live within a seventy-five-mile radius had never even heard of Point Haven. It was in the thumb of Michigan, and from a hundred feet above, the town would look like a blanket of gray and black stripes spread out beside Lake Huron. Most of the streets were pressed black dirt with rocks still stuck beneath it. There were so many trees and fields that no one appreciated them, except in hot sticky summers. There were blueberry, blackberry, elderberry, and strawberry patches in back yards and miles of woods.

And there was plenty of water, which meant good fishing, something the black folks cherished most about the town. They could never catch enough pickerel, catfish, perch, or sheepshead to satisfy their insatiable appetites for fillets dipped in egg batter and yellow cornmeal, dropped in hot grease, and smothered with Louisiana hot sauce.