Seeing Red (8 page)

“Atlanta’s a big city, though. Wasn’t it better in a big city instead of the country?” I’d seen pictures on the news of big cities like Washington, DC, and there were a lot of black people there with jobs and houses and everything. I knew Thomas’s parents both worked and they had their own house.

“You mean, better for my kind?”

I kind of shrank down into the porch, because that was exactly what I meant but I hadn’t wanted to come right out and say it.

Her voice went all grumbly, and I knew what that meant. She had stuff she wanted to say, but she figured people weren’t going to listen, so she kind of mumbled it. But she said it loud enough for you to hear in case you might be inclined. “Big cities. Huh. Big don’t mean smarter, and big don’t mean better. Big only means there’s more of it.”

I tried to turn the subject back to Mama and the move. “But you stayed in Atlanta for a long time.”

“I stayed until I couldn’t run the bakery no more all by myself after my James passed.”

“Didn’t your son want to stay in Atlanta?”

“George was grown by then. He was makin’ his own way, didn’t want nothing to do with this country life.” She shook her head. “Now, my grandaughter, Carolyn, she might want to move down here some day. I keep tellin’ her this’d be a better place to raise up Anthony, especially now that she a widow. Don’t know why she’d want to live in Washington, DC.”

“It’s the nation’s capital, Miss Georgia. Thomas says it’s a really cool place to live.”

“You ever see young Thomas any more?”

I looked away. “No, ma’am. Mama says he got too old for me.” I didn’t mention the real reason. She probably knew, anyway.

“You boys were like two peas in a pod. Remember how you’d try to trick me when I gave you cookies? You’d say, ‘Nu-uh, Miss Georgia, you didn’t give me none, you only gave some to Thomas,’ and when I gave you some more, Thomas would say, ‘Miss Georgia, you forgot about me,’ and then the two of you’d be gigglin’ like you really thought I was fallin’ for it.”

“That was when we were little kids, Miss Georgia.”

“Right,” she said, “like last year.”

“It was not!”

“I’m just teasin’ you.” She started chuckling. “Remember when you screamed like to raise the dead ’cause your raft was sinkin’ and you thought you’d drown? And the creek wasn’t more than two feet deep? I could hear you all the way from this porch.”

“We were really little when that happened, Miss Georgia!”

“Oh,” she said, trying not to smile, “I thought that was last year, too.”

I tried to raise one eyebrow at her, the way she always did, but I never could do it and it made her laugh, as usual.

“I sure do miss having Thomas around, though,” I said.

“I know what you mean. I miss my grandaughter, and Anthony’s my only great-grandchild. We need some young folk here. I won’t be around much longer, and I don’t want my history buried along with me. But don’t seem like anybody wants to know about history.”

“That’s ’cause history’s boring and stupid.” I didn’t mind reading and I liked science, but history class was always boring – and pointless, because it had all happened already, so there was nothing you could do about it.

“Stupid, huh? Do you know what this area used to be called?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, I see. You don’t even know what your own homeplace was called, but it’s history that’s the stupid one, huh?”

If I weren’t so respectful I’d have given Miss Georgia a nasty look.

“My grandaddy’s church was named the Freedom Church. And this area was called Freedom’s Folly. You got any idea what a folly is?”

“No.”

“It’s a mistake. Folks said it was a mistake for him to try to build a church here for black folk.” She sighed. “But I had hope, just like my grandaddy. I wanted to go back to my childhood home. Like your mama does.”

“Mama’s got a home and a business and a family here. She’s got no reason to leave. Daddy wouldn’t have liked this one bit. It’s shameful.”

“Don’t you go poor-mouthin’ your mama. She’s a fine lady, yes she is. She always been more than kind to me. Does some shoppin’ for me, takes me to the doctor when I need to go, used to take me to church when I could make that long trip. She a good woman.”

And then it hit me, another thing that was wrong with our moving. Who was going to help out Miss Georgia if Mama wasn’t around? And who would be Rosie’s best friend if I was gone? And where would Beau work? Daddy was the only one in Stony Gap who would give him a job. What would happen to Beau?

“You got to be patient with your mama. She come all the way from Ohio to be your daddy’s bride. It’s been hard for her to live here as an outsider, but she stuck it out.”

“Outsider? It’s not like Ohio is a different country.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Child, it might as well be another planet. It’s hard breakin’ into a community. You always the outsider.” She looked across her vegetable garden and towards our house. “Always the outsider.”

I shook my head and let out a groan.

I guess Miss Georgia thought I was sassing her because she said, “You be careful or I’ma start singin’.”

I couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

It was the song Daddy sang in the What-U-Want. “I know,” I said, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.”

“Uh-huh, that Aretha Franklin, she know what she’s talkin’ about. So did your daddy. And I
expect
–” and she lingered on
expect
the way a teacher would – “you do, too. Right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I grinned up at her. “Especially if it’ll stop you from singing.”

She raised one eyebrow back at me and tried to make a stern face, but her lips turned up and the lines around her eyes crinkled as she tried not to smile.

CHAPTER NINE

Spray-painting

When I got home, I helped Beau pull the alternator out of Miss Georgia’s Rambler so we’d be ready to put in the new brushes when they arrived. We also did a couple of oil changes, which was about all anyone brought their cars in for any more. I guess they all thought Daddy was the only one who fixed their cars. It was mostly him, but there was a lot me and Beau could do, too.

Finally it was suppertime and I was starving, so I headed into the house. J was in his underwear again, like a baby, whining about being hungry, and Mama was sitting at the dining-room table with her forehead in her hands, her pretty blonde hair all messed up like she’d been pulling at it. Daddy’s accounting books were spread in front of her. I knew what that meant. She was putting in the receipts and invoices, figuring out who owed us what and who we owed money to. From the mess of papers spread across the table it didn’t look like she had any idea what she was doing.

Daddy always took care of everything. If he needed Beau’s help in the shop, they hung a sign at the What-U-Want telling folks to call at the house, and Mama would go take care of things. But Daddy said Mama was a better cook than Betty Crocker and Julia Child combined, made a home look finer than
Southern Living
magazine, and kept J and me in line, which was more than enough jobs for any one person. Except now Mama wasn’t cooking at all, and it seemed like I was the one taking care of J.

Mama looked at the piles of papers in front of her on the dining-room table and sighed. “I’m trying to figure this out, baby.” Mama’s voice was as slumped as her shoulders. “Can you just pick something out?”

J groaned. “How come you never make us anything any more, Mama?”

“How come you never wear clothes any more?” I asked him.

“Leave me alone!” J said.

Mama rubbed her temples. “I’m just not inspired to cook lately.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“There’s food in the fridge,” she said.

“I don’t want any of that icky stuff!”

“How about a sandwich?” she asked.

“I’m sick of sandwiches! And I’m thirsty. We don’t have anything good to drink. How come you never let us get sodas from the What-U-Want any more, huh? Daddy always let us have a Coke. Now we’re like poor people!”

Mama slapped her hand down on the table and stood up real sudden. I stepped out of the doorway so she could march past me into the kitchen. From her face I couldn’t tell if she was going to start yelling or bawling.

With a shaky hand she grabbed J’s Flintstones glass from the cabinet, opened the fridge, and poured him some milk. “Here,” she said, sticking it in his hand so hard some milk sloshed over his wrist. “I need to drive Beau home, and I’ll figure out what to feed you when I get back.”

The screen door slapped behind her while J stared at the glass in his hand. “I don’t drink milk,” he said in a small voice. He stared at the screen door. “Don’t you remember, Mama?” He looked at me, his bottom lip shaking. “Doesn’t she remember?”

I didn’t want him to start bawling, so I quickly took the glass from him. “It’s okay, I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“But I don’t
want
—”

“A special sandwich. Out of special stuff. Like Daddy used to make, remember?”

He was still pouty but he’d raised his eyebrows, so I knew he was curious. “With potato chips inside?”

“Maybe.”

“With mayonnaise and peppermints inside?”

“Let’s see what we got.”

Peanut butter was about all we had and we were both sick of it, but I opened the fridge slowly and dramatically to give me a chance to think. I played up rubbing my chin and hemming and hawing and saying, “Oh, my,” like an old granny enough times that I got a little smile out of J.

“Why, yes, young man, I believe I’ve found something that will take care of your thirst and your hunger at the same time…a pickle-peanut-butter sandwich!”

J frowned.

I looked past him to the kitchen table with the lazy Susan on it. And the sugar bowl. “With a heap of cinnamon sugar inside.”

He finally nodded.

I made him sit at the kitchen table and I did, too. The sandwiches weren’t bad – it’s amazing what you can add to peanut butter and it still tastes good – and I wolfed two of them down while J was still on the first half of his.

“You shouldn’t eat so fast,” he said.

I laughed. “Who are you? Mama?”

“No, but Mama said after supper we’re supposed to clear out our rooms.”

I felt the peanut butter stick in my throat. “What?”

“We have to collect old clothes and books and toys so we can give them away to charity.” He pointed to a bunch of brown paper bags in the corner of the dining room that I could see from the kitchen. I hadn’t noticed them before. The bags had high-heel shoes and purses coming out of the tops. “See?” J said, “That’s her old stuff, and she says she doesn’t want to pay to move any of our old stuff, either.”

“I’m not moving anything.”

J’s eyes went big. “You’re giving it all to charity?”

“I’m not planning on moving.”

“But Mr Harrison said he’s bringing somebody by to see the house, so Mama says we have to.”

I slammed the table with my fist. “I don’t care what Mama says!”

J jerked back in his chair and stared at me.

I pushed away from the table and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” I slammed the screen door behind me and jumped down the steps.

“Can I come with you?”

“No!” I called over my shoulder.

“How come, Red? You’re supposed to babysit me when Mama’s not here! I’m telling! I wanna…”

But I let the sound of my footsteps in the gravel drown him out.

I decided pretty quick that I didn’t need Darrell’s gang to help me spray-paint. Maybe I didn’t have any experience, but how much did you need? You just made a mess when no one was watching. All I had to do was wait until it got pitch-dark. Then, when Mr Harrison came by to show off our place to whoever it was, it sure wouldn’t look good.

I found myself over at Rosie’s and heard Mr Dunlop yelling foul words at Mrs Dunlop. I also heard a sweeter, softer sound, like a bird. It was getting dark, so it took me a moment to realize it was Rosie singing, and another moment before I saw where she was. She was sitting in our climbing tree, on that branch that was level with the bushes by the side of the Dunlops’ house. When we were little, Darrell used to dare us to jump off that branch and over the bushes, landing in the dirt of their front yard. It was a big leap back then, but now we were taller than the branch.

Rosie had her back against the tree trunk with her legs stretched out along the branch like she was lounging on a sofa. She had her eyes closed, the ear jack of her transistor radio in one ear, a finger plugging her other ear, while she sang along to that Helen Reddy song that was always on the radio, “I Am Woman”. I guess she was blocking out her daddy. She looked sweet and peaceful, and I decided to just watch her for a minute instead of bother her. I wanted to tell her what I was about to do, but I figured it might be better if she had no idea. Then no one could blame her for not stopping me or for lying about it afterwards.