The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat (6 page)

Clarice said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you look at that.” She pointed toward our approaching friend. “No wonder they’re so late. She’s wearing that yellow dress again. That thing is so tight she can barely breathe, much less take a full step. And would you look at the shoes she’s trying to walk in. Those heels are six inches, if they’re an inch. I tell you, Odette, Barbara Jean has got to accept the fact that she is a middle-aged woman and she can’t wear the things she wore when she was twenty-two. It’s unseemly. We really should have a talk with her about that. She needs an intervention real bad.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

Clarice would never say a word to Barbara Jean about the way she dressed, and we both knew it. Just like she and Barbara Jean wouldn’t tell me to my face that I was fat, and Barbara Jean and I wouldn’t remind Clarice that her husband was a dog. These were the tender considerations that came with being a member of the Supremes.
We overlooked each other’s flaws and treated each other well, even when we didn’t deserve it.

When Clarice got to carrying on the way she was, it always came back to one thing: Richmond. When he was up to no good, Clarice grew fangs that filled her mouth with bitterness. Mostly she swallowed the poison, but sometimes it came seeping out.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Clarice said, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that dress.” Clarice was nowhere near as big as me, but she was solidly built, no matter how she starved herself. If either of us was ever foolish enough to try and force ourselves into Barbara Jean’s sexy little dress, death
would
most likely be the outcome.

The only thing I didn’t like about Barbara Jean’s and Lester’s outfits was that they made my stomach growl. I was ravenous and, with her in that yellow dress and him in his cream-colored suit, they got me thinking about a slice of lemon meringue pie.

Truth was, Barbara Jean looked lovely in whatever she wore. She’d been the prettiest girl in our high school and she became the most
beautiful woman I’d ever seen. In middle age, it’s still difficult to look away from her. Every single feature of her face is striking and exotic. Looking at Barbara Jean makes you think that maybe God is a wonderful, ancient artist who decided one day to piece together all his loveliest creations and craft something that put his other works to shame. Unfortunately, God neglected to prepare men for his good work. Men had behaved very badly because of my friend’s beauty, and, the world being unfair, Barbara Jean had often paid the price.

Barbara Jean and Lester came into the All-You-Can-Eat and brought along a gust of hot air that quickly overwhelmed the feeble air conditioner that hummed and sputtered above the doorway. People sitting near the door looked at Lester like they wanted to take a good whack at him with the walking stick he was using to hold the door open for his wife, who was several steps behind him on account of her impractical choices in wardrobe and footwear.

Barbara Jean came limping to the table issuing apologies. “I am so sorry we’re late. Morning service went long today,” she said as she sat down, unzipped her boots under the table, and sighed with relief.

Clarice interrupted her, saying, “Let’s eat.” Then she stood from her chair and marched toward the steam tables.

The men followed Clarice to the food while I waited for Barbara Jean to squeeze herself back into her boots. When she was done, we walked to the buffet line. Along the way, Barbara Jean leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Richmond back at it again?”

“That’s my guess,” I said.

We took plates from the carousel at the near end of the four steam tables—one for main courses, two for side dishes, and the fourth for desserts. Then each of us did what we did every week. Skinny James piled his plate with some of everything. Richmond hid food that was off-limits to him because of his diabetes beneath layers of green beans and roasted carrots. Lester ate the old folks’ selections, easy-to-chew dishes enhanced with added fiber. Clarice hadn’t allowed herself a piece of anything fried since she was twenty-eight, and that day was no exception. She ate minuscule portions of low-fat items. Out of consideration for Clarice, Barbara Jean, who could eat anything and
never gain a pound, ate only low-fat foods so it wouldn’t seem like she was rubbing the difference in their metabolisms in Clarice’s face. I, as always, divided my plate equally between main courses and desserts. Vegetables take up too much space on a small plate.

When we got to the end of the line, the men headed back to our table. The three of us women stopped to say hello to Little Earl and Erma Mae, who had come in from the kitchen and were sitting side by side on stools at the far end of the last steam table.

I said, “Hey, Little Earl. Hey, Erma Mae.”

They answered together, “Hey, Supremes.”

I inquired about their health, their children, and Erma Mae’s elderly mother. I asked Little Earl for the latest on his sister Lydia and her husband, who ran a diner in Chicago that was almost identical to the All-You-Can-Eat. After being assured that all of those people were fine, I got around to the question I really wanted an answer to.

I asked, “How’s your daddy doing, Little Earl?” trying to sound casual about it.

“Oh, he’s great. Eighty-eight next month and gonna outlive us all, I ’spect. He should be comin’ by sometime soon. Here lately he’ll sometimes sleep in, but he won’t miss an entire day’s work, that’s for certain.”

“ ’Specially not on a Sunday,” Erma Mae added, nodding her head toward Minnie’s empty fortune-telling table. She said that for Clarice’s benefit since the two of them were kindred spirits on the subject of Minnie.

At that moment the front door opened with a loud scrape. Little Earl looked toward the door with an expression of boyish expectation, like he really believed that just speaking of his father would conjure him up. But Big Earl didn’t step into the restaurant. Instead, Minnie McIntyre stood in the threshold, holding the door open and letting a hot, moist draft into the room that made the nearby patrons groan in discomfort and give her the evil eye.

Minnie’s costume of the day was a deep purple robe decorated with the same astrological signs that adorned her corner table. She wore
gold Arabian-style slippers with curled-up toes, a necklace made of twelve large chunks of colored glass, each representing a birthstone, and a white turban with a silver bell jutting out from its top. The bell, she claimed, was for Charlemagne the Magnificent to ring whenever he had a message for her. He was very consistent. Charlemagne rang every time Minnie lowered her head to count a client’s money.

Minnie walked into the restaurant, taking long, slow strides and holding her arms outstretched, palms toward the ceiling.

Little Earl left his stool and met her at the cash register. He sighed and said, “Miss Minnie, please, we talked about this. I just can’t have you doing your readings on Sundays. The Pentecostals’ll have my ass.”

Minnie said, “You and your precious Pentecostals will be happy to know that you won’t have to worry about me or my gift much longer.” She wiggled her head from side to side as she spoke, making her bell ring repeatedly. She lowered the range of her normally high-pitched voice to a deep rumble and said, loud enough for nearly everyone in the place to hear, “Charlemagne says I’ll be dead within a year.”

Most people in the restaurant, having heard Minnie announce grave prophecies that failed to come to pass many times, paid her no mind. Clarice, Barbara Jean, and I stuck around and waited to hear what else she had to say.

Little Earl said, “Why don’t I make you some tea, get you calmed down?”

“There’s no calmin’ me down; I’m facin’ the end. And don’t pretend you’re sad to see it. You’ve wanted me out of the way ever since I married Earl.” She pointed at Erma Mae and added, “You, too. I dare you to deny it.”

Erma Mae was never one for lying. Instead of responding to Minnie, she yelled toward the kitchen, “Belinda, bring some hot tea for Grandma Minnie!”

Little Earl led Minnie behind the register and guided her onto his stool. In a soft, soothing tone of voice he said, “Yeah, that’s right. Have a cup of tea, and then I’ll walk you back across the street. You, me, and Daddy can talk this whole thing out.”

She made a kind of a squawking noise and dismissed him with a
wave of her hand. “There’s nothin’ to talk out. A year from now, I’ll be dead.”

Clarice was tired of listening to Minnie’s ramblings. She whispered in my ear, “My food is getting cold. Are we about done listening to this old fake?”

Minnie screamed, “I heard that!” She was old; but you had to hand it to her, the woman still had excellent hearing. She leapt from the stool and lunged at Clarice, ready to dig her purple polished nails into Clarice’s face.

Little Earl held her back and got her onto the stool again. She immediately burst into tears, sending black trails of mascara down her copper cheeks. Maybe she’d been faking it for so long that she’d started to believe herself. Or maybe she really had talked to Charlemagne. Fake or not, we all could clearly see that this was a woman who believed what she was saying. Even Clarice felt bad watching Minnie break down like that. She said, “Minnie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

But Minnie wasn’t ready to hear apologies or be consoled.

“I knew this was gonna happen. Nobody cares what happens to me. As soon as Charlemagne told me that I’d be dead within a year of Earl, I knew I’d get no sympathy.”

Little Earl, who had been patting his stepmother on the back while she wailed, took a step away from her and said, “What?”

“Charlemagne came to me early this morning and said that I would follow Earl to the grave within a year. Those were his exact words.”

Now the restaurant grew quiet as people began to catch the drift of what she was saying.

“Are you saying that Daddy is dead?”

“Yeah, he died last night while he was sayin’ his prayers. Between that and my bad news from Charlemagne this morning, I’ve had a terrible, terrible Sunday, let me tell you.”

Little Earl grabbed Minnie’s shoulders and spun her on the stool so she faced him directly. “Daddy died last night … and you didn’t call me?”

“I was gonna call you, but then I thought,
If I call ’em, they’ll feel like
they’ve got to come over. Then there’ll be the preacher and the undertaker and maybe the grandkids. With everybody makin’ such a fuss, I’ll never get a lick of sleep
. So I thought it out and figured your daddy would be just as dead if I got a good night’s rest as he’d be if I called you and didn’t get my sleep. So I just let it be.”

James, Richmond, and Lester came over from the window table then and joined us. No one said anything, and Minnie sensed that it wasn’t an approving silence. She looked at Little Earl and Erma Mae and said, “I was just tryin’ to be considerate. Y’all need your sleep, too.”

When the crowd around her remained quiet, she let loose with another wail and a new round of tears. She said, “This is no way to treat a dyin’ woman.”

Little Earl began to untie his apron. He said, “Is he at Stewart’s?” Stewart’s is the largest black mortuary in town and it’s where most of us are taken when our time comes.

“No,” Minnie said, “I told you I let it be. He’s upstairs beside the bed. And that wasn’t easy on me, neither. I hardly got seven hours of sleep, him kneelin’ there and starin’ at me all night.”

Little Earl threw his apron to the floor and ran out of the door toward his father’s house across the road. James was right on his heels.

Erma Mae began to sob. She came around the buffet line and launched herself straight into Barbara Jean’s arms, passing by Clarice and me even though we were both closer friends of hers than Barbara Jean. I wasn’t surprised or offended, though. And I was sure Clarice wasn’t either. Everyone knew Barbara Jean was the expert on grief.

As Barbara Jean held Erma Mae and patted her trembling back, I looked through the window and across the street. James and Little Earl were just arriving at Big Earl’s home. They rushed up the front stairs and right past Mama, who stood near the porch swing. Big Earl and Thelma McIntyre sat on the swing holding hands, Miss Thelma’s head on her husband’s shoulder. I could tell from Mama’s familiar gestures that she was telling one of her jokes. I had seen those particular movements a hundred times. I knew which joke she was telling and that she was now at the punch line. Right on cue, Big
Earl and Miss Thelma doubled over laughing, stomping their feet on the painted boards of the porch floor and falling against each other on the swing. Even from dozens of yards away, I could see the sun reflecting off the tears that ran down the cheeks of Big Earl’s grinning face.

Erma Mae cried on Barbara Jean’s shoulder as a crowd of friends surrounded them murmuring words of sympathy and support. Barbara Jean felt a hand stroke her back and she turned her head to see Carmel Handy standing behind her, shrunken and bony in her best Sunday dress. Barbara Jean knew what the first words out of Miss Carmel’s mouth would be and she held her breath, bracing herself to hear them. Miss Carmel didn’t disappoint. In her high-pitched, feathery voice she said, “Sweetheart, did you know you were born on my davenport?”

Barbara Jean’s mother, Loretta Perdue, was drunk when she gave birth on the living room sofa of Miss Carmel, a woman she had never met. Her friends had thrown her a baby shower that day at Forrest Payne’s Pink Slipper Gentlemen’s Club, where she worked as a dancer. She often told Barbara Jean how she only drank whiskey sours when she was expecting because everyone knew that drinking beer during pregnancy would make your baby nappy-headed. “See, honey,” she would say, “your mama was always lookin’ out for you.”

Loretta had plans to give her daughter, and herself, a leg up in life. After reading the news of Clarice’s birth in the newspaper, and seeing how people went on about it, she decided that her child would be the second black baby born at University Hospital. Clarice’s mother was just the wife of a shady lawyer and no better than she was, Loretta figured. Now that the color barrier had been broken, she would just show up at the hospital when the first pain hit and take her rightful place among a higher class of folk. Like most of Loretta’s schemes, it didn’t work out that way.