“We need to be doing this for the Sigma Nu staff,” Haynes says. “All thesororities and fraternities do if they haven’t done so already. Not only at Ole Miss, but Tennessee, Alabama, Georgia, LSU. Every university, really.”
Cali picks up her glass and lifts it high in the air. “Here’s to making a difference.” All four of us touch our glasses together with a loudclink,then we each take sips—slow, delicious, hopeful sips—of making a difference in the name of Sisterhood.
Once the girls have left to drive back to Oxford—I mean as soon as the door shuts behind them—Haynes turns to me with a look I’ve seen him give jurors in the courtroom. “This all boils down to one thing.Greed.But you mark my word. Lilith Whitmore’s rapacious thirst for wealth and power will be the very thing that brings her to her knees.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
MISS PEARL
The cards and letters have been pouring in since Fee died. I must have gotten two hundred already. Selma James called to tell me she was ordering custom sympathy acknowledgments from Crane and that she and some of the other sisters would help me address every one of them. I have the sweetest, most loving girls in the world. The Lord has truly blessed me. And then some.
As a condolence, my dear friend Shirley volunteered to freshen up my weave. Then she treated me to dinner. But the whole way home from the restaurant, all I could think about was returning to work tomorrow. Everything in that House reminds me of Aunt Fee.
With her gone I feel as lost as a stray puppy. For the first time in a long time I am low. And, if I’m honest with myself, I’m angry, too. Angry at that stubborn woman for neglecting to see a doctor and for leaving me sooner than she should have. Didn’t she think about what it would do to me? To lose a mother all over again?
When I get home, after hurling my pocketbook onto the couch, I don’t take time to remove my coat or turn up the temperature. I walk right over to my silver service and carry the whole heavy thing to the kitchen. The tray mustweigh twenty pounds on its own. I open the cabinet underneath the sink, pull out my rubber gloves, polish, three clean rags, and the old toothbrush I keep handy to work inside the nooks and crevices. I need a way to release this anger.
First, I pick up the coffeepot—the biggest piece—and get to work. Starting on the inside, I then move around to the front, lathering it up good with the pink paste.Smells like rotten eggs,I think while rubbing the handle, then the feet.Rotten like the way you never told me you were sick, Aunt Fee.After placing it back on the tray, I pick up the tea pitcher. Do the same thing all over again, then start on the creamer. There’s a waste bowl and a sugar jar with a lid. And also a small kettle on a stand with a burner underneath.
Once I spread cream on all six pieces in the service, I pick up the toothbrush and go at the roses on that sugar jar like I’m scrubbing away blood. I maneuver the brush around each bud, working hard to get inside the petals and leaves.
While I’m brushing I’m seventeen again. And so is William McKinney.
I usually took the bus home every day from school. On this particular day, in mid-December, the temperature had dropped. All I had on was a light jacket. When William saw me shivering, standing at the end of the line waiting to board the bus, he rolled down the window of his shiny red Jeep. “Want a ride?”
I looked over, saw him smiling, and took a run for his car. We left the school parking lot a little too fast, as I recall.
“Up for helping me on the trig exam?” he asked first thing. We were both seniors in the same trigonometry class.
“I can do that.”
“My dad will kill me if I get less than a B.”
“Why’s he so hard on you? He knows math’s not your thing.” I already knew the answer to this. William’s father was harsh, “a mean good ol’ boy,” as William often called him.
“He doesn’t care. All he cares about is A’s. Even though he never made them. Bastard.”
William had a gift for the creative arts. He could turn a blank canvas into a field of French lilacs in no time, and if there was a song you wanted to hear—any song—he could pick it out on his guitar and sing like he was getting paid to do it.
“Why don’t you talk to him about it?” I said. “Let him know you’re doing your best.”
“There’s no use. He doesn’t care.” Even from his profile, I could see all the varied emotions on William’s face: Pain, disgust, anger.
Since I was Mama’s only child, there had been times when Mrs. McKinney would allow the bus to drop me off at their house after school. I’d sit at the kitchen counter finishing my homework while Mama stood in front of the stove cooking their supper. Once Mrs. McKinney learned of my aptitude for math, she often invited me to their house to help William.
I remember the proud look on Mama’s face whenever William and I would sit at the kitchen table working our math problems together. It was rare for me to bring home a report card without A’s. But William, bless his heart, was a C student at best.
On the way home that day, William carried me by the Cream Cup. He knew I loved their chocolate shakes. Only about a mile from Oxford High, it was a popular after-school hangout, known for burgers, banana splits, and shakes. But on that cold December day, we were the only ones there. Once upon a time the Cream Cup had two walk-up windows. Blacks and whites couldn’t order from the same one.
When we got our shakes we dashed back to his Jeep to stay warm. We were sitting with the engine running, sucking on our straws, when he said, “You’re lucky, Pearl.”
I thought to myself,Me, lucky? You’re the one who’s lucky. Let’s start with this car you’re driving, why don’t we?Besides the Jeep, he was nice looking, wore nice clothes, lived in a big fancy house—his mama even drove a Cadillac car. I looked right at him and laughed. “Why am I lucky?”
“Because Ruby’s your mom.” Mama had been working for his family ever since William was born. He was the oldest of four.
“Why do you say that?” I asked him.
“For one thing,” he said with a shrug, “she’s the best cook in Oxford.”
