“I will.” She takes a few steps toward Mama Carla’s apartment, turns back around. “I’ve got a lot to tell you—when you get a minute.”
“You know I’m here for you. My office is always open.” All the girls know they can stop by my office, also known as my maintenance closet, for counseling any time they choose. I’ve got two stools inside exactly for that reason. Alpha Delt In-House Counselor is another of my unofficial titles.
She steps forward to hug me once more, remembers the load in her arms, and kisses my cheek instead. “Thanks, Miss Pearl. You’re the best.”
Lizzie has always been one of my favorites. Oh, Lizzie is what most everyone calls her. She’s a senior this year and I’ve known her since she was a pledge. She’s also this year’s Recruitment Chairman and that is one heck of a job. I’ve never met her dad, but her mother’s real nice. She’s always polite and tells me she’s relieved I’m working here. Last year when Lizzie came down with that kissing disease, mono-something-or-other, and almost had to leave school, her mother must have called me every other day for three months asking would I please check on her baby.
“Pearl,” she’d start, like my name had two syllables, “it’s me again.” There was no reason for her to tell me who “me” was. She knew I had her name in my phone. I have almost all the mamas’ numbers in my phone.
Most of the rest of the mamas are good to me, too. Whenever I meet one for the first time they say, “Miss Pearl, I’ve heard so much about you.” That lets me know their daughters have been talking well about me. Somehow or another, they all find out my cell phone number and a week doesn’t go by without one or two of them calling to ask me to take care of their daughters. They are well past the age of needing taking care of, but tell that to some of these mamas.
Last year, I had Genna Ferguson’s mother call and ask if I would drive over to the Walgreens and pick up a neti pot, a bottle of Advil, one of zinc, and a six-pack of Sprite for her sick daughter. After I left there, she wanted me to drive to Simpson’s Deli, clear across town, to get an order of their chicken soup because it was Genna’s favorite.
Another mama asked me to make sure her girl’s dress was ironed for a big date she had that evening. Said he came from one of the finest families in Jackson and she couldn’t make it to town in time to ensure her daughter looked all right.
Still another mama called one morning and asked if I’d go up to her daughter Liza’s room and calm her down. Said her boyfriend had cheated on her with “a Chi Theta whore” and asked if I could put my arm around her and make sure she had a “mama-like” shoulder to cry on. I never turn any of them down. I’m happy to do it. I feel like the girls are half mine, anyway.
Several of the mamas bless me with nice things for taking care of their girls. I’ve got a collection of scarves and throws, decor pillows and candles. Sometimes it’s bubble bath or a nice bar of soap. Other times it’s a gift certificate to a restaurant or Macy’s. And oftentimes it’s plain ol’ cash. Last year I got a letter from one of my girls telling me, “You are a special person. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you, Miss Pearl.” She left it for me outside my closet. Put a candle with it, too. One of those good-smelling kinds. But something about that note, the I-love-you-Miss-Pearl part, tugged at the deepest part of me.
Before I can get out of my closet, here come Scarlett McDonald and CleméBarkley rapping on the door. When they see me, they both throw their arms around me. Caitlin Ishee slips in between. They’ve been rooming together in a three-person room for the last two years, and are as tight as the lid on a honey jar. That’s the best thing about joining a sorority; once a friendship is formed, that bond is so thick it would take a thousand soldiers to knock down their bulwark.
“Excuse me, Miss Pearl,” Clemésays, “Mama Carla needs your help. The line to check in is pretty backed up and Amelia Williamson is upstairs sick.” Amelia is this year’s House Manager and is in charge of room assignments. It’s her job to sit with Mama Carla all day handing out keys.
“Well, okay then. Tell her I’ll be on soon as I lock up.” The girls scurry off in front of me as I pull out my key. “Tell her not to worry,” I holler. “Help’s on the way.” It’s not uncommon for Mama Carla to ask for my help. She gives me plenty of extra responsibilities around the House. There is nothing she can’t trust me with and she knows it. Trustworthiness is paramount in this job. Without it I’d be out on the street faster than cotton catches fire.
I shut and lock the door behind me, then make my way to her apartment. It’s in the front of the House near the door, so she can see who’s coming and going.Lord.I look down, let out a big sigh. This morning I could see my face in these floors. Now, after folks been tracking in dust all day long, they are some kind of filthy all over again.
Right before walking into Mama Carla’s apartment I notice the front door standing wide open, letting every bit of the cold air out. I reach out to shut it and a rush of heat hits me in the face like I’ve opened the oven. August is sure enough showing off today. Weatherman said Oxford is predicted to tie the record at 106.
When I do make it in, four sisters are clustered together. Arms are swinging, hands are dancing. When they see me, they stop talking and get to squealing, “Miss Pearl!” Reunion is what I love most about move-in day. When Mama Carla sees me, she rolls her eyes. Beads of sweat have collected all over her forehead and it’s running down the sides of her cheeks. Her face looks like a giant ripe tomato.
“Lord have mercy,” I say to her. “Are you sick?” The poor thing’s hair is wringing wet and she’s fanning herself with a magazine.
“This is what happens when you stop taking hormones. Is the front door open?”
“It was. I pulled it to. But it won’t stay that way long. Too many people runnin’ in and out of here.” I grab another magazine off the table and sit down next to her.
She blows a long puff of air. “Enjoy your youth, Pearl. Once you hit menopause the party’s over.”
“I’m not that far away,” I say, fanning her from the side.
“You’ve got plenty of time. Oh, to be forty-four again.” She runs her fingers through her hair in an attempt to restyle. Bless her heart. There is no use.
I help her with the keys and contracts and hand each girl her welcome back gift. Every sister staying in the House this year gets her own copy ofThe Southern Belle’s Bible,courtesy of the Jackson Alums. One of them self-published the handbook and to show their support the alums have bought sixty-six copies. Word is the lady spent over twenty thousand dollars of her own money on publishing costs five years ago, and she’ll have to sell fifteen hundred copies to ever turn a profit.
“I’ll be right back,” Mama Carla says, standing up. “If I don’t dunk my head in an ice bucket I’ll keel over and die.”
“For real?”
“Not really, but I think I’ll spend a few hours in the walk-in cooler.” She laughs. “I’ll bring you a Coke if I live that long.” She knows Co-Cola’s my drink. “Will you watch Trudy for me?”
“Of course. Here, Trudy.” I snap my fingers, pat my hip. But that tiny shih tzu never looks my way, just follows Mama Carla right on out the door.
I’ve been at the table ten minutes when Sarah Mason walks in. When she eyes me, she screams, “Oh. My. Gosh. When did you get extensions?” Thenshe knocks ten of the handbooks off the table trying to put her arms around my neck. “You look so pretty.”
“Thank you, baby.” I turn around, let her inspect the back.
“I’ve been thinking of getting them myself. Who did yours?”
