“No, ma’am. Not mine to touch.”
Fee relaxes her shoulders, then sucks in a big breath of air. “That’s a beautiful thing you’re doing, baby.” She reaches over to rub my thigh. “Your mama would be proud.”
“I know she would. She’s the one who suggested it.”
Right about then music blasts from the back terrace and through the spaces in the fence we see several sisters pouring out of the double set of French doors, laughing and carrying on like it’s the most fun day of their lives. We can’t makeout anything they’re saying; the music is too loud. Rush meeting must have let out early.
“Lord, I never thought I’d see the day,” I say. “White girls in love with rap.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Fee replies. “I know that’s right.”
“Usher yes, but hard rap? That tickles me.”
Neither of us talks for a while. We simply sit and listen to the laughter.
“What must that be like?” Aunt Fee says after a few minutes have passed.
“What’s what like?”
“To laugh like you don’t have a care in the world.” There’s no resentment in her tone. Seems like she’s just curious. Then she leans down, picks up her pocketbook. Now she’s ready to go.
“Might seem that way tonight,” I tell her. “But it’s not always smooth sailing over there. That I know. They tell me their secrets.”
Fee stands up, slings her pocketbook over her shoulder. “I hear what you’re sayin’. Just makes that voyage a whole lot smoother when you’ve got the money to take a big ship. See you tomorrow, baby.”
“Why don’t you take a lap around campus with me?”
She peers at me like I’m crazy.
“You better get your butt moving,” I say with a chuckle. “If you plan to live long.”
“Hmmph.”She leans down, picks up the Gatorade bottle she uses as a spittoon, and spits inside.
FIVE
MISS PEARL
The lines on this county road are starting to blur. It’s just past dusk and these bones of mine are weary. Move-in day wears me out like I’ve been chopping wood—something I’ve not done and have no plans of ever doing, but God gave me an imagination. I know how to use it, too, even if it does get me in trouble sometimes. Like now, when it drifts back onto— Uh-oh, Pearl, look out for that deer.
A few feet ahead there’s a multipoint buck poking his big head out from the right side of the road. Here he comes, leaping out in front of me. I slam on the brakes, hear the sound of squealing tires on pavement. Before I know it I’m skidding in circles all over the road. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles turn pale. My head jerks with every spin. People talk about their life flashing before their eyes. Lord Jesus, I think I just saw mine.
When I finally regain control and pull off onto the shoulder, I hear loose rocks biting at my tires. I stop the car and slump over the steering wheel. My heart is pumping faster than an oil jack. With every pound inside my chest I’m praising God and crying at the same time,Thank You, Jesus. Thank You, Jesus.If there had been a car coming in the opposite direction I would bedead.I listen to myself breathe, in and out, in and out. Feeling my chest rise andfall, a hundred miles an hour. I can hear the steady, hard, thump-thump of my heart. My mind gets going again and before long I get angry. Now I am furious. And that fury is directed at nobody but myself. There’s not but a fraction of tread left on my tires. Instead of buying new ones I spent my savings on my damn hair.
After looking over my shoulder, I pull back out onto the road. There aren’t but a few miles left between here and home. So I drive well under the speed limit the rest of the way and, before I know it, my mind wanders off again to something that makes me almost as angry, but I can’t do a thing about: All the low-income folks have been forced to the outskirts of town into Yalobusha and Panola Counties.
It takes thirty to forty minutes now to drive in to work. I read in theOxford Eaglelast week that people are calling it gentrification. I called on an apartment in Oxford last year and the lady said she wanted nine hundred dollars a month fora room.Sharing both a kitchen and a den. “Thank you anyway,” I told her, then hung up the phone. I don’t know what they think we’re going to do. Spending so much of our money on gas when the minimum wage in Mississippi isn’t but $7.25 an hour. Thankfully I’m making more than that.
When I finally open the door to my apartment, it’s pitch black inside. I flick on the overhead light, look around, and let out the breath it seems I’ve been holding since that deer ran out in front of me. My place is spotless and smells sweet thanks to the diffuser Kate Farley’s mama gave me last year.
In anticipation of what’s to come, I had scrubbed both my kitchen and my bathroom two days ago, and vacuumed the carpet and dusted everything—including the light bulbs—the day before that. I had to do a master clean before school starts back and all the mamas start calling me. From now till winter break my extra time will be swallowed up whole.
I drop my pocketbook down on the sofa where I always keep it. As I head toward the bathroom something dark and dingy catches my eye; the one thing I ran out of time to clean. Mama would not be pleased, in fact, if she could see it, she would be downright ashamed. The tarnish is thick. I can’t even make out the pretty garden of roses swirling through each piece.
I walk over to where it stays and pick up the small cream pitcher. It once belonged to Mrs. McKinney. She willed it to Mama when she died. Said Mamaalways kept it looking magnificent, the way an heirloom silver service should look, and that she deserved to have it for her own.
Mama said it was hard when Mrs. McKinney’s daughter, Daphne, learned of her mother’s wishes because she had had her eye on it. Mama tried giving it back, but Mrs. McKinney’s oldest son, William, said no. He said his mother meant for Ruby to have it and that it was going to her house, period.
When Mama left it to me she made me promise I’d never sell it. She wanted it kept in the family, and asked me to pass it down to my own child. But that didn’t work out. Several times now, I’ve wanted to thank William for his generosity. But Aunt Fee says it’s always best to let sleeping dogs lie.
