Belle Teal (2 page)

The road widens slightly toward the bottom of the hill. And when it meets up with Route 518, which if you turned left on it, would take you into the center of Coker Creek, it becomes a paved road. I cross 518 and soon I reach Clarice's father's auto body shop and then Miss Wanda's beauty salon, where sometimes I stop in for a grape soda and a chat with Miss Wanda. And then one, two, three houses, and there's Clarice's.

Clarice Baker meets me at the screen door before I even get to the top of the wooden steps. Those steps are painted a deep green, which I think is a lovely color, as lovely as the rest of Clarice's house. I wouldn't ever want to live anywhere except in our house in the hills with Mama and Gran, but there is something delicious about the Bakers' home. I step inside, into the dark coolness. Our house sits in a clearing and the sun beats down on it all day long. Clarice's house is surrounded by big shade trees, and in the summer the ceiling fans, one in almost every room, turn slowly, stirring the air.

Clarice and me, we step into the living room and the first thing I set my eyes on is the television. The Bakers got it almost three years ago. It is some invention. I have learned so much about life from what I have seen on it.

“Hey, Belle Teal,” calls Clarice's sister from the kitchen.

“Hey, Shari,” I reply. Shari is fifteen and will be a sophomore in high school.

“You ready for school tomorrow?” she asks. She is sitting at the table, putting pink nail polish on her fingers.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” I reply.

“Do you girls want any help with your outfits?”

I glance at Clarice. “Well, no, I guess not. I think we're all set.”

Now Shari, she is sweet to be so nice to Clarice and me. She always offers to help us with our looks, and I know she could do a good job because she is a real fashion plate herself. She is pretty and has a chest that she needs to contain with a bra, and boys call her on the phone all the time.

Me and Clarice never take her up on her offers of fashion help, but Shari doesn't seem to mind.

“Want a Coke?” Clarice asks me.

“Yes, thanks,” I reply, all polite, since Shari is sitting there.

Clarice snags two bottles from the refrigerator and we take them back into the living room, where we sprawl on the floor.

“Is it time for
The Edge of Night
?” I ask.

“Not quite. I'll fill you in on the last few days.”

Clarice watches
The Edge of Night
and
As the World Turns
as often as she can. I am not as interested in
As the World Turns,
but
The Edge of Night,
now that is really something. When Sarah Lane Karr died while saving her daughter, well, Clarice and me were breathless. We talked about it for days.

Four-thirty finally rolls around and the show starts. Shari rushes in from the kitchen, waving her fingers in the air so's to dry her nails, and Mrs. Baker hurries inside from the back garden, where she has been weeding in her straw hat. We all sit absolutely silently for one half hour, until five o'clock when the show ends and we can breathe again. Clarice and me have been grasping hands, and now we let go and wipe off the sweat on our jeans. Those Karrs are quite a family.

Shari switches off the television and a few minutes later Mr. Baker steps through the front door, kind of grimy from his day at the auto shop.

“Hello, Bakers!” he greets us, and he means me as well as the others. He says he considers me an honorary Baker and his third daughter.

“Hello!” we all reply.

“Mama, can Belle Teal stay for dinner?” asks Clarice, even though she knows she isn't supposed to ask right in front of me in case her mother doesn't want a guest for some reason.

Before Mrs. Baker can answer, though, I say, “Thanks, but I better get on home. I don't want Gran to have to eat alone.”

“Where's your mama at?” Shari wants to know. 

“New job,” I tell her.

Nobody asks any questions. They are used to Mama.

I stand up. “Thank you for the Coke,” I say. “See you in the morning, Clarice.”

“I'll save you a seat on the bus,” she replies.

“You all are going to have some day tomorrow,” says Shari thoughtfully. “I wonder if any of those Negro children will be on your bus.”

Mr. Baker sits down on the couch next to Mrs. Baker. “Doesn't matter whether they're Negro children or not, Shari,” he says. “They're all just children.”

Mr. Baker says this so gentle that it doesn't sound like a scolding.

I scoot out the door then and begin the walk back home.

I
am not expecting to see Mama until my bedtime that night. When she left for her new job this morning she said her very first day of work at the R U Sleep Inn was going to be a double shift. But when I come trudging across our yard after that walk home from Clarice's there is our car parked off to the side of the house.

Suddenly my tiredness slides away and I pick up speed and run on inside. “Mama!” I cry.

She's sitting at the kitchen table smoking one of her Salem cigarettes, dropping ashes into a grape jelly jar that we use as a drinking glass, and so Gran is sneaking little frowns at her. And she's wearing this turquoise uniform that has A
DELE
stitched across a pocket on the front. Now isn't that something. Strangers who have never met Mama before are introduced to her as Adele. That is not right. They should be introduced to her as Mrs. Harper. Immediately I tell my mind not to see Mama in that uniform, but instead in her red polka-dotted dress, the one she wears with the beautiful wide shiny patent-leather belt.

“Hi, precious,” Mama greets me. She leans down to brush her lips across my hair and I smell cigarette smoke and something else. Maybe Lysol.

“Hi, Mama,” I say. “I thought you had to work a double shift.”

Mama shakes her head. “Mr. Titus got a notion. Changed everyone's schedules today.”

I am not sure what to say. I'm glad Mama's here for dinner. But we could have used that double-shift money.

Gran eyes the cigarette and says, “Adele, honey, put that thing out now or go outside with it. The kitchen smells like a chimney.”

“You need help with supper, Gran?” I ask, hoping she'll say no. I look around and see that while I was at Clarice's, Gran has gone to the vegetable garden and picked lettuce and tomatoes for salad, and has shelled a bowlful of peas. The corn bread is just about ready, and one of our chickens is roasting in the oven.

“No, thanks, honey,” Gran replies. And she adds, “Adele, we are almost out of sugar. Can you pick some up tomorrow?”

Mama rises from the table, taking her cigarette and the jelly glass with her. “Sure, Mama Belle,” she says. And I feel that little prick of pride I feel every time I am reminded that I was named for my gran. She is Belle Teal Rodes, and I am Belle Teal Harper.

Mama and me, we settle in on the old porch swing. Mama swings and puffs out smoke, and I swing and think about what Mr. Baker said as I was leaving Clarice's.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, precious?” Mama sucks on her cigarette. Her nails are painted red, and they would match her patent-leather belt if she was wearing it. Mama cares about fashion in the way Shari does.

“Today at Clarice's,” I begin, “Shari, she wondered will any Negro children be on our bus tomorrow, and Mr. Baker,
he
said don't think of them as Negro children because they're all just children.”

“Huh,” says Mama. “Good for Mr. Baker.” She stares off into the hills and blows out a stream of smoke.

“Mama, how many Neg — I mean, how many new kids will be at our school tomorrow?”

“Three,” replies Mama.

“Any of them in my class?”

“I'm not sure, precious.”

“Mama, why did you tell me to be nice to the new children? You said, ‘They'll want to see smiling faces.' I wouldn't be mean to a new kid. Least, not unless the new kid was mean first.”

Mama drags on her cigarette. “Huh,” she says again. “You are absolutely right.” She starts to say something else, then stops, lets out a sigh.

Gran appears at the screen door behind us and says, “Adele, honey, can you stop and pick us up some sugar tomorrow? We are almost out.”

“Gran!” I exclaim. “You —” But Mama, she lays her hand on mine quick-like, so I don't say anything more.

Gran disappears into the kitchen.

“About the new children, Belle Teal,” says Mama. “You just keep in mind that our family does not judge people by their appearances. We don't want to be judged that way, and we don't judge others that way.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I want to ask about a million more questions, but Mama has gotten that far-off look in her eyes. Conversations with Mama only last so long.

I think that now the front porch is smelling like a chimney too, so I go on back into the kitchen. Gran is standing by the table, gazing out the window, up our hill.

“What is it, Gran?” I ask, thinking she sees an animal. Maybe a coyote.

Slowly her focus shifts back to me. “Oh,” is all she says.

“Is dinner ready?”

“Yes, indeed. Go get your mother. But tell her she can't come to the table unless she's clean,” which is Gran's way of saying Mama had better put that cigarette out.

A few minutes later, Mama and Gran and me are sitting around the table, holding hands. Gran's eyes are squeezed tight shut as she says, “Heavenly Father, bless this food to our use and us to Thy service. We beg for Christ's sake. Amen.” I am watching Gran, who looks so holy when she is conversing with the Lord. Mama is gazing out the window. She probably has Mr. Titus and double shifts and other work things on her mind.

When the blessing is over we dig into the food. I don't know how Gran manages to put together our meals day in and day out. Mama, she earns the money for what food we have to buy, but Gran, she is in charge of the cooking, and as far as I can see that is some job. I reach across the table and give Gran's hand a pat.

“Now, what is that for, Belle Teal?” she asks me with a little smile.

“Nothing,” I say, with a smile back.

Mama looks up and smiles at both of us. Then she says to me, “All ready for school?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You got enough pencils and things?”

“I think so.”

“And you finally have Miss Casey.”

“Yes!”

“Who all is going to be in your class this year?” Gran wants to know.

“Oh, you know. All the regulars,” I say. “Clarice. And Little Boss. And Chas and Vernon.” I make a face.

“Belle Teal . . .” says Mama with a warning in her voice.

“I am not judging Chas and Vernon based on their appearance,” I tell her. “I am judging them based on what's inside. I know their insides and they're mean.” I think for a moment. “Mama, is it wrong to hate someone —” I start to ask.

“It is wrong to hate anyone,” Mama replies quickly.

“But is it wrong to hate someone because that person hates other people?”

Mama sighs. She looks like she wishes she had a cigarette. “Hate just creates more hate,” she says finally.

I think of those school meetings Mama went to over the summer. The meetings the parents held after it was announced that the colored students would be going to Coker Creek in the fall. Mama couldn't get to all the meetings, but she got to some of them. And she came home from them looking tired and a little angry. She said she didn't think she was a very popular person. But when Mama believes something she sticks to her guns about it. And she speaks up. Says the Lord gave her a mouth and she intends to put it to good use.

“Sounds like everyone is putting their mouths to good use,” I told her after one meeting. “Only most people have something different to say than you do.”

“I know.” Mama didn't talk too much about those meetings.

And eventually it didn't seem to matter who thought what, because it turned out the colored students were going to go to Coker Creek in any case. “It's not the parents' decision to make,” said Mama. “It's the law. Although I'm sure the parents will have more to say on the subject.”

Now Gran puts down her fork and directs her gaze at Mama. “You don't think there'll be any trouble at school tomorrow, do you?” she asks.

Mama shakes her head. “Nope. It's all died down. Besides, this isn't Little Rock.”

“Little Rock? The Little Rock Nine?” I say. Everyone has heard about the Little Rock Nine, the nine colored students who were chosen to integrate Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, a few years back.

“Those poor children,” murmurs Gran. “Heavens. What they went through. . . . Oh! Adele, honey, I just remembered. We are almost out of sugar. Tomorrow could you stop and pick us up another bag?”

I look at Mama with my mouth hanging open, but I know enough not to say anything. I can't bear to hear Mama patiently answer Gran, though, so I scoot my plate over to the sink, grab my journal, and head for the front porch.