Joy (21 page)

She wrapped herself in her arms and strolled the room, stopping in front of the fireplace. The mantel and the wall above it were covered with photos. Her eyes scanned the frames that told the story of her life. Not only hers, but Donovan's and Sasha's. Mixed among the grandchildren were pictures of Madear's children.

Anya picked up one of the photos. The ceramic yellow frame was heavy in her hands, and it overpowered the small image inside. But this was still her favorite picture of her parents. It had been taken only four days before they died.

The tears that had overwhelmed her as a teenager were long gone. Now, there was only the desire to hold on to fading memories.

She ran her fingers along the outline of her mother. “Mama.” She sighed. “I could really use some advice.”

She returned the frame to the mantel and said a silent Amen, like she always did. Her eyes continued to scan the room. This home smelled of memories—even now, the roasted chicken mixed with the fresh-cut flowers from the farmer's market that Madear filled her house with every Saturday. Just standing there, Anya was taken back to a time when she always felt safe and loved.

The sound of a car motor disrupted her reverie, and she peeked through the side window. Her grandmother maneuvered her Lincoln Continental into the long, narrow driveway along the side of the house.

It fascinated Anya, the way her grandmother wielded that nine-year-old car. The black vehicle swallowed her petite frame; you could barely see Madear over the steering wheel. But she handled that car like it was a toy, breezing through the streets, whizzing around corners, and zipping through traffic.

Anya watched as Madear gathered her Bible and a shopping bag from the car, then drew back from the window. Her grandmother had seen her car out front. Anya drew in her breath until Madear, with her hands full, stepped into the living room.

“Hi, Madear.” Anya rushed to her side. She took the Bible and the shopping bag from Madear's hands.

“I didn't expect to see you.” Madear kissed Anya's cheek, although her voice was tight. She shrugged her long sweater from her shoulders and went to hang it in the front closet.

“I've left you quite a few messages.” Anya dropped the bag on the coffee table, then handed the Bible to Madear.

“I've been busy,” Madear said, without raising her eyes. She reached for the Bible from Anya and put it on one of the bookcases, then straightened some of the magazines hanging from the shelves. She returned to the couch, and began folding the crocheted comforter that hung over the edge.

Anya softened as she watched her grandmother flitting around the room. This was the woman who loved her, raised her, and taught her how to become a strong Black woman of God. And Madear's teachings weren't just Words. Mabel White Mitchell was a living example. Anya recalled what she knew of her grandmother's past.

Mabel White married Herman Mitchell at the age of sixteen—he was seventeen—on the same day Pearl Harbor was bombed. Not much later, she left behind the only home she'd known, in Emory, Texas, to move to Los Angeles. Mabel had been horrified at the thought of living in a huge city without her mother, father, brothers, and sisters, and the other relatives who populated Emory. But Herman was set on the golden opportunities that awaited them in the golden state.

With a stiff upper lip and daily prayers, Mabel and Herman settled into a one-bedroom apartment in Watts, a neighborhood overflowing with transplants from Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and other states too numerous for Mabel to count.

Herman worked as an auto mechanic and, at night, attended college at Southwestern University. Mabel took a job in downtown Los Angeles, laboring as many as fourteen hours a day, as a pieceworker.

Just as Mabel was becoming used to her life, World War II touched them personally when Herman was called to serve. If Mabel had been horrified before, there weren't words to depict what she felt now. Her new husband would be leaving in eight weeks to fly to parts of the world she'd never heard of. To add to her fears, she was five months pregnant.

Herman trained in Fort Sam Houston, then went to Norfolk, Virginia, where he received his orders. Burma was his final destination. He became part of an all-Negro unit responsible for building airstrips and guarding American aircraft and airmen on the British airfields.

Mabel fought her urges to go home, and stayed in California where her husband really wanted her to be. With few friends and no family, Mabel stayed on her knees, keeping her husband and herself lifted before God.

Eighteen months later, Herman returned, unharmed and ecstatic to set his eyes on fourteen-month-old Herman, Jr. Ten months later, Jake joined the family.

Herman returned to his ritual of work and school, and Mabel stayed home with their sons. But between changing diapers, cooking, feedings, cleaning, potty training, and naps, she secretly studied through correspondence courses to earn her high-school diploma.

On the day Herman graduated from college, Mabel presented her husband with
her
certificate and an announcement that she was going to college.

He was proud, but concerned. “What about the boys?” he asked.

Mabel gave him her plan. “I promise neither you nor the boys will even miss me.”

Herman was filled with doubt but loved his wife. He went along with Mabel, comforted knowing that somehow she'd make it.

So they stayed in that one-bedroom apartment and Mabel enrolled in L.A. State College. The civil rights movement was brewing all around her, but Mabel hardly noticed. With Jake just six, and Herman, Jr., eight, Mabel worked a schedule that would have made Wonder Woman tired: taking the boys to school, going to her part-time job, picking the boys up from school, helping with homework, serving dinner, and getting them ready for bed, before she went off to her classes three nights a week. Herman, Sr., was usually home by six, after leaving Jefferson High School where he taught, to go to the Community Center to tutor college students for extra money. When Herman came home he took over, letting Mabel go to class or spend time studying. On Saturdays, Mabel washed clothes, cooked meals, cleaned house, did homework, and anything else her family needed. On Sundays, together they walked two blocks to the Church of the Solid Rock to worship and praise God. When they returned home, Mabel rested.

Eight years later, she received her degree on the lawn of the college, with one man and two teenagers in the audience cheering until their throats throbbed. She was one of twenty-two Negro students. When she got that diploma in her hand, she looked up to the sky and yelled, “Thank you, Jesus!” to the surprise of everyone—except her family.

Mabel taught in the Los Angeles Unified School District for more than thirty years—recognized as Teacher of the Year seventeen times. She finally retired at sixty-five.

Madear had rejoiced in her victories, and endured heart-breaking tragedies. Almost twenty years ago she buried her older son and daughter-in-law, after a loose boulder had fallen onto Pacific Coast Highway and crushed the car Herman and his wife, Alice, were in. Then, just four years ago, Mabel buried her dear husband of fifty-four years, after a long battle with prostate cancer. In the last year of his life, Herman had been completely bedridden, but Mabel declined all offers of help. She took care of her husband herself, morning and night, until the day she tearfully released him to the Lord.

“Go on, baby,” she had said, taking his feeble hands into hers. “The Lord wants you. It's His time now. We'll be together again.”

Within an hour of her uttering those words, Herman had passed.

People marveled at how Mabel White Mitchell handled life. But it was no marvel to her. Her faith kept her lifted and helped her to remember there'd been more blessings than burdens.

“God is holding me up and pushing me on,” she was fond of saying. As the Mitchell matriarch, Mabel showed how to stand. She was an example for her family.

That was why Anya was so confused with Madear's attitude toward Sasha now. Nowhere in her memory could she conjure up the image of Madear behaving this way toward anyone—although Madear was one for snide comments. When Anya thought about it, there really wasn't anything special about what Madear said to Sasha; it was the way she said it.

Her grandmother had finished folding the comforter, and reached for the coat that Anya had tossed onto the couch.

“I'll hang this up.” Madear still had not looked at Anya.

Anya reached for her grandmother, stopping her. “I want to talk to you.” Her voice was softly polite but stern.

Their eyes met for a long second.

Anya took her grandmother's hand and gently led her to the couch.

Madear sat with her hands tightly clasped, and her legs crossed at her ankles. “Go ahead,” she said curtly. Her gaze remained toward the window.

Anya took a breath. “What's up with you and Sasha?”

Madear's head turned slowly and when she finally looked at Anya, her eyebrows were raised. “What's up?” she repeated in the teacher's drawl that Anya knew well. Anya had learned many things from her grandmother—one of them being that when Madear spoke in that tone, Anya had to find another way to ask the question.

“I mean, there's something going on with you … and Sasha. Why are you angry with her?”

Madear's head whipped away from Anya, her gaze turned back to the window. “I am not angry with Sasha!” Her chin jutted forward. “Except for the fact that she's been here all this time and hasn't even called.”

It was Anya's turn to raise her eyebrows. “Madear, she's hurt. You expect her to call after the way you treated her?”

Even with Madear's head turned, Anya could see her eyes narrow. “I didn't do anything. I'm her grandmother, her elder.
She
should come to me.”

Anya moved to the chair directly across from the couch. She shifted against the plastic that pushed against her legs. Finally, she leaned forward and looked into her grandmother's eyes. “Madear, she can't come to you. She thinks you don't like her.” Anya took another breath and said, “She thinks it's a skin-color thing.” Anya had lowered her voice slightly.

There was a pause. “How dare you say that to me!” Her volume built as she spoke. “That is not true!” By the time Madear said the last words, her voice was trembling.

Anya reared back, away from her grandmother's wrath. Another thing she'd learned from Madear: Truth could ignite fury.

She waited a few seconds before she spoke. “Madear,
do
you have a problem?”

Madear slumped back onto the couch. “No.” Her head moved back and forth in denial. But her voice was so soft, Anya had to strain to hear. “I swear, I don't.”

“Madear?” All kinds of thoughts veered through her mind. Could her grandmother be prejudiced that way? Against her own granddaughter?

Madear's head had been lowered, but now she looked directly at Anya. “My grandmother's mother was a slave.”

Anya nodded. Of course she knew that. Madear was still looking in her direction, but Anya felt like her grandmother saw beyond the living room. “My great-grandmother told stories of living on that plantation and just how horrible her life really was.”

“You've told me that before,” Anya said, shrugging her shoulders in confusion.

Madear continued as if Anya hadn't spoken. “But it was still better for her, because she was a house-slave.” Madear paused. “The Massah kept all of his bastard children in the house.” Madear spat those words through the air.

“My grandmother told me that her mother thought shoes was special. Imagine that? But shoes were unheard of for slaves—unless you were in the house.”

“Madear, I don't mean any disrespect, but we're a long way from slavery and the big house—”

Madear sucked her teeth. “We're not! That's the misconception,” she said, pointing her finger at Anya. “If you were really honest, you'd admit that it is easier for colored people today if …”

Anya's eyes opened wide. This was a God-fearing, educated woman. Yet she sounded as ignorant as people who went on talk shows saying these things.

It took a few minutes for Anya to respond. “Madear, if we participate in that myth, we're continuing something that we blame white people for.” Anya paused, recalling incidents where her grandmother had said someone's hair was nappy or commented on the dark knees of one of the neighborhood children.

“Madear, is Sasha right? Is this why you don't like her?”

Madear's eyes were glassy. “I
love
Sasha. I don't know why she thinks I don't like her. It's just that I always knew it was going to be harder for her because of … the way she looks. And I was right,” Madear said, her voice strong again. “Look at her life and the way things have turned out for her.”

“Madear!” Anya exclaimed, suddenly standing. “Sasha could have been as yellow as the bananas on your kitchen table and she would be exactly where she is now, because of who she is.”

“And she is who she is because of the color of her skin.”

Minutes passed without either saying a word. Finally Anya picked up her coat. “I have to go, Madear,” she said, looking away from her grandmother.

“You don't understand. My grandmother taught me how important it was to preserve—”

Anya resisted the urge to cover her ears. Instead she bent down, and kissed Madear before she could finish her sentence. “I'll call you—

Madear grabbed her hand and Anya noticed how small and soft her hand felt. “I want you to understand what I'm saying. I love Sasha.”

Anya longed to give her grandmother comfort, but she couldn't pass along anything that she didn't feel. She was overwhelmed. In her own family, there was this prejudice that she so despised—from the woman she so loved.

Anya wanted to get away—from Madear, from her beliefs, and from her own internal fears, as she thought about how people said she was so much like her grandmother.

When Anya walked to the door, she heard her grandmother catch her breath. But she continued quickly through the door, not wanting to hear anything else.

If Anya had stayed, it wouldn't have been Madear's words that she heard. As Anya ran to her car, Madear stood at the window, watching her granddaughter flee and trying to battle the sobs that rose like bile inside of her.