Little Girl Lost 6: The Return of Johnnie Wise (3 page)

Chapter 4

“
Can you wait that long, pretty lady?”

A
s Johnnie drove away, she couldn’t help thinking about what she had seen and why it had been hidden from her for so long. She began to question a number of things she’d seen and heard recently and over the course of seventeen years.
I wonder who paid for that incredibly expensive mausoleum. I know my granddad, Nathaniel Beauregard, couldn’t have paid for it because he wouldn’t have been alive. The dates on the marble facing started in the late 1790s. There’s no way he could have known whoever that Prince person was or any of my other relatives. And even if he had known them, why would a white man who had hidden his black family for years, spend the kind of money it took to build an edifice like that with the expressed purpose of memorializing the very family he’d hidden? And if he didn’t pay for it, who did? Could it have been Amir Jibril? If he was truly a prince, wouldn’t he have plenty of money?

What about Josephine? I wonder why mama rarely talked about her mother. Was it because they didn’t get along either? Mama said that she fell in love with a man named Michael, Benny’s father. Maybe Benny knows something about all of this. I wonder if he knew our grandmother. If so, he may know who the other people in the mausoleum were, too. And who paid for it. I wonder if any of those people in there knew the Beauregards. If one of my relatives paid for that mausoleum, they had to be rich or close to it. If they were rich, what happened to all our money? How did my mother and her mother end up selling themselves and their daughters? It just doesn’t make any sense. I bet Benny knows something. I’ll give him a call when I get gas on my way to East St. Louis.

Two and half hours later, she pulled into Jackson, Mississippi. She had been there lots of times with Lucas on his drug runs, but they had never actually done anything in Jackson. It was always an in and out kind of thing when they came to town, and it was always at night. The gas tank was almost empty when she turned into an Esso gas station. The station was all-white and looked like a small house with two garage doors. She looked at the pump. It read twenty-two cent a gallon. She thought of the forty-five dollars and change she had and began to consider just how dire her situation really was, wondering how she would get to East St. Louis if Marguerite’s car broke down on the way. She opened her purse and counted her change which amounted to eighty-nine cents.

When Johnnie heard a white man call her ma’am, she looked at him and smiled, glad to get a measure of respect from a white man, being a stranger in that town. She quickly realized that she was an adult now and that people saw her that way.

The man put the spout in her tank and locked it so that the fuel flowed by itself. Then, he went to the front of her car and popped the hood. He took the oil stick to her and said, “Ma’am, you’re going to need a couple quarts of oil.”

“Never? You had to have had it changed at some point, ma’am. This is a 1947 Oldsmobile. It’s a really good car, ma’am, but I don’t see you going seven years without changing the oil. Did you just buy this car or what?”

“It was my mother’s,” she said, listening to the numbers click as the price for the gasoline continued to climb past two dollars. She now had $43.89 left and the numbers on the pump were still clicking.

“You want me to pull it into the garage and check it out for you. I’ll see to it that you make it all the way. I’ll check your brakes, tires, engine, radiator, battery, everything.”

“Sir, how much is all that going to cost?”

“The name’s Jimmy, ma’am. Why don’t we wait and see what it’s going to cost? It may not be as bad as you think.”

The pump clicked off. She looked at the price. It read: $3.52. She quickly deducted the sum. She now had $42.37, and Jimmy hadn’t even put the much-needed oil in yet. Deflated, she wondered what she was going to do. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning when she had breakfast with her attorneys before the trial began.

“Jimmy,” she said pleasantly and with a smile, hoping her beauty would rule the day as it always had, “Is there someplace a girl could get something to eat around here? A place that serves coloreds?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I suggest you go over to Lucille’s. It’s about a block or so up the street. They serve the best pancakes you’ve ever had, if that suits ya fancy. Tell ’em Jimmy sent ya.”

“Are they expensive, Jimmy?”

“Not at all. And they pile your plate up high with plenty of grub, too. I eat there all the time. Lucille don’t mind seeing my white face and others in there. We all love Hank’s cookin’.”

“So a colored woman owns the place?”

“Yes, ma’am. She serves whoever can pay. We have a nice little arrangement. I fix her cars, and she feeds me pretty good. She don’t know it, but I’m getting the better deal. I get to eat for free whenever I want. Three square meals a day, if I want.”

“How often does she bring her cars in?”

Jimmy smiled and said, “I’m the best mechanic around. Ask anybody. I keep those cars in tiptop condition. They hardly ever breakdown. I check ’em over every month to make sure they’re in good condition. It’s a great deal.”

Chapter 5

“
What can I do for you, sugar?”

S
leigh bells rang out when Johnnie pushed open the glass door and walked into Lucille’s Restaurant. Muddy Waters’, “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man,” filled her ears, along with numerous conversations, lots of laughter, and the sound of grease popping in a deep fryer. Lucille’s looked like any other eatery that had hamburgers and hotdogs on the menu. Its booths were pressed tightly against the walls beneath large picture windows. Tables for two or four were strategically placed in the center of the black-and-white checkered floor. Red leather-covered swivel stools were anchored in front of the counter.

The restaurant was filled with Negro men and women with a few liberal-minded whites sprinkled in. Her immediate impression was that Lucille’s felt like home, only not. It reminded her of what she had left in New Orleans, specifically, Walter Brickman’s, but unlike his place, none of the faces that stared into hers were familiar. With the exception of Muddy Waters, everything stopped for a few seconds as the patrons stared at the beautiful stranger who had come to their town and found her way to the best café in it and stood at the entrance, looking at them as they looked at her, mesmerized by the stunning visual she offered. Her long, wavy black hair draped her slender shoulders, and she was still wearing the lavender-and-black skirt suit she had worn to her trial yesterday.

Other than Herbert Shields, a friend of Lucas’ who sold marijuana for him, she was completely unknown in Jackson and being examined by Lucille’s customers made her feel a little uncomfortable. She inhaled deeply, partly to gather herself, being the center of attention again, but mainly because the smell of delicious food lingered in the air. Her heels clicked loudly and in cadence to Muddy’s smooth vocals, making it even more difficult not to stare as she made her way over to the empty booth she had spied from the entrance. She slid into her seat and looked at the collage of faces that were still staring at her through the reflection of the window. They had no idea that she was staring at them, too, watching the interaction of the men and women as they talked, frequently looking at her, subtly tilting their heads in her direction, which let her know that she was the topic of many ongoing conversations as the place was alive again with buzzing chatter now that she had taken a seat.

Over the years, she had gotten used to the attention she normally attracted from males and females wherever she went, especially from men, married or not. But now she was in a different place, another city. The attention felt different. Still looking at their reflections, she watched as the level of jealousy continued to rise and reveal itself on the faces of colored women who envied her beauty and manner of dress. What she found interesting was that the women who hated her not only didn’t know her, but they had virtually no understanding of the curse that walked side-by-side with beauty. What clearly ate at the women, she deduced, were the wanton looks their men wore and the fact that they couldn’t keep their eyes off the beautiful stranger though they were clearly doing their best to appease the women they were sitting with. While she would never ever exchange her pretty for unpretty, pretty was often burdensome because it kept her from having female friends. Sadie Lane, who was much older and comfortable with her own pretty, was the only exception to the rule so far in her young life.

It was eleven-fifteen, making it eight-fifteen in San Francisco. . She decided to give Benny a call. She had also hoped he’d gotten his prize money from the fight he’d had in Las Vegas. If he had gotten his purse for the fight, she thought he could perhaps wire her the money she would need to not only fix any necessary repairs her car required, but a little extra to get the things a woman needed, like a fresh pair of panties, a bra, and other toiletries she needed. She could also use some more clothes and at least one pair of flat shoes.

“Hi, sweetie,” a mid-range female voice said, “I’m Lucille, and this is my restaurant. What can I get you, sugar?”

Chapter 6

“
So, y’all don’ been to college, I see.”

J
ohnnie swiveled her head to the left and looked at the woman who had offered to take her order. She began to size the woman up immediately, looking into her large, brown eyes, attempting to see if there was any jealousy in them, and if so, what level of jealously it was. The woman was tall, about five-feet-nine inches. She was endowed with rich-brown skin. She saw no wrinkles, no crow’s feet, no gray hair—just alluring, flawless skin, covering high cheekbones. She was thick, but not heavy, and her friendly smile seemed genuine and inviting.

“Hi, Lucille, I’m Johnnie,” she said and offered her hand. “I’m just passing through, and Jimmy over at the Esso filling station told me to tell you he had sent me over here and that you would take good care of me.”

“Well, Hank, that’s muh husband, his specialty is the fresh perch and fries. He’s got his own homemade sauce. I just know you gon’ love it. And since Jimmy sent y’all over here, I’ll make sure Hank gives ya a double portion of everything, okay, sugar?”