Minding Ben (28 page)

I wanted to choke her. “Why you wearing a tracksuit if you're so hot, Margaret?”

Ule tsked, and Evie answered for her fellow Bajan. “Is not everybody like to show off their body line to all Tom, Dick, and Harry, you know.”

Ule said, “Especially them that don't have body line to show off.”

Margaret freed the twins. “Go frolic in the water,” she told them. “Evie will soon be with you.” They moved away like little old people, and Ule shook her head. “Is a sad sad thing to see little mongoloid children, eh?”

Evie wheeled around with her hands on her hips and bent her face low to meet Ule's. “Don't call them that, you hear. Is Down syndrome them have. Don't you call them no mongoloid.”

“But, Evie, you acting like I insult your grand. Is not mongoloid we call them mongoloid in the West Indies?”

“Well, we not in the West Indies now, is we? No need to act ignorant in this here America.”

Ule set down her paper and started to rise from the bench. “Who you say you calling ignorant, Evie? Don't make me get off this bench here this God early morning. You best watch your mouf.” Her accent thickened, and I wondered if Margaret and I were going to have to part a fight between two grown women.

Evie backed down. “Come, Maggie. I don't have time this morning to sit down in idle hall. All I want is for black people to mind they own business and leave my name out of they
comess
.”

They walked off, and I was stunned. I didn't know what had just happened. Ule saw the look on my face. “Sit down,” she said to me. I sat next to her. “All me will say is this. You like me own daughter. You think I would up and leave and not tell you say me gone? Not give you a telephone number or a address on a piece of paper for you to come and look for me on a Sunday evening? That sound like me?”

It didn't sound like her at all, and I wondered if I just wasn't very bright. That it was so easy for Evie to fool me. I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't help it. Tears slid down my face, and I pulled in my lower lip. Ule put her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned into her, crying more. Ben paid us no mind as he and Bruce dodged in and out of the mist.

“Come now, Grace. You can't let people get you down. This America is a hard hard place, and sometimes you got to harden yourself to get by. I sure your mother tell you not all skin teef is grin?”

And boy had she. Whenever the
comess
women waved at us sitting in the gallery, or told her that she was lucky to have such good daughters, she said it low and urgent:
remember all skin teeth is not grin.

“You good now?”

I blew my nose, and Ule swung the carriage around. She reached in and took out a tight single bundle, fat like a caterpillar ready to burst its cocoon.

“Ule, that child too hot. Is ninety degrees out here,” I said to her.

“Don't start with your stupidness.” She cradled the baby in her arms and pulled the blanket away from its face.

“Okay,” I said, “this is a good-looking baby.” The tiny pink face was perfect. No blotches or splotches, no cone head, no squashed nose. No marks at all to mar pure beauty. I stared at the baby's face, and then she yawned long and opened bright blue eyes. “Here”—Ule passed her to me—“hold she let me get the bottle. The mother saving she breasts for Miss America.”

I couldn't believe how light she was. How whole. I shifted the baby in my arms and looked down at her small, round head, the crescent-moon slices of her closed eyes. And then I started to cry again.

“But what trouble is this.” Ule sat back and looked at me. “Child, don't tell me say you making baby, you know. Them likkle and nice, but is one whole heap of work and money it take to raise them right.”

I didn't say anything. Ule looked at me for another second and went back to rooting around in the baby's bag.

Later, after Ben was dried and drowsily sipping juice in his carriage, and Ule had agreed to unwrap one layer of the baby's swaddling, the other sitters began to leave the playground for cooler climes. Bruce passed by, and a small Chinese woman with a wide rice-picker's hat held his hand.

“Where Petal, Ule?”

“Long gone like she was never here, child.”

O
ne late June morning Miriam announced that the baby was demanding fresh strawberries.

Sol snapped his newspaper. “And why, pray tell, didn't Grace get strawberries at the farmers' market yesterday?”

“Because, male of the species”—there was laughter in her voice—“yesterday your fetus wanted my mother's meatballs. Today it's strawberries.”

Ben smacked his lips. “I love red strawberries, Mommy.”

“See? We'll drive up to the country. I'm not doing anything else.”

I listened from the kitchen, happy with what I had heard. Driving to the country to pick strawberries sounded so American. The countryside would be fresh and clean, a minty green place for picnics with checkered tablecloths, crustless sandwiches, and tall glasses of cool iced tea.

“Planning to stop by Duck Hollow?” Sol asked.

“If I have the energy, maybe.”

“Well, take the keys,” he went on. “Maybe a visit will tempt you.”

“We'll see.”

Miriam was over six months pregnant and so big already she waddled. “Grace, we're going to the country to pick strawberries. Pack Ben's bag and make me smoked turkey with honey mustard, jalapeños, and sprouts. Mmm, lots of jalapeños. Make yourself a sandwich too. But use the bologna. It should still be good.” Her voice seemed to have thickened with the weight of her pregnancy.

“When are we leaving?” I asked. I wanted to change.

“Soon as you're done with lunch and Ben's ready.”

I hurried and, between making lunch and dressing Ben, slipped into my brand-new halter. I'd been waiting for the right day to wear it.

“Come on, mister,” I said to Ben as I turned off
Pooh.
“Time to go pick strawberries.”

He slid his bottom off his furry chair. “You look very nice, Grace.”

“Thank you, Ben.” I kissed the top of his head, realizing that he'd just made me really, really happy.

“Grace, can I wear my orange shirt too? Then we match.”

“Of course you can. Let's find it.”

“Oh, and my choo-choo pants, then I can look like a farmer.”

“Okey doke.” I found his Wednesday overalls and dressed him on the floor, the two of us making up verses to “Old MacDonald.”

Sol appeared in the doorway. “You guys almost ready?”

In fact we were. I pulled Ben up by his arms, and we turned to face his father, who wolf-whistled. “Grace, you look smokin' in that top,” he said. He looked at Ben. “Hey, buddy, tell Grace orange is a pretty color.”

“I already tell her she look nice, Daddy poopy.” He ran to hug his father's legs.

Miriam came up behind him. “Sol's right, Grace. Orange goes well with your black skin. Why did you put Ben in overalls?”

“Because I'm Old MacDonald, Mommy. We going to a farm.”

Before she could say anything about our matching colors, I said, “And Ben chose his orange shirt himself. Didn't you, Ben?”

He tugged on his collar. “Look, Mom, me and Grace twins like Caleb and Sammy.”

Sol looked at his watch. “Okay, I have to get going. You guys have a good time. Grace”—he raised both eyebrows—“look out for the farmhands.”

“Is everything ready, Grace?” Miriam asked.

It was. “Good,” she said, and then added, “You might want to wear a shirt over your top. It can get hot out in the sun.”

“She's an island girl, Miriam. I bet you Grace loves the heat.”

“I know what kind of girl she is, Sol.” Miriam bit her lip. “All I'm saying is that she might want to take a cover-up, just in case.”

I didn't want to put a shirt over the top that I'd waited so long to wear, but I didn't want to piss off Miriam either. “I'll get a shirt. Better safe than sorry,” I told them. It was something my mother said at least twice a day.

“Hurry up, Grace. We've wasted enough time already this morning,” Miriam said.

And again I hurried, even though I knew full well that I hadn't done anything to slow us down.

TACONIC. I LIKED THE
sharp edges of that word—Taconic. Ben had fallen asleep, and Miriam, driving I thought a little too fast on the curvy road, talked to me more than she ever had. Mostly she asked questions.

“So, Grace, how come you don't have a boyfriend?”

“I haven't met anyone.”

“Don't you go out on the weekend? Clubbing at Limelight and Webster Hall? Palladium?”

I didn't know what those places were. “No. Sometimes I go out with Kathy. But not too much.”

“I went out all the time before I got married. I'd come into the city with my brother and we'd dance all night long.”

She turned off the air conditioner and rolled down the windows. Before we'd left the house, she'd tied a yellow scarf around her yellow hair. When it was pulled back, you could see her darker roots.

“Miriam?”

“Mmm?”

“Nothing's come for me in the mail?”

“Why would you get mail at our house?”

I supposed I couldn't expect my business to occupy her mind, but I had been thinking about the mail nonstop. “My green card application. I thought something might have come from INS by now.”

“Of course.” She looked over at me. “You know I've completely forgotten about that.” She pushed another button, and the sunroof slid soundlessly back. “Why don't you just get married to an American, Grace? Wouldn't that be much easier?”

We were just done talking about me not having a boyfriend and now she was asking me why I didn't get married? “I don't have an American to marry.”

“Yeah, but you could get a man like that.” And she snapped her fingers like Bridget had. “A white man, even. Hey”—she glanced away from the road to me—“what about Danny?”

“Danny the doorman?”

“Yeah, Danny. You two should go out.”

I thought about Danny and his mouth full of overlapping teeth. I thought about him breathing on me and laughed. “Danny's not my type, Miriam.”

“Well, beggars can't be choosers.”

I wanted to tell her that I wasn't begging, but instead I watched the trees. Whenever the forest cleared or the car crested a hill, beautiful rolling farmland, laid out in neat squares, stretched forever. This was what I had always thought a farm should look like. My mother's garden was reclaimed jungle land. Her crops were divided not by banked hillocks and ancient stone walls but by tall plantain patches clumped together like old
higue
sisters.

“How long you think it'll take INS to get back to us?” I asked.

Miriam shrugged. “I haven't the faintest idea how that stuff works.” She felt around the dashboard and turned on the radio. R.E.M.'s “Losing My Religion.” I sang along, feeling hopeful and homesick at the same time. Miriam laughed. “Your voice might actually be worse than mine, Grace.”

I didn't doubt her. Helen sang in the village choir; I stacked chairs after their concerts. “Yeah, but this song is beautiful.”

“I like it too.” Miriam started singing. Our voices together were terrible, but for a moment, speeding up the Taconic, we almost felt like friends.

WE WERE INDEED ON
Old MacDonald's farm. The bright red barn had big Xs crossing the opened windows. The farmhouse was set off on a hill and was surrounded by a low, white picket fence. The grassy field was dotted with picnic benches, and while they weren't covered with checkered cloths, the raw, worn wood looked just as authentic as I'd imagined. I don't know who was more excited, Ben or me. He ran ahead, shouting at us to look at everything.

“There's the barn, Mommy. Grace, look, cows! Old MacDonald had a farm. Mooo!”

I had taken the bag from the car but left my shirt on the front seat. The air was warm, and the sun shone silver bright from a cloudless blue canopy. Miriam waddled over to one of the benches. “What kind of farm is this?” I asked as I took out the sandwiches.

“Mostly fruit, I think,” she said. “Peaches and strawberries—pick your own type deal. They come down to the market in Union Square, but mostly to advertise and to get city folk to come up.”

“But they aren't city folk,” I said, referring to a group of women nearby.

Miriam spun around and sneered. “Oh, no. Orthodox.”

The Orthodox women sat at many of the benches with lots and lots of children. In a way that my mother would approve of and that so annoyed me, their heads were covered with dull-colored turbans, and even though it was so warm, they wore long-sleeved shirts and gathered skirts that came to the laces on their running shoes.

“Are they Jewish?”

Miriam shaded her eyes. “Ultra. They live in some kind of commune near here.” The Orthodox women had brought plenty of food—jars of gefilte fish, boxes of crackers, and bags of bagels. Their children too ran around, beautiful boys with long eyelashes and side curls, and girls in full-length dresses and flyaway plaits. Their Hebrew was punctuated with calls to Avi and Dov and Gitty.

Miriam said, maybe to me but likely to herself, “Two and I'm done.”

I was surprised to see that the farmer was a black guy in his early twenties. His denim overalls looked like Ben's, and he wore a plaid shirt and a green bandanna knotted around his neck.

“All right,” he called, “are we all ready?” The Orthodox children scampered up some steps into a wagon hitched to a tractor. Their mothers came behind them, and we followed. The farmer, or maybe he was the farmer's son, didn't offer to help any of the women up the steps, but when he saw Miriam in her white short shorts and tented gingham top, he reached for her hand. Ben didn't want his help, but the farmer placed his hand on the small of my bare back to guide me, even though there were only three steps. He touched my back and said “hi” in a low voice. I grinned and sat on the plank next to Miriam.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked her.

“No. What did that guy say to you?”

“Nothing. Hi.”

“Okay, just know that you're not up here to make friends, okay? Hold Ben on your lap.”

I guided Ben over, and as the farmer came around to the front of the tractor, he gave me a look with raised eyebrows. I ignored him and said to Ben, “Are you ready, mister?”

“Ready, Grace!”

We drove away from the picnic area, and the Orthodox children started singing. Ben stared. Miriam closed her eyes, and I watched the farm roll by. I loved it. I liked that the trees were planted in straight lines, that the lettuce was evenly spaced, that the scarecrows wore hats, that there were bunnies . . .

Miriam opened her eyes and looked at me. And then she laughed.

“What?”

Ben said, “What so funny, Mommy?”

The roar of the tractor made it difficult to hear much, but Miriam sang in her wobbly voice, “ ‘
Gonna pick a bale of cotton, Oh lordy, Gonna pick a bale a day
.' Do you know that song, Grace?”

“Never heard it before.”

“Are you sure?” She was still laughing and had one hand steadying her belly. “My dad used to sing it whenever he drove us out of the city in the summertime.” She closed her eyes again. “This brings back memories.”

When the tractor stopped near a wide shade tree with a bench underneath, the farmer catapulted out of his seat. “Okay, everybody out. Here's how it works. You can eat as many strawberries as your tummies can hold, and fill your bags to the top. We're here for”—he checked his watch—“two hours, and then we head back. Get pickin'!”

“Come, Mommy, we have to get our strawberries,” Ben said.

Miriam reached into her handbag and pulled out the sack she had paid for at the barn. “Here, Grace. Try and find ripe ones, big ones. Make sure they're red, the pale ones aren't sweet.” She sat down on the bench and took out a fat Danielle Steel novel. I just stared. “What?” she said. “I can't bend over to pick strawberries. Take Ben with you.”

Ben said, “Come, Grace.”

We walked down the first row, and Miriam called out, “Only ripe ones, remember.”

Now, I thought, my mother would enjoy the farm. If she could see me dressed up in my expensive halter and laboring, she would be satisfied.

Ben and I picked berries. At first, we ate more than we put in the bags; the sweet, warm fruit was like fresh-made jam. Around us the Orthodox women picked too, and their children ran up and down the rows with red juice staining their mouths and faces.

After about forty-five minutes, Ben said, “I tired, Grace.”

“Me too, mister,” I told him. I held up our full sack. “Think we have enough?”

He thought so.

“Hi.” Miriam looked up from her book. “Did you guys have a good time?” She pulled out a fat strawberry by the stem. “Oh, this is so good. Good work, Ben.”

“Grace pick a lot of strawberries,” he said as he crawled into her lap. “Tell Grace good work too, Mommy.”

“Good work too, Grace,” Miriam said as she ate more berries from the bag.

I was about to sit down on the bench when Miriam, her mouth full, said, “Uh-uh.” She took out a second sack and flapped it open. “For Ettie.”

How I wanted to say no. How I wanted to tell her that the pregnant Orthodox women seemed to be able to bend over and pick strawberries just fine and that nowhere on the list of my responsibilities did it say farmhand. But I didn't. I couldn't. I took the bag and went back to the rows. Ben didn't come this time. An Orthodox woman bent over in the row next to mine looked at me and smiled. I smiled back at her.

The young farmer had been making his way among the pickers. “Having fun?” he asked, looking down at me.

“Not anymore. This is hard work.”

“You telling me.”

“So”—I glanced over at Miriam, who was absorbed in her book—“this is your family farm?”