Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl (18 page)

“After school, I can come by and help you out. Maybe go get your groceries or your medication or your dry cleaning … that kinda stuff.”

The old lady doesn’t say anything at first. She only taps her fingers against the table.

“You said it would benefit us both. I get how it would benefit me, but I can’t figure out exactly how it would benefit
you
.”

“Your satisfaction would be my benefit.”

A loud, high-pitched cackle suddenly bursts from her throat. It scares me nearly half to death.

“Well, what’s so funny about that?”

“Once again, little girl, I’ve lived over eight decades. Now, how much are you expecting to be paid?”

“Not a thing.”

“Try again.”

“I swear, nothing. So, what’s your answer?”

“No.”

“What? How can you say no to an offer like that?”

“If you’re not going to be straight with me, the answer is no.”

“Okay, okay. The truth is, my stupid mother has decided to send me to a babysitter. I’m only a few years away from being twenty—”

“You’re fourteen,” she interrupts. “You’re actually closer to ten than you are to twenty.”

“Fine. Whatever. It’s still too old to go to a sitter. And the woman wants me to do unspeakable things.”

“Unspeakable things?” the old lady asks.

“Yeah. She actually wants me to change diarrhea-filled babies. So I came up with this idea about having to go to study hall three times a week. Never thought my bad math grades would ever come in handy. Anyway, I figured I’d go hang out at my friend Keisha’s house most days, but I can never go back there again.”

“And why is that?”

“Because of Curvy Miller.”

“Keep going,” the old lady says as she goes to the china cabinet to grab a couple of teacups and saucers.

“I thought he liked me,” I continue as I take my coat off and drape it over the back of my chair. “But there we were at school today, and he acted like he’d never seen me before.”

“What did he do to make you think he liked you?”

“He kissed me. And … well, he wanted me to … you know, be with him and stuff. He wanted me to, you know … you know …” I look over at her to see if she’s looking at me, but she’s just pouring hot water from a glass kettle into the cups.

“But I didn’t,” I add really fast. She already knows I’m a thief; don’t need her thinking I’m a hussy too. “I mean, he acted so interested yesterday in Keisha’s bathroom, and then today, he totally ignored me. Even when I was right in front of him on the lunch line. Nothing.” I have no intention of going into detail about the whole distressing incident, but I can’t seem to stop my lips from flapping.

“Guess now I’m wondering if I had done it with him,
whether things would be different. You know, he says that if you do it with somebody, then you and them are a part of each other. And you’ll have this love between you forever. Well, I’ve been really thinking about this. And I believe that some people, like Charlene, this really pretty girl he’s always hanging around … well, they don’t have to do much to have people fall in love with them. I’m not Charlene, or my mother, even. You wouldn’t believe how guys act around my mother, even when she treats them like crap. But I’m not like them. I’m not the kinda girl boys are into. The kind that just breathes and all the guys come running after them like puppy dogs. It’s not that easy for me. And I wonder if I won’t have to do more to make a guy like Curvy like me, a guy who’s so popular, who plays on the baseball team. So maybe I have a little bit of regret. See, I didn’t do it with him, and now it’s like he doesn’t even remember I’m alive. I feel like I blew my chance.”

I finally catch a breath as the old lady walks back over and hands me one of the cups.

“Anyway,” I continue at a slightly slower pace, “now that he’s acting like I don’t exist, I can’t risk running into him at Keisha’s again. At least at school I can bob and weave and get lost in a crowd to avoid him. At Keisha’s, no such luck.”

The old lady sits down, opens a small tin of sugar cookies, then begins stirring honey into her tea.

“That is the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard,” she finally says.

My own spoon dangles in midair, and I can feel my eyes
growing to the size of the planet Jupiter. I can’t believe the old lady just cursed. I figured she was one of those proper kinds of older folk.

“What has this boy done to show you that he truly likes you?” she goes on.

“I told you already. He kissed me and told me he wanted me to do stuff with him.”

“No. That just shows that his oversexed little hormones are jumping around. I mean, has he spent time with you? Has he held your books or walked you home or sat with you at lunch? Has he asked how your day was going or been there when you needed help with something?”

“No …”

“And why exactly do you like him again?”

“He’s got dimples that just never end. And you should see his smile.”

“So you like him because he’s good-looking?”

“No. I’m not one of those shallow people who gets stuck on the way someone looks.”

“You sure about that?” she asks. “Look, I think you should leave this fellow to that little girl he’s chasing around. When you finally meet someone who really cares about you, you’ll know it. A bad man is like a bloodhound. He can sense when you have doubts about yourself, when you’re overly eager for attention and affection, and he will come in for the kill. And being physical with him, that doesn’t win you his love. In fact, it usually makes him respect you even less than he already does. Don’t ever let anyone tell you what you have to do in order for him to love you. Just do what you
do naturally. If that isn’t good enough, then screw them. You just walk away.” She sighs deeply.

“You think that fellow is ignoring you now? If you had given in to him, it would have been worse, because he would have been walking around whispering about what went on between you two to all his other little rotten, horny friends.”

Once I finish my tea, the old lady leans back against her chair and clasps her hands on the table in front of her.

“So now, instead of helping you avoid school, I’ll be helping you avoid the place your mother intended for you to be after school.”

“I guess,” I say as I look at the pile of broken glass again. Then I ease away from the table. “Where’s your dustpan? Just to show I mean business, even though it’s not technically an errand, I’ll clean all this up for you.”

She just points to a narrow door near the entrance to the kitchen.

After grabbing hold of the dustpan and a broom, I go about scooping up all the broken glass and dumping it into the garbage. I notice a few random pieces under the cabinet, so I sweep those up too. Once I’m done, I put the broom and dustpan back where I got them.

“So, what do you say?” I ask again.

She cocks her head a little to the left before focusing on me again.

“The answer is yes,” she finally says. “And you can continue what you started.”

I’m not sure I like the sound of this. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“Under the sink, there’s a can of cleanser and a sponge. If you could get it out for me.”

“Most people say please,” I say as I try to hand her the cleanser. But she just ignores me.

“Bathroom is over there,” she says as she points with her old, crooked finger.

“So?”

“So, you’re the one who proposed this little exchange. The bathtub needs cleaning. Then maybe I can soak in it.”

“Okay,” I mumble. There’s no “please,” no “I beg of you.”

Nothing. I just look at her. I know I told her I’d help her out a little, but I thought I was clear in communicating I was thinking more along the lines of running errands. I’m rethinking how I approached this whole thing. I probably should have outlined the chores I was willing to do, because I’m getting the feeling that this old white lady is about to work me like a dog. I mean, scooping up the glass was one thing, but I had nothing to do with her tub getting grimy.

“Perhaps if I hadn’t met with an unfortunate incident and hadn’t hurt my back as a result, I would be able to bend all the way down to the tub to clean it myself. But as it is, that’s not the case,” she says.

I just look at the sponge and sigh. This old woman is a lot slicker than I thought. When I look back over at her crinkly face, I start thinking that she really does look old enough to have owned some slaves. Maybe she’s all confused in her brain and thinks she’s back in Virginia or Alabama or Mississippi and that I’m little black bathtub-cleaning Bertha,
only without the pickaninny ribbons and hand-me-down patchwork frock.

“Where you from?” I ask.

“Harlem.”

“You’re from Harlem?” I ask. I don’t even try to hide my surprise. I suppose neighborhoods are always changing. Maybe Harlem was filled with white people back in her day.

“So, after Harlem, you moved down South?”

“I could count on one hand the number of days I’ve spent in the South.”

“They had slaves in New York?”

“Not that I know of,” she says. Only, it comes out sorta like a question.

And I’m about to tell her that I’m no slave, but then I see her lying half dead on the floor again and I just roll my eyes, take the sponge and cleanser, and go into the bathroom. Seriously, when the hell did I start getting a conscience? It just plain sucks. So I take off my blazer and I spread the Comet around the tub and start scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing. I end up tidying all her rooms and doing all her housework while she hovers nearby, watching my every move. Once I’m done, I practically pass out on her bed.

“Do you even remember my name?” I ask as I wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I told you before, but maybe you didn’t hear me.”

“It’s Faye,” she says from the little side chair across from her bed.

“So, you do remember it. It
is
Faye. Not Kizzy, or Sally, or Bertha, or …” I want to compile a nice long list, but those
are the only slave names I can think of. I remember Kizzy from
Roots
and Sally from a story we read in seventh grade about Thomas Jefferson. And Bertha, well, that just sounds like a slave name to me.

“Anyway, what’s your first name?”

“Ma’am,” she says. I wait for a laugh, as in she just made a joke, but none comes.

“Next to the apartment number on your buzzer out front it says E. Downer,” I say, ignoring her. “What does the
E
stand for?”

“It stands for Evelyn. My name is Evelyn Downer. And your Easter food was good, by the way. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, my aunt made it.… So how come you didn’t have anyone to spend the holiday with? Like maybe that lady in that picture in your kitchen?”

She doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t stop me.

“Is she a friend? Or maybe a relative. Like your sister. Maybe somebody who used to work with you? Maybe she lives far away now, but you all talk on the phone all the time. Maybe she moved as far as Paris or England and she can only come back every few Christmases—”

I guess she finally has enough of me babbling, because she cuts me off.

“I’m the woman in that picture. Another lifetime ago.”

“Then who’s the baby?”

“My daughter.”

“You have a daughter? I didn’t know. Not that I would, I guess. It’s not like we’re lifelong friends. Are you close to her? You must talk all the time. Not like me and my mom.”

“I haven’t seen her in forty-two years,” she says quietly.

“Whoa! How can you not have seen your own daughter in all that time?” Then I think about it a little. “Wish I didn’t have to see my mother for forty-two years.”

“No, you don’t,” she says softly. I look at her and notice her eyes are getting glassy again.

“Well, I have to be going. I used up all my time cleaning your house. And don’t worry. I won’t hold you to our agreement. I won’t bother you anymore. Seems like every time I come over, I end up upsetting you.” I turn to leave, but before I can get out of her bedroom, she starts talking.

“You don’t upset me. You just stirred up some old memories. I guess I’m simply not used to talking about certain things. Not used to talking much at all these days. It’s strange how when you get old, it’s almost like you become invisible, too.” She kind of says that part more to herself than to me. “But it’s nice not always being alone for a change.”

She’s quiet for a while.

“Your school is in Crown Heights, isn’t it? Down there near Eastern Parkway.”

“How did you know that?” My words come out really hesitantly, but I can’t help it. I’m trying to figure where she’s going with this.

“I’ve seen that uniform you wear before. Go over to the nightstand and hand me that pad and pencil.”

This woman is obviously used to making demands. I get her the pad and stand by, waiting as she writes something down.

“Tomorrow. Three-thirty. Meet me at that address,” she says as she rips off a sheet of paper and hands it to me.

“Where is this?” I ask as I look down at the address.

“You come tomorrow. You’ll see.”

I stare at the paper a little longer. I figure I’ve got nothing to lose. If I get to the place and there are cops or something, I can just take off.