The Pecan Man (20 page)

“Okay," she said vaguely,
as if she thought I was a little off my rocker.

“What were you planning on
doing after high school?"

“I was just going to work, I
guess. Mama needs help with the girls and I want to buy a car. They said I
could go full-time at the grocery store whenever I wanted."

“Okay, that's what you planned.
Now, what do you
want?
If you could make your dreams come true just by
dreaming them, what would you do?"

Patrice looked down then, as if
she were embarrassed by her own thoughts.

“Promise you won't laugh?"

“Cross my heart and hope to
die."

“I always wanted to be a
lawyer."

Sweet Jesus, here we go again.

Twenty-five

Walter Beckworth was a planner. His attention to detail and
thrift were unrivaled in my book. When he died, I had little to do except open
the file marked
Funeral Arrangements
and follow his instructions. Our
caskets, plots and headstones were already purchased, the funeral home
pre-paid. There was a page marked “Songs for Memorial Service" with
separate columns for Walter and me. We never actually discussed these plans,
but under my name he included all my favorite hymns, as if I had chosen them
myself. “How Great Thou Art", “In the Garden", “My Jesus, As Thou
Wilt" and “Abide With Me" were all listed there in Walter's precise
and patient hand.

Of course, in his line of work,
Walter was well-insured and I lacked for nothing before or after his death. I
lived comfortably and easily continued to pay Blanche a decent salary for
keeping my home. Truth be known, however, I had no need for a full-time
housekeeper now that I was no longer involved in the day to day business of
being Walter's wife.

Patrice's dream changed all
that. When I exhausted all the avenues I could take to get financial aid for a
bright young black woman who excelled in school, I found that the task was more
difficult than I imagined.

And so it was that, at the
arguably ancient age of 58, I went back to work. Walter's foresight allowed his
insurance agency to continue to run long after his death. His plan was to give
me time to sufficiently recover from the loss of my husband before I decided
what to do. At that point, I could sell, dissolve or continue to run the
company as I saw fit. Quite frankly, when his Last Will and Testament was read,
I laughed out loud at that declaration. What did I know about running an
insurance agency and what would possess Walter to include such an option? The
only questions I have now are: how did he know? And how did I
not
know
my own husband like he knew me?

Patrice applied and was
accepted to the University of Florida’s pre-law program. Aside from the small
academic scholarship she was awarded, the money came straight from a
scholarship fund I set up through the agency. The fund is still operating today
and continues to help deserving young women achieve their goals. In all the charitable
work I ever did, the food lines, the Christmas baskets, the donations made with
smug satisfaction, this was the thing of which I was most proud.            

Patrice knew only that I found
a scholarship for her and she was beside herself with joy. So was I. Blanche,
of course, worried about everything. Would Patrice have a place to live? How
would she eat? Who would pay for clothing and other incidentals while she
studied? I read the award citation out loud to her and filled in details as
needed. In a way, Patrice was the test model for the future recipients of the
scholarship. Anytime Blanche came up with a question, or financial issues
arose, I amended the trust fund to accommodate the needs.

The tuition, room and board was
covered in full and an additional stipend paid so that the recipient's job, for
the duration of her academic years, was to earn her chosen degree.

For the next twenty years,
which seems hard to believe given my age, I went to the office three days a
week and paid myself an additional salary which went exclusively to the
scholarship fund. I resumed my community involvement, as I had done when Walter
was alive, though now my networking was aimed specifically at fundraising for the
non-profit portion of the agency.

As soon as I started working
again, I gave Blanche a raise, mostly for putting up with me. When she balked
at being paid more than she deemed the job worth, I increased her workload. She
never complained again.

Blanche began accompanying me
to various charitable events, and I realized the uniform would have to go. I
cringe now when I think of how long I kept my invaluable friend and helpmate in
those crisp white symbols of servitude. I've always said that the worst thing
anyone could ever say about me was, “She means well," but I have to claim
now that I meant well. I meant for her uniforms to be part of her pay. I meant
for it to be easy for her to wash them. I meant to help her avoid bleach spills
and food stains on her own clothing. I never meant to put her in her place, but
that's just what I did. And, God help me, it took Dovey Kincaid to make me
realize it.

It was Thanksgiving of 1979 and
Patrice was home from college for a few days. The younger girls were out of school
and stayed home with their older sister while Blanche and I went to the church
to help distribute food among the baskets to be delivered. We were working in
the kitchen of the fellowship hall, which was fairly large, but a bit cramped
with ten to twelve of us working side-by-side.

When Dovey dropped a jar of
pickles, shattering the glass and spraying sugary green juice everywhere, she
spoke without hesitation.

“Oh, dear, look what I've done!
Blanche, could you grab the mop and clean that up for me, please?"

I froze immediately, which
halted the entire distribution line. Blanche didn't react at all, except to
head for the broom closet.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I
said, as I found my voice. Blanche stopped abruptly. Dovey, who had marched
right over to the sink and grabbed a wet towel to clean herself up, spun around
with a bewildered expression on her face. All eyes were on me, all wondering
what had just prompted my outburst. I didn't even try to disguise my contempt.

“You made the mess, Dovey.
You
clean it up."

I never meant to humiliate
Blanche, though I think I did. There was no way to recover from it. No matter
how you look at it, Blanche had just received two direct orders and neither of
us considered what a horrible position they put her in.

“I don't mind helpin', Miz
Ora," she said after a moment of awkward silence.

“Neither do I," I said as
I dropped out of the assembly line and followed Blanche to the closet.

I could hear murmuring behind
me as the women resumed their tasks, but I never worried or even wondered what
they were talking about.
Good,
I thought.
Let them figure it out for
themselves.
Dovey joined us in the clean up and we silently mopped and
swept and wiped away the evidence of our mistake.

Blanche never wore a uniform
again. When I asked her not to, she did not ask why. In her usual candid way,
she said simply, "I can change my clothes, Miz Ora, but I can't change my
color. They's always gonna be people who expect what they expect."

“You're absolutely right,
Blanche," I nodded. “And I can't change anyone's expectations but my
own."

Twenty-six

After Patrice went away to college, the girls rode the bus
to my house every day after school. Neither Blanche nor I would even dream of
having them stay home alone. Re'Netta and Danita excelled in school, just as
their older sister had. Grace did not do as well. Blanche would often get notes
home saying Grace had trouble staying focused and on task in the classroom.
When she entered the third grade, she was assigned to a trim, pretty, blonde
teacher named Miss Folsom. Grace liked her well enough at first, but she began
to withdraw after the first few weeks of school.

Blanche asked her what was
wrong, but Grace would only say things like, “Miss Folsom got mad at me today."
Or “I don't think Miss Folsom likes me."

Blanche was obviously not
happy, but she didn't say anything about it until Grace came home in tears with
a note for “The Parents of Grace Lowery."

Miss Folsom was apparently at
her wit's end, and I'm using the term “wit" rather loosely here, because
Grace could not seem to finish her work in class. Her solution, according to
the note, was to send Grace to the principal's office to be paddled for her
offense.

“The very idea," I nearly
shouted, “of paddling a child for not finishing the outlining of simple letters
when she can already read a book, is absolutely asinine."

“She can't be disrupting the
class, though," Blanche reasoned.

“Disrupting the class?" I
exploded. “It doesn't say a word about disrupting the class. It says she's not
finishing her work. It says she has been separated from the class by a dividing
screen and moved away from the window so she won't be distracted or inclined to
daydream. It doesn't say anywhere that she's bothering anyone at all. This is
wrong, Blanche. This is not Grace's fault."

I felt so protective of Grace,
in that moment and for years afterward, that I literally trembled with anger.

“What do you think I should do,
then?" Blanche asked.

“Well, for one thing, I think
you should make it clear that Grace will certainly
not
be spanked for
something she has no control over."

“But she's got to finish her
work," Blanche said.

“I agree," I said, “but it
won't help her a bit to be frightened into finishing it. For God's sake,
Blanche, hasn't she been through enough?"

I regretted those words the
moment they left my mouth. Blanche stiffened immediately and glared at me with
as much disdain as I have ever seen aimed in my direction.

“You ain't got to tell me what
she's been through, Miz Ora."

“Blanche, I'm sorry," I
began.

“I know exactly what my child
has been through," she continued. “And I know it ain't gonna get any
easier for her, that's for sure. But she got to do the same as every other
child in that classroom, and that includes finishing her work, no matter how
boring it may be."

“Blanche, listen to me," I
pleaded. “I know she has to do her work. I know she has to find her way in the
world, but this teacher does not like her and you and I both know why."

“So, I'll ask you again. What
do you think I should do?"

“I think you should have her
moved to another classroom."

“Huh," Blanche grunted.
“They ain't gonna move her on my account. I can tell you that right now."

“They'll move her on
mine," I said, ignoring the second round of regret I felt.

“And you think that'll help
her? You throwin' your weight around for my child?" She grunted again.
“Shows what you know."

I sighed then and sat down at
the table, putting my head in my hands. What
did
I know? I'd never had a
child of my own and, Lord knows I'd never been colored. Didn't matter what the
rules
should
be. It matters what they are, if you're going to play the
game.

“I think we should get Gracie
some help, Blanche." I said wearily. “And you know what I mean, so don't
even act like you don't."

“I am helpin', Miz Ora,"
Blanche said. “I'm helpin' her live in this world."

“But she needs more..."

“I'll see can I get her changed
to another teacher," Blanche interrupted, “but I don't wanna hear another
word about help. I'm helpin' her the best I can, and that's gonna have to
do."

“But if she can just
talk
to
someone about it," I tried again.

“I done made up my mind, Miz
Ora. What's done is done and we all just got to move on. You say another word
about it and I'll quit."

My head snapped up then.

“I'm serious. I'll quit and go
home. I got to put this behind me now. I can't be talkin' about it and thinkin'
about it and cryin' over it every time I turn around. And I can't have you
runnin' around tryin' to fix everything, either. We got to live in this world,
Miz Ora, and we got to do it on our own."

I stood then and faced her,
fighting back the tears I felt stinging my eyes.

“Blanche, I'm sorry about all
this."

“I know," she said,
softening. “But, Eddie was right. Things was just against us all along. We all
did what we thought was right and now we just got to live with it."

And so our vow was made and
sealed and never broken as long as Blanche was alive. We did not speak of it
again.

Chip and Clara Jean married in
the spring of 1979. Always the prudent one, Clara Jean insisted on a long
engagement, though I'm certain Chip would have had her at the altar far sooner
than she allowed. They eventually had two sons, who are the spitting image of
their daddy. Chip quit the sheriff's department after a few years and
transferred to the Mayville Correctional Facility, where Eddie lived the
remainder of his life. I often wondered if he had done that as a favor to me.
He had, after all, promised to look after Eddie for me, though I never expected
him to take his responsibility to that level. Clara assures me it was nothing
more than a financial decision and I hope that's true. She continued to work
for Judge Odell until he retired in 1983 and then she stayed home with her
sons. They have done well and I am as proud of them as if they belonged to me
alone.