We Are All Welcome Here (15 page)

“I understand your mother’s in the hospital,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The top of his undershirt was a yellowish color that Peacie would never have tolerated.

“Well, I’m real sorry about that. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here, do you? I’ll tell you what, how about if you come home with me, I got a daughter ’bout your age.”

“No, thanks. I want to stay here.”

“Well…How old are you?”

“Going on fourteen.”

“Eighth grade?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you know my daughter! K.C. Turner!”

Of course I knew her. Everyone knew her. “No,” I said.

“You don’t know K.C. Turner?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Well, I’m surprised!” He looked at Peacie as though she, too, should share his incredulity. She pretended to, shaking her head and smiling. “She’s a real popular girl!” he said.

“It’s a big school,” I said.

He smiled. “Oh, it is, huh?”

“Sometimes it is,” I said. “Right now it is.”

“Well, I’m not going to…” The sheriff turned to Peacie. “I want that girl back in her own neighborhood tomorrow morning. Otherwise, we’ll both be in trouble. You know that, don’t you.”

“Yassuh.”

“I’ll send someone take y’all back over there first thing.”

“No suh, thank you very kindly, LaRue carry us.”

“I don’t want to see her back here,” he said, and walked to his car, then slowly drove away.

Peacie closed the door, and I said, “I’m sorry. I was just trying to see.”

“Don’t make no never mind,” she said, and I saw that she was too distracted to pay attention to my misdeed.

“Is LaRue in trouble?” I asked.

“He be home tomorrow,” she said, by way of an answer. “And he ain’t going back.” She said that, but I wondered.

We walked together into the living room. Peacie sat in one of the chairs, staring into space, her fingers pulling at her bottom lip. I sat on the sofa, watching her.

Finally, “How come you talked that way to the sheriff?” I asked.

She said nothing.

“Peacie?”

“Hush now!”

I sat quietly for a long while, thinking about how I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. Was it dangerous? Was it just wrong? It was a Negro house, but it was also just a house, much like my own. What trouble could come from my being here? Who could get hurt—me or Peacie? It was so odd, how it was one thing for Peacie and me to be together in my house, another thing entirely for us to be here.

I wondered about LaRue, wondered if he was in danger or would disappear as those three boys had. Then I began wondering about my mother. How long would she be gone? Something dark began to flower inside me; I had to talk against the feeling.

“Peacie?” I said. “Is this the worst you’ve ever seen my mom?”

She looked over at me. Then, regretfully, she said, “Yes.”

I swallowed dryly. “So…is she going to die?”

Peacie waved her hand dismissively. “No! No, she ain’t gon’ die, foolish! She young and she a fighter. You know that same as me! She be better soon. She can’t die, she got to finish raising you up. She knows ain’t
nobody
else stand up for that!”

A long pause, and then in a small voice, I said, “You would…wouldn’t you?”

Peacie hesitated, then came over to embrace me, the only time she ever had. And what I felt in that embrace was the knowledge that she would never be able to raise me, not by herself. I realized for the first time how alone I would be if my mother did die. How I would turn around and turn around and no one would be there. And all along, I’d thought it was my mother who so much needed me.

Peacie let go of me and looked into my face. “You go to sleep now,” she said. “I’ll get you some sheets for this here swimming pool you done made yourself. You be all right then?”

“Yassuh!”

She stared at me, her hand on her hip. “You think that’s Negro talk? That’s white-folk talk. You think about it. We do that for y’all.”

“Sho’ ’nuff?”

She smiled. “You your mother’s daughter.”

I felt singed by pride. When Peacie went off for the sheets, I sat on the sofa and drew my knees up to my chest, pushed my face against my knees, closed my eyes, and rocked back and forth.

Peacie came back and laid the sheets and a pillow at my feet. “Make up a bed for yourself,” she said.

“I will.”

“You need help?”

“No, thanks.”

She turned out the living room light and spoke in the darkness. “She be much better tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Lie down now, and go to sleep.”

“I will.” But I sat up for a long time, watching for something I couldn’t name.

I awakened to the beautiful sound of LaRue’s voice. “’Course I’s scared,” he said. “We all of us was! One time, they come after us when we trying to march, come after us with clubs. When that happen, we s’pose to crouch down, protect our business, and put our hands up over the back of our necks. And then here they come, yelling and cussing, hitting on us again and again even though we ain’t doing nothing back, we ain’t doing nothing at all ’cept just trying to protect ourselves. I be staring at the ground, this one little spot. I didn’t get it too bad, but the guy next to me did. And he lost control his facilities. He felt some bad, but I said, ‘That’s all right, you just speaking for all of us.’”

There was the sound of a chair pushing back, then the rattle of dishes and water running. “I’m glad you ain’t going back there,” Peacie said.

“What you mean?”

The water stopped, and there was a long silence. Then Peacie said, “I mean you ain’t going back there. And I’m glad. Trouble enough here, you ain’t need to be looking for it elsewheres.”

“Peacie,” LaRue said, and she said quickly, “No.”

“Peacie,” he said again.

“No!”

“I come home to help you today,” he said, “but tomorrow I be going back.”

I sat up slowly on the sofa and unstuck my pajama top from my back, listening to hear how Peacie would respond.

“We gon’ move,” she said.

I stopped breathing.

“Up by my aunt in Ohio. This time I mean it, we gon’ move up there.”

LaRue spoke softly. “You know, when I was a boy, my mama told me evil spirits hung men from trees. She told me be careful, don’t let the evil spirits get me. I believed her and I was careful. I kept my eyes ahead of me, and I invite the Lord inside me, help me mind my own self. After I growed up and realized wasn’t no evil spirits doing the lynching and the Lord ain’t living too close by, I still stayed careful. But I cain’t do that no more. I cain’t quit this, Peacie. I seen some things I ain’t never forget, and I’m gon’ back help Li’l Bit finish what he start.”

“They killing people!” Peacie said. “Every day! Bodies washed up on the riverbank, folks killed sleeping in they own bed!”

“Lot of ways to die,” LaRue said. “Some of ’em better than others. I been changed, Peacie, I come to see—”

“Stay here and see!”

“No. No, I cain’t. I started something there, and I got to finish it there. I be dug in.”

“LaRue, somebody find out what you doin’ and you gon’ lose your job!”

“Well. I did lose my job.”

The phone rang and Peacie answered it. “Yassuh, he here,” she said, and then I heard LaRue telling the sheriff he’d be taking me home and then he’d stop on by, he’d be there within the hour. But after he hung up, he told Peacie, “I ain’t going.”

Silence.

I stood and cleared my throat, announcing the fact that I was awake. Then I came out into the kitchen. “Hey, Diana,” LaRue said, smiling. “How you doin’, baby?” It was so good to see him sitting there cross-legged in his neatly pressed trousers, his short-sleeved white shirt, his bright yellow suspenders. His hat lay on the table before him, and I wished suddenly that I could have it.

“Get dressed,” Peacie told me. “We gon’ take you home.” She leaned past LaRue to clear the table of the rest of the dishes and did not look at him. When he reached out and gently grabbed her, she pulled away in a manner not gentle at all.

W
hen I got home, Suralee was sitting with Shooter on my front-porch steps. Peacie went straight into the house; I sat wordlessly beside Suralee. I did not look at her. For a long while, neither of us spoke. Then Suralee said, “Sorry about what happened at my house.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Is your mom better?”

Now I did look at her. “How’d you know?”

She shrugged. “Everybody does.”

“She’s still in the ICU.” I felt tears starting in my eyes. Peacie had called Brenda, suggesting she might want to come. It couldn’t be a good sign.

“Want to stay with me?” Suralee asked. She had traces of purple at the edges of her mouth. I guessed she’d been drinking grape Nehi, our favorite flavor.

“No, thanks. Peacie’s going to be here with me.”

Suralee rubbed the back of Shooter’s neck. “Then can I stay with y’all?”

We laughed, but I knew she meant it.

Suralee leaned back on her elbows, surveyed the empty street before us, and sighed. My mother always said that if you were bored, it was your fault, but it seemed to me that sometimes boredom came from the outside in. This town could feel like someone putting a high pile of cinder blocks on your chest, then saying, “Okay, breathe.”

Suralee sat up suddenly. “Oh! I almost forgot! Did you get something from the contest?”

“What do you mean?”

“That contest we entered, did you win anything?”

“No, did you?”

“Yeah. But only a box of crackers and one of cookies.” She shrugged. “They came in the mail yesterday. I might could share them with you.” This last she spoke quietly.

“That’s okay.”

I could feel her relief. “That’s how I think of it, too. Whoever wins something should just feel happy, and all their friends be happy for them, too.”

“Right.” All Suralee’s friends being me.

“Anyway, it wasn’t that much.”

“It’s something, though. Congratulations.”

“I was a little bit afraid to tell you. I didn’t want you to feel bad.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t.” I’d known neither of us would win anything good. We never had. We never would. We were not that kind of people.

A horn sounded, and I saw Dell’s car coming down the street. He slowed and pulled over to the curb. “How is she?” he called.

I walked over to him. “She’s still real sick.”

He nodded, his smile fading. “Call me when she comes home. I’d like to come and see her.”

I said I would.

I walked back to the porch and sprawled out beside Suralee. “What do you want to do today?” I asked.

“He really likes your mom,” she said.

I looked at her.

“He does!”

“But what do you want to do today?” Absent the necessity of taking care of my mother, the day seemed too big, too bright, too empty.

“You want to come over to my house?” Suralee asked. “We could start a new play.”

“Let’s go downtown,” I said. I didn’t want to return to the scene of the crime.

I went into the house to tell Peacie I was leaving. She was standing at the washing machine, and she did not turn around to tell me it was all right for me to go. Instead, she simply nodded. “You okay?” I asked. She nodded again, then waved me away.

Suralee and I went first to Debby’s Dress Shop, where we wanted to try on the pillbox hats. “Y’all put those down,” Mrs. Black said from behind the counter. “You have no intention of buying them, and I can’t have them getting soiled.”

“We were going to buy one,” Suralee said. “For Diana’s mom.”

She looked doubtfully at us.

“I got the money right here,” I said, patting my empty pocket. “But I believe I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

“You do that,” Mrs. Black said, and smiled at a woman coming through the door.

We crossed the street to the drugstore, where Mrs. Beasley asked the inevitable question. “She’s better,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

“Bless your heart,” Mrs. Beasley said, and I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Suralee and I looked at shampoos for a while, unscrewing the caps to smell the delectable scents of the more expensive brands. We used White Rain and White Rain only; I found it uninspiring. Peacie occasionally used beer as a rinse for my mother’s hair; it did seem to make it more lustrous. She was also a big believer in mayonnaise treatments, but my mother said mayonnaise was too expensive to waste that way.

From behind the counter came Mrs. Beasley’s thin voice: “Y’all aren’t taking the caps off the shampoos, are you?” she said. “Don’t be doing that now. Nobody wants to buy shampoo been fooled with.”

“We’re not,” we sang out together, and moved to the magazine stand. We sat back-to-back, thumbing through the usual picks, and I said to Suralee, “When I grow up, I am moving to a town where there is so much to do it makes you sick.”

“I know. Memphis.”

“No,” I said. “Even more.”

“Right. Someplace where”—Suralee leaned back against me, harder, and here came her English accent—“Oh, what to do this evening! So many choices, what a bloody bother! Harold, darling. Bring me some tea, I must cogitate.”

Suralee’s mother had given her some money, and we shared a patty melt and a Coke at the lunch counter, then went over to the hardware store. Though neither of us directly acknowledged it, we were looking for Dell.

I didn’t see him when we came in, but Brooks was positioning a sign at the front of the store and he waved me over. “How is she?” he asked, and I told him she was still in the ICU. He nodded sadly. “What can I buy her, do you think?” he asked. “I’d like to buy her something, cheer her up.” I said I didn’t know.

“We were looking at pillbox hats for her,” Suralee told him. “Every woman wants one of those.”

“Is that right?”

“Mrs. Black wouldn’t let us touch them, but I think they’re real soft.”

Brooks stared out the window at her store, then said, “Well, let’s just go and have a look-see.” He called over to one of the other men, saying he’d be back in a few.

Suralee and I followed Brooks across the street, Shooter walking behind us. I wished we could sic him on Mrs. Black. But I had noticed graying on the dog’s muzzle when he lay on my porch that morning; Suralee said it had been there for a while, and that Shooter was starting to sleep a lot more than he used to. It seemed unfair that a dog so fierce and self-contained should suffer the indignity of growing old like any other dog. I would rather see Shooter die young; I thought he himself would prefer that.

It was strange seeing Brooks in the dress shop. It was a small and feminine place with pink walls and white trim; he didn’t fit there. But Mrs. Black couldn’t have been more polite. “Well,
hi,
Brooks,” she said, like he was her long-lost relative, even though she surely saw him on the street every day. “What can I do for you?” She looked quickly at us and then away.

“I’m interested in one of them pill hats,” Brooks said.

“Oh yes,” she said, moving over to her display. “Aren’t they just the most elegant thing? I’m ’bout running out, they’re so popular. But I have three left, as you can see. What color were you thinking of?”

“I was thinking ’bout all the colors,” Brooks said. “I was thinking I’d buy every hat you have.”

“For heaven’s sake, Brooks!” she said, giggling, pressing her manicured fingers into her breastbone.

“And also I was thinking you got no call to be treating these girls like you do.”

She stopped smiling and crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t know how much time they spend at
your
establishment messing with the merchandise with no intention of buying one single thing, but I—”

“They’re welcome at my store when they ain’t buying shit.” He wiped at his nose and shifted his position, putting his hand to his hip like football players did. “Either one of them, Diana or…her friend.”

“Suralee,” I whispered quietly behind him.

“Shir
ley,
” he said.

“Did you want to buy something or not?” Mrs. Black asked.

“Believe I said I did,” Brooks answered.

“You want every hat I’ve got.”

“Every
pill
hat.”

“It’s pill
box.
”

“It’s a stupid name either way,” Brooks said. “It’s just a hat. Now I’m going to pay you, and then suppose you wrap up those hats real nice and give them to these girls. I believe you could call them customers now, couldn’t you? What with they being the ones sent me over here. I believe you could treat them with some respect.”

“Cash or check?” Mrs. Black asked coolly, and Brooks pulled out his wallet, and from it a check. His wallet was greatly worn; it curved up in the corners. What I knew about Brooks was that he could afford three hats little more than we could. I wanted to thank him for his extravagance but couldn’t find the words. I watched him write the check; he was left-handed, and he wrote with his hand above the moving pen. It was like a bear taking penmanship classes. I moved from behind my instinctive dislike of him to see a man in a thin blue shirt with a worn collar making an offering of love against fear. I had done it myself, determinedly made cards for my mother thinking that she would then have to stay alive to read them.

M
y mother stayed in the ICU for two days, then was moved to a general floor. Peacie and I took the bus to visit her, toting our Scrabble board. We set up a game, and when Peacie put GNU on the board, I said, “No. I challenge that.” I reached for the paperback dictionary we’d brought along, its pages curled from use.

“Go right ahead and challenge it, it’s a word!” Peacie said.

“Meaning what?” I asked.

Peacie straightened in her chair and spoke slowly and clearly. “‘Either of two African antelopes. Having a drooping mane. And beard. And a long, tufted tail.’” She said all the
A
’s with the long sound. Obviously the word had come up before. She leaned forward to add, “Also called a wild beast. Like you.”

“Well,
wildebeest,
” my mother said gently.

I scowled and gave Peacie her points, and my mother laughed. She was in high spirits, so happy to be out of the confining and desperate atmosphere of the ICU, every day closer to coming home. Yesterday Brenda had taken time off work to spend the whole day with my mother. She had fed her homemade macaroni and cheese for breakfast, made the way my mother liked it, with extra cheese and little bits of bacon and tomato mixed in. They’d ordered out chow mein for lunch and pizza for dinner. Later that night, before she went home, Brenda lay in bed with my mother to watch television and drink the beers she had smuggled in in her purse and kept cold in my mother’s ice pitcher, which she then hid in the bedside cabinet. “Where’s your ice pitcher?” the candy striper had asked that afternoon when she came to refill it.

“I must have left it somewhere when I went for my walk,” my mother had replied.

“Okay, I’ll get you another one, don’t worry,” the candy striper had said, and my mother had said, “Okay, I won’t.”

Twice, the nurse caring for my mother in the evening had ordered Brenda out of my mother’s bed; twice, Brenda had complied and then, after the nurse left, climbed right back in with her.

While my mother was ordinarily a deeply kind person, her mischievous tendencies came out in the hospital. Today, when the robust nurse taking care of her came to take her temperature, she put the thermometer in my mother’s mouth and left the room, saying she’d be right back to collect it. My mother did one of her old tricks: used her tongue to turn the thermometer around backward. When the nurse came back in, she blushed and said, “Well, for heaven’s sake, I’m sorry, I put it in backwards! Let’s do this again.” She put the thermometer in the right way, left the room again, and when she came back it was backward again. This time she stood holding the thermometer and glaring at my mother. “I don’t have time for this, Miss Dunn,” she said. To which my mother responded, “That’s okay, Miss Carson; I do.” The nurse’s wrath grew, and my mother said, “Now now; don’t get nasty or I won’t do it again.”

On the day of discharge, Brooks helped us bring my mother home. She had lost weight, but in many respects she was more beautiful than ever. Her hair was shiny from her hospital shampoo (“Castile soap—they use it for enemas, but it’s great for your hair,” she told us). Her eyes were bright, the skin of her face beautifully colored and flawless. She always enjoyed a certain vitality when she came home from hospital visits; she had defied the odds once again, and she relished the victory.