Rush Page 10

  We both laugh.

  “One of the deacons at our church—you know Brother Carlson?”

  I give her a slight nod.

  “He ain’t married. And he’s a nice-looking man!”

  “Aunt Fee.” I shove my hands back on my hips. I’m dead serious this time. “He’s an old man. What do you think I’m going to do with a man that age? Besides get him ready for his casket. Shoot.”

  “He ain’t that old. He’s my age.”

  I sigh. This conversation is going nowhere fast. “I don’t want just any man. I’ve got my sights set high.”

  “All right. That’s good. Long as you’re lookin’.” She opens her mouth to say something else then pauses. Her words trickle out slowly. “You woulda made a wonderful mama.”

  Hearing that out of Aunt Fee’s mouth gives me a jump. She hasn’t brought that up in years. I feel my shoulders droop. “I’ve got all the children I can handle right here.” I say it like I mean it. And I do.

  Auntie goes quiet. I watch her disappear into the walk-in, then bring back a large jar of chopped garlic. She dumps a few tablespoons into all three stockpots, stirs it in, then taps her spoon on the edge. “Sometimes I think about what your life would have been like today if you had been older when all that happened.”

  A wave of sorrow catches in my throat like a vise, nearly strangling me. Then that permanently etched image of the sterile hospital room flashes across my mind. I don’t answer her right away. Instead I ruminate on things I shouldn’t. The hiss from the gas burners is the only sound in the room.

  After an extra-long minute I say, “You know I don’t like to look backward. Mama always said, ‘things happen for a reason.’ If you think too much about that road you never took, it will make it impossible to enjoy the one you’re on.”

  She closes her eyes. I can tell she’s regretting her comment. “You’re right, baby. Don’t listen to me.” Once a few seconds have passed she studies me again. “Every now and then I get that … what you call it? Stinkin’ thinkin’?”

  “That’s it. And it can rot you to the bone.” I seize the chance to switch topics. Now it’s my turn. “How much longer do you intend to do this, Aunt Fee? You’re sixty-four years old.” The girls are always telling her she can’t ever quit. I heard one alum tell her she can’t retire till she’s a hundred. They can say it all they want, but this is a big job and the sorority is growing larger every year with more and more mouths to feed.

  “You’re changin’ the subject.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. But I want you to answer me.”

  She stops what she’s doing and turns to face me. Her big ol’ eyes are seeing red. “How do you think I’m ever gone retire? Makin’ fourteen dollars an hour after thirty-two years. Shoot.”

  “Social Security,” I say, watching my grits start to bubble.

  “You know that ain’t enough. I caint ever retire. And neither can you if you keep working here.” Now I’ve got her all steamed up. But Aunt Fee’s been a working woman since she was twelve years old. I want to make sure she enjoys some time for herself on the back end.

  “I’ll take care of you.”

  This seems to quiet the waters. “I know you will, baby. But I ain’t gone be no burden to nobody. Especially you.”

  While Mama was over to Mrs. McKinney’s working for her family of three kids, every waking hour of every day, not to mention every holiday, Fee was taking care of me. That’s back when she worked as a seamstress and an ironer out of her home, before she came over here. Mama would drop me off at her house, a few streets from ours, before she drove our old raggedy Plymouth over to Mrs. McKinney’s. Mama never meant for me to be raised by her sister, but she did what she had to do. My daddy wasn’t around.

  Auntie has three sons, all older than me. Marvin lives in Chicago. He set out after high school and discovered big city life. Tony followed in his big brother’s footsteps. He said he wouldn’t come back to Oxford, Mississippi, if his life depended on it. But Leroy, he only moved as far as Memphis. He comes down here every now and then. But not as often as he should.

  All three of those boys love their mama, but they don’t take care of her like a daughter would. Fee’s got six grandchildren, some of them girls, but they live up in Chicago. She goes up to see them in the summertime when she can. But that costs money she doesn’t have.

  I sidle up next to her, put my arm around her thick waist. She’s nearly twice as big as I am. “Listen here.” I pull her chin around so she can see the seriousness in my eyes. “You would never be a burden. You understand me?”

  “You are the sweetest child I know.” Aunt Fee’s eyes gloss over with tears. “I just want you to have a good life, baby. Find a man; get another job. Go back to college.” She wipes a tear away with the hem of her apron. Her voice is shaky. “You are my special daughter, the closest I ever got to one of my own. And a mother never wants her girl to be alone. Sometimes I can’t sleep for worryin’ ’bout you all by yourself in that apartment way out on the County Road, nobody to look after you. I ask the Lawd every night to protect you.”

  “I’m fine, Aunt Fee. You should spend more time worrying about Tony. He’s the one needing your prayers. That wife of his is the laziest woman I’ve ever seen—besides Kadeesha. She’d walk her dog while she was riding a scooter if she could get away with it.”

  Auntie’s tears turn into tee-hees. “I know that’s right. Land sakes. Tony caint get her to work for nothin’. She acts like it’s her right to be a stay-at-home mama. I told her I worked the entire time I was raisin’ my boys—and you. I told her every other woman in our family had, too, as far back as I can remember.”

  The swinging door squeaks and that cute little Brennen Davidson pokes her head inside. “Good morning, Miss Pearl. Oh hi, Miss Ophelia!”

  “We’ll pick this discussion back up later,” I whisper. “Hello, Brennen. You’re up mighty early.”

  “I’m going to work out.” She dashes over to the stove and gathers us into a group hug. “How was your summer?” Her eyes dart back and forth between us.

  “Fine, baby. Yours?” The words tumble out of both of our mouths at the same time. It makes us all laugh.

  Brennen grins. “I know you’re aunt and niece, but you sure act like mother and daughter.”

  Auntie takes me by the hand. “I was just tellin’ her that this mornin’.”

  “Aww. I wish my aunt was as sweet to me as you are to Miss Pearl.”

  “What you mean? Come here dahlin’,” Fee says. “As sweet as you are?” She reaches out and envelops Brennen in her arms again. And they stay that way for what seems like a full minute. It’s hard to pull away when my auntie wraps you in one of her embraces. Her large cuddly body radiates warmth and it feels like you’re a cub in the arms of a mother bear. Who would want to break away from that? “Tell us what you want for breakfast this mornin’.”

  Brennen pulls away. “Let’s see.” Her head bobs from side to side. “May I please have two egg whites with a side of fruit?”

  “That all you want?” Aunt Fee asks. “No wonder your little arms look like toothpicks.” She laughs and nudges Brennen playfully. Even though she means it, she would never want to hurt her feelings.

  Fee clutches Brennen’s shoulder and escorts her to the door.

  When Fee turns back around I could swear I catch a grimace on her face, like she’s in pain. My eyes follow every step she takes as she strolls back to the stove.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Her sauce is simmering with a vapor of steam rising from the pot. She leans over, whiffs. “Nothin’.” She avoids looking at me.

  “Then why did you get that look on your face?”

  “What look you talkin’ about?”

  “The way you knitted your brows and squeezed your eyes.”

  “I was thinkin’ ’bout that tiny girl and wonderin’ what she thinks is pretty about bein’ string-bean skinny. I bet she don’t weigh but a hundred pounds.”
/>   “Looks like you’re hiding something to me.”

  “I ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Must be your imagination.”

  Imagination my foot. She forgets I know her better than anyone else in the world, including her three sons. I narrow dubious eyes her way as Carli Cone knocks on the door with another breakfast order.

  FIFTEEN

  MISS PEARL

  It’s close to ten o’clock by the time I make my way up to the second floor. Same as every morning, I head down the hall emptying trash cans the girls have left outside their doors. If I see a liquor bottle, a wine bottle, or even a beer can in the trash I’m supposed to report it. But I’d never do that. That’s their business, not mine. Besides, I’m not the housemother. Not officially, anyway. If a sister were to get caught she would have to go up before the Standards Committee and risk getting kicked out of the sorority for good.

  “Good morning, Miss Pearl,” most every girl says, when seeing me in the hall—wearing towel wraps and in a big hurry to get in and out of the bathroom. Every now and then I pass a girl who keeps her head down. I try not to let that bother me. I know what kind of family she comes from and that’s what she’s been taught. What bothers me is when I get to the toilet and find it backed up, seeing that the contents are not from number two, but vomit instead. All these girls pressured to stay thin, that breaks my heart.

  As I empty the last wastebasket into my trash bag, Allie Blakley from Laurel, Mississippi, eyes me in the hall. She’s got her hair twisted up in a big towel, furry slippers on her feet, and a silk bathrobe wrapped tightly around her. We’ve not run into each other a single time since school started. I watch her eyes blink. “When did you do that to your hair?” she asks, like it’s something strange.

  “Over the summer. Do you like it?” I flip a long piece off my shoulder with two fingers.

  “I love it. Can I touch it?”

  “Go ahead.” Allie cautiously runs her hand across my hair like it’s a zoo animal. “It won’t bite,” I say, laughing.

  “How do y’all do that?” she asks. “Do you go to a salon?”

  “Mmm-hmm. I can’t do this myself.”

  “Didn’t you do your own box braids?”

  “Yes I did. But that’s fairly simple. This has to be done right or it looks fake.”

  She grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside her room. “I want Kerry to see you. Kerry,” she calls in a high-pitched voice. “Look at Miss Pearl.”

  Kerry has the same reaction. Only she doesn’t ask for permission to touch it, she jumps up from her makeup mirror and runs over to me, patting my head down. Sometimes these girls forget their manners something awful. “It feels so real,” she says.

  “It is real,” I tell her.

  “It’s real hair? Like real extensions?”

  “Of course it’s real hair,” I say with a chuckle. “What else would it be?” White girls are so funny when it comes to a chocolate sister’s hair.

  “You look so pretty,” they both say at the same time, almost surprised. Like this was the first time they had seen me for who I really am. I know they don’t mean any harm. Sometimes people say things and the words tumble out all wrong.

  “Were they expensive?” Kerry asks.

  “They weren’t cheap. I’ll tell you that much.” I paid $150 plus tip to Shirley, and that didn’t include the cost of the hair. That was another $160. When I wore box braids, they were significantly cheaper—about sixty dollars for a whole head of synthetic braids. I’ll go back to that next time, but I wanted to try this weave. Just once I wanted to look glamorous, like Beyoncé, even if she is ten years younger.

  “I’d be wearing them, too, if I were you,” Allie says. “Money for hair comes first. If it were a choice between food or hair, I’d choose hair any day of the week.”

  “You and me both,” I say. “This girl wants to look sharp.” For fun, I swing the hair off my shoulder the way Beyoncé does on the TV set.

  Both of the girls laugh.

  Then a picture of my bald tires crosses my mind. All of a sudden I feel shame. I might look glamorous today, but what about my car? It’s hard to pray for safety when I’ve spent all my money on beauty. Allie and Kerry may can do that, but who do I think I’m fooling?

  Kerry takes her hair out of the towel, swings it free. “And speaking of, I better get this mop ready before I’m late for class.”

  I move on over to their door. Before leaving, a thought pops into my head. Something I’ve been wondering for a long time. “Can I ask y’all a question?”

  They nod.

  “Why do you girls get your face and hair looking all pretty, then put on those big T-shirts and exercise pants every day for class?”

  They both look at each other, kind of bewildered like, and shrug. “Because everybody else does it?” Kerry says, glancing at Allie.

  “Okay then. Thanks for solving the mystery. I’ll see you babies later.” They wave and I shut the door behind me, chuckling. Why doesn’t this surprise me?

  As soon as I step into the hall my phone goes off. I answer on the first ring.

  “Pearl? It’s Carla.” I don’t know why she insists on identifying herself. I know her voice and she knows her number is in my phone.

  “Hi, Mama Carla. You need me for something?”

  “It’s not urgent, but when you’re done up there will you please stop by my apartment?”

  “Of course. It won’t take me but another twenty minutes.”

  “That’s fine. Just stop in when you can.”

  I’m almost finished with trash pickup, but after lunch Mr. Marvelle and I will be performing shower surgery. That’s my term for cleaning the drains. We work as a team. He unscrews the drains, then uses his scalpel—a plumber’s tool with teeth on both sides—to lift all that long nasty hair out. I stand by with gloves and a plastic trash bag as he empties the mess inside. Then we move on to the next shower stall, till we finish the whole operation. With all that hair, and as many showers as the girls take, we have to do this every month. Not something I look forward to, but it’s necessary.

  *

  When I make it to Mama Carla’s apartment, I find her on the phone. Her door is always open. Once she notices I’m standing there she holds up a finger. “Okay, stay calm,” she says to whomever is on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.” Then she softly lays her phone down on the table next to the chair and hangs her head.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, while sitting down in the chair next to hers. It troubles me to see her this way.

  She looks up. I can tell she’s been crying.

  “Are you okay, Mama Carla?” I reach over and touch her on the knee.

  “I’m okay.” She stares down at her lap again, lightly shaking her head. “But my child is not.” Finally she looks at me. “It’s Patrice. Philip walked out on her and the kids two days ago.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand before disappearing into the bathroom. Trudy hops down, trots right behind her.

  Moments later, Mama Carla returns with a box of Kleenex in one hand, Trudy in the other. They both settle back down into the chair. “I knew something was wrong. Mother’s intuition,” she says with a sniffle. “Patrice hasn’t mentioned his name in months. Never talks about him unless I do. She used to sing his praises.” Mama Carla’s dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Her nose is red.

  I’m not sure if I should pry or keep my mouth shut. I might not be raising children of my own, but I know what it’s like to have a marriage fall apart. I reach over, touch her on the knee. “He’s not cheating on her, is he?” Soon as I say it, I regret it. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. I just know what that’s like.”

  She sniffs, blows her nose before answering. “It sounds that way. They haven’t slept together in six months. And they’re only thirty-six.”

  “Men are so ignorant. They always let that other head do all the thinking.”

  That makes Mama Carla laugh and I’m glad to se
e it. “Why do you think I’m alone? I was done with that little head a long time ago.”

  Now I’m the one smiling. “Me, too.”

  She shakes her head. “No way, Pearl. You’re too young to be done with men.”

  “Now you sound like Aunt Fee.”

  “Well, it’s true. I’ve seen the way men look at you. You are a very attractive woman.”

  “Why, thank you. You are, too, Mama Carla.”

  “For a sixty-two year-old, I guess I’m all right.” She puts her hands on either side of her face, pushes up her cheeks. “If only I’d had the money for a facelift. I might have had a chance.”

  “Now, Mama Carla. You still have a chance.”

  “Maybe one day. But right now I have to think of my daughter. I told her I’d be there this weekend. I know it’s terrible timing with school just getting started, and our first home game, but she’s my child. She needs me.”

  “Of course she does. Nobody can take the place of your mama.” Hearing my own words makes me miss my mama. If it weren’t for Aunt Fee, I’d be out of my mind.

  “You never stop needing a mother, do you? No matter how old you are.” She turns around in her chair to face me, tucks her Kleenex under her thigh, and puts both hands on my knees. “Do you have plans this weekend?”

  I think about it for a second. “Let me check my date calendar.” I laugh, pull out my phone for fun, and check. “I’ll be right here working the game.”

  “I mean the whole weekend. I’m wondering if you might fill in for me while I’m gone.”

  “As housemother?” I’m so shocked I don’t quite know what to say.

  “Sure, why not?”

  I just look at her. We both know why not.

  “You’re every bit as qualified as I am. And you know my job backward and forward.”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  “Patrice lives down in Ocean Springs. It’s a five-hour drive down to the coast so I won’t be home till late Sunday evening. I can pay you fifty dollars a day.”

  That’s one hundred and fifty dollars toward my tires. I blurt my answer before I have time to think it through and talk myself out of it. “Why sure I will, Mama Carla. I’m honored you asked.”