by Keziah Frost
Hope asked the obvious question, even though she knew she would take the child regardless of the answer.
“Uh… What has she done, that the foster family she has now won’t keep her even one more day?”
Hope heard a long sigh at the other end of the line.
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s a little girl with a mind of her own. The usual behavior problems. Some people just can’t put up with things.” Thundercloud’s voice became hard. “Do you want her, or not?”
Hope put her hand to her heart and closed her eyes.
“I want her.”
Carlotta turned to study Hope’s face as she rejoined the group in the living room. Everyone was listening closely to Mabel speaking fluent Spanish to Summer, and Summer was laughing heartily. Mabel seemed to be enjoying the bright rays of admiration from all of Carlotta’s Club.
Vulgar people like to show off, thought Carlotta.
Carlotta was glad to interrupt Mabel’s grandstanding.
“Hope, did you get some news?”
Hope announced simply to the group: “She’s here. My daughter is here.” And she told them all about the plight of this nine-year-old child who would be brought to her house in an hour.
Carlotta said, “It’s too soon to call her your ‘daughter,’ Hope. Take the necessary time, to see how you get along.”
“I feel it in my heart already. She’s the child I’ve been waiting for.”
Summer, laughing as if becoming a mother were an entertaining adventure, said, “Do you even know her name?”
“Yes,” said Hope. “Her name is Queen.”
The group, chewing and sipping in a contemplative silence, seemed to be visualizing a nine-year-old with such a name.
“I knew a stripper called Queen once,” contributed Mabel. “I think it was her professional name, actually. She was a real nice girl. I can’t say...”
Carlotta stepped in. “If this becomes a—permanent arrangement—you can change that name, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think so, Aunty. Her name, when you stop to think of it, is all she has that’s hers, right? Anyway, it’s a fine name. I have no problem with it.”
“Everyone will have a problem with it, Hope. Think of her teachers at school. Who would saddle a baby with a name like Queen in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” said Hope, “Maybe someone who hoped her daughter would be respected, like a queen. Hard to tell what people are thinking. But her mom probably gave her the best name she could imagine, is my guess.”
“But Queen! It sounds like she is in charge. That’s just the problem with today’s generation of permissive parents who put their children in charge. No boundaries, no respect, and no discipline. How will you even discipline a child called ‘Queen’? ‘Queen, don’t interrupt adults.’ ‘Queen, go to your room and think about what you’ve done.’ It’s out of the question.”
“Gee, I don’t picture myself saying negative things to her all the time.”
“Of course you’ll have to say negative things. Didn’t you say they all have behavior problems?”
“Behavior problems!” chimed in Mabel. “That’s what I must have had when I was a kid. But come on, what kid doesn’t? I mean, what kid doesn’t leave a paper bag full of poop on an old guy’s doorstep, set it on fire, ring the door bell, and then hide in the bushes to laugh when the old buzzard comes out stomping his foot on the bag of poop? Am I right? I did it, lots of times, and other things, too. Oh, man, I had plenty of behavior problems! Ha!”
Carlotta, vexed beyond reason, lashed out.
“And it seems you still have them!”
Before Carlotta could regret speaking in haste, Mabel doubled over in laughter, and everyone joined in, so glad to have some comic relief. You couldn’t even insult the woman. It was beyond maddening.
“You ever get tired of dealing with those behavior problems,” said the geriatric delinquent, “you send that child over to her Aunt Mabel. I bet we get along real good!”
Carlotta resolved then and there to never let this foul woman near her… let’s see, her niece’s foster daughter…that would make this little girl Carlotta’s foster grandniece. Yes, so Carlotta was Queen’s foster grandaunt.
So she had dibs.
-33-
From Queen’s spiral notebook:
My name is Queen Serafina Jones & I burn bridges. That’s what the social worker lady keeps saying Everytime she moves me. Burn bridges--means I don’t care if people like me or not. I reely don’t care At All.
& I don’t have time for bossy forster mothers.
& I pack lite.
Hope stood outside in front of her ranch-style home on Ontario Boulevard, waiting for Queen to arrive with the social worker. She couldn’t possibly wait inside, behind a closed door. Her heart was vibrating with happiness and sweet excitement.
It was Thundercloud herself who pulled into Hope’s driveway. She lumbered out of the car as if it were very hard for her to move herself through space. She plodded around to the passenger door and opened it. A small girl stepped out. A pink backpack dangled from one hand and she stood, unsmiling, regarding Hope.
-34-
Carlotta had plotted to take Mabel “for a ride in the country,” as people used to say long ago when they got rid of unwanted pets. This barbaric practice dated back to the decades before the existence of rescue groups, animal shelters, spaying, and neutering. One of Carlotta’s saddest childhood memories was of her dad taking Pumpkin, her fluffy mixed breed dog, for such a ride. Pumpkin’s crime was that she had a new litter of puppies every year, a fruitfulness which pleased Carlotta, but not her parents. This was in 1942. The common solution to canine fecundity was euthanasia (by drowning), or what was considered a kinder approach: taking the animal far from home, out into the country, and dropping her off near a farm house. As they drove away, people told themselves that the farmer and his wife would feed Pumpkin—or Scamp—because didn’t farmers have so many animals already? They’d probably be glad to take one more.
When her parents told her they’d taken her little dog for a ride in the country, Carlotta asked, “When is she coming back?” Her parents had said, “Oh, she’s having so much fun, she may never come back.”
Years later, Carlotta still grieved to think her childhood companion had probably starved or been killed by coyotes. Taking an animal for such a “ride” was unpardonable cruelty. Informed, decent people today would never do it.
Taking Mabel for a ride in the country, however, struck Carlotta as a brilliant idea. It was the perfect way to get rid of Mabel.
Out in the country, just outside of town, stood a pillared mansion known as the Center for Deeper Understanding. It was run by Arnie’s aunt, the eccentric Edith Butler, and was a mecca for every imaginable new age weirdness. The place had a cult-like atmosphere. Its instructors spouted astonishing beliefs, and then labeled them “miracle-facts.”
Carlotta had no use for Edith and her Center, but Mabel, with her slogan of “Try anything once!” could probably be drawn in by Edith and her strange crew. The place welcomed eccentrics like Mabel, and Edith was always trying to pull people in. Carlotta could imagine Mabel on staff there, teaching a class in… something. The subject would be Edith’s concern. With any luck, Mabel could become Edith’s headache.
The way Carlotta lured Mabel into her car was this.
At the Art League, Carlotta opened her eyes wide and crooked her finger at Mabel, inviting her to come and take a gander at the catalog of The Center for Deeper Understanding. She intimated that she was sharing this with Mabel alone.
Mabel crowed, “Well, this looks real interesting! Let’s get the whole gang in on it!”
Carlotta shushed her and said that the Club did not appreciate this fascinating place—in fact, they disapproved of it. That got Mabel’s attention.
“Disapprove?” Mabel looked dumbfounded. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
Carlotta’s imagination easily re
sponded to that image, and she smiled.
Mabel smiled back.
“So,” said Mabel, “it’s just the two of us, then?”
“Yes,” said Carlotta. “Just us two.”
“That will be real nice,” said Mabel, with feeling. “You know, I was beginning to get the idea that you didn’t like me. And now you invite me to this interesting place! Well, which class is it we’re going to take?”
Carlotta and Mabel turned the pages of the catalog. The two women perused, together. Carlotta had no intention of taking a class with Mabel. She would just get her interested in one of them, and sign her up.
Photographing Nature Spirits: An inexpensive camera or phone camera works best. We will gather in the flower garden for this class. Learn how to photograph the spirits and sprites that escape our corporeal view. You will be amazed at the images you collect.
Developing Intuition: In this three-part course, learn the steps to reading minds, predicting the future and connecting with the dear departed. This class will be held in the Third Eye Room.
Crystals for Deep Healing. Taught by Edith Butler. Do stones have spirits? Are crystals alive? How can crystals be used to heal the body? How can you use crystals for contacting the spirit realm? If you have asked yourself these questions, this class is for you!
Drumming Fun: Gather in a circle and drum for a non-stop two-hour session with instructor Daphne Cook. Participants report mental changes.
Fencing: Try this elegant sport. You will use a foil, and will begin with the “en garde,” or “ready stance.” You will learn basic footwork, simple attacks, and defense as you practice friendly fencing bouts. Instructor Stanley Oppenheimer is your challenging and knowledgeable teacher.
Mabel looked up from the catalog with a sharp intake of breath. To Carlotta’s horror, she cried, “Fencing! You would really take the fencing class with me?”
Carlotta hesitated. This was not what she had in mind at all. Her vision was to drop Mabel at the door and let Edith deal with her—and swallow her up, if she wished. Then Mabel delivered the deciding blow.
“You’re in pretty good shape for a woman your age. I can’t say you’re not. Of course, you’re not as active as I am. But don’t let that scare you, Carlotta. I’ll go easy on you.”
The nerve. The presumption. The aspersion.
Now she would have to put Mabel in her place.
-35-
It seemed that the little girl was mute. Had Thundercloud, in her weariness, forgotten to mention it? The child did not speak with her mouth, but her wide and expressive brown eyes took in everything, and there seemed to be a storm of emotions going on behind them. Her face, however, remained controlled and neutral. Hope rattled on, asking questions, giving information, and taking her new daughter on a tour of their home. With a stabbing pain of inadequacy, Hope suddenly realized: she had no idea how to talk to a child. Was there a special way to do it? She had thought she was so prepared, researching online and taking courses. Now she realized, she had rarely spoken to a child since she was one herself. Well, there were the children of friends and customers. But that was different. And there was her cousin Summer. When Summer was Queen’s age, nine years old, Hope was nineteen. But Summer, as a child, was nothing like this little silent creature.
Opening the door to the small, ivory-colored bedroom that was to be Queen’s, Hope stood back to observe the child for a moment. She had to force herself to stop chattering. The little girl did not look nine, in Hope’s limited idea of what a nine-year-old should look like. She was so tiny; she appeared to be closer to six. Could there be a mistake about her age?
Hope watched as Queen stepped slowly into the bedroom, looked all around, and carefully laid her backpack on the white dresser. There was a dignity about this child, despite her narrow shoulders and her delicate little body. She wore very thick eye glasses with round frames, giving her the appearance of a miniature librarian. Her hair was in braids with colorful beads, and Hope wondered if she would be good at doing Queen’s hair. She was afraid she wouldn’t be. In addition to learning how to talk to a child, she would have to learn how to style a black girl’s hair.
“This is your room, Queen,” said Hope.
Hope stepped in and opened some drawers.
“You can put your clothes in here,” she said.
Queen looked briefly at Hope, and then away, at the lace panel curtains, the white comforter on the twin bed, the stuffed monkey and bear linking arms in the white wicker chair. Hope could not read her feelings.
Hope showed Queen the white secretary desk, stocked with new colored pencils and drawing paper, and for the first time saw a glimmer of pleasure pass over the little girl’s face.
“Is there anything you want to ask me?” asked Hope, wishing the child would speak.
The little girl looked around the room and sighed deeply. Without looking at Hope, she shook her head, ever so slightly.
“Well, that’s okay. It’s been a tough day for you, I guess.” She tried to imagine what Queen must have experienced. The kid had woken up in one home, not knowing that she’d be spending the night somewhere else. And what had she done to deserve being kicked out? Hope still didn’t know.
“You can take a bath before bed, if you want,” said Hope uncertainly. Was she supposed to help a nine-year-old in the bath, or did children of that age bathe themselves? Should she leave Queen alone in her room to have a little peace and privacy? Or did the child need Hope to be present and reassuring? She despaired that she had no idea how to be a mother.
“Well, then,” said Hope, “it’s about nine o’clock. I’m going to start getting ready for bed, myself. Do you need my help to get ready for bed?”
Queen folded her arms and arched an eyebrow at Hope. Hope thrilled at this eloquent communication. It felt almost like talking.
“I’ll take that as a no,” laughed Hope.
She went into her own room across the hall from Queen’s. As she opened her pajama drawer, she heard a voice at her doorway.
“Ahem.”
Hope looked up to see Queen pointing to Hope’s bed.
“I thought you said you live alone,” said Queen, and her voice was sweet and stronger than Hope would have thought it to be.
“I do,” said Hope.
Queen raised her chin in challenge.
“Then why you got two pillows on your bed?” asked Queen. Her tone said, don’t lie to me.
Hope laughed with relief. They were talking.
“Why do I have two pillows? Well, I guess because it looks more balanced that way, don’t you think?”
Queen did not have an opinion to share on that matter. Before turning back to her bedroom, she announced, “If I don’t like it here, I will leave. Just so you know.”
Hope sat up in bed, searching YouTube videos on her phone. “How to Style Black Girls’ Hair.” The African American mother-hair stylist on the little screen spoke smoothly, showing the steps as she went.
“Condition the hair well, with this apple cider vinegar mixture. You want to use liberal amounts, and make sure every single strand of hair has moisturizing conditioner. Just let that sit for fifteen minutes. Then, you rinse it out very, very thoroughly. Now, take your wide toothed comb and detangle. You have to section off the hair into pony tails. Be careful. Don’t pull the hair too tightly.”
Hope watched the little girl in the video standing patiently as the hair care routine went on and on. Would Queen let Hope do her hair like that? Would Hope get the instructions wrong and mess up the child’s hair? If she messed it up, how would it get fixed? Did she need to find an African American salon in Buffalo? Did Queen do her own hair?
“Now,” said the confident lady on YouTube, “you use this greasy-based pomade to lay the hair down. You use your little black rubber bands now. Watch how I twist and roll each little pony tail, all the way down to the bottom. Then I secure it with a cute barrette. That’s all there is to it!”
The little girl in the vide
o glowed with self-esteem, her hair done just right, by a woman who knew how.
Where, wondered Hope, did you find those little black rubber bands?
-36-
“The only reason Carlotta hasn’t joined us in any of our outings with Mabel,” said Lorraine, “is because she can’t boss Mabel the way she bosses the rest of us. The way she’s bossed us for years.”
Lorraine and Birdie were walking buddies. Every morning at nine a.m., Birdie would appear on the sidewalk in front of Lorraine’s house. Lorraine would hurry out and give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and they began their power walk through Gibbons Corner.
“Let’s walk by the lake today,” Lorraine had proposed. “There’s not much wind.”
The two old friends powered along the lake shore, huffing and puffing. Lorraine continued to pontificate.
“You know what Mabel is? I’ll tell you what she is. Mabel is a great example of a person who is not controlled by other people, and not controlling, either. She has fun, and she doesn’t even turn to see if anyone is following her. When we brainstorm with Mabel, it’s real brainstorming, not like when Carlotta makes us think we’re coming up with ideas, when the truth is, she’s already figured out what she’s going to make us all do.”
“But I love Carlotta. I thought you loved Carlotta, too,” gasped Birdie as she ran to keep up with Lorraine.
“Don’t give me this right now, Birdie. Love Carlotta. Jeesh. Of course I love Carlotta. She’s my best friend.”
“Then why are you so resentful?”
“You know why I’m resentful? I’ll tell you why I’m resentful. I am getting too old to put up with her manipulations!”
“—and her snobbishness?” added Birdie.
“—and her smugness!”
“—and her superiority?”
“—and her airs!”
“—and her insecurity?”
“Insecurity?” Lorraine laughed with scorn. “Now you’re psychoanalyzing her.”
“Of course, she’s insecure. Why else…?”
