by Keziah Frost
Change, when it comes to a person, can happen slowly or it can happen quickly. It all depends on a person’s readiness for that change to come and offer itself as a shining possibility, an opportunity to grow more fully into oneself. And it also depends on the person’s connection to the catalyst for change. In this case, the catalyst was a vulnerable and dignified nine-year-old with a love of reading.
Hope’s silly idea of fostering a child didn’t seem so silly any more, now that Carlotta saw how she, herself, could have a starring role in this story. This little girl could be her disciple. Queen could grow to be a credit to her, and Carlotta could be admired by everyone for the natural educator and mentor that she was. Who needed a Club of old ladies of inferior intelligence, when one had a bright child to mold?
“Tell me, Queen, how did you learn to think about books and understand them as you do?”
“My mother used to read to me,” said Queen.
Carlotta’s assumption about Queen’s mother toppled and shattered. A new image of the child’s background was forming in her mind. A wise and nurturing mother, one who loved books and who knew the importance of passing on that love to her daughter.
“Did she, really?”
“Yes. Every night.” Queen drank the last drops of her tea, and placed the cup in the saucer with care. “That was before she went to the Place.”
“What Place?”
Queen’s face puckered. “I don’t like to say it.”
Carlotta tilted her head and tried to imagine what Place Queen could be referring to.
Queen, tracing the lace pattern of the table cloth, whispered, “Prison.” Emotions moved over Queen’s face, until at last she said simply, “I call it the Place. I don’t like that other word.”
Carlotta’s new image of Queen’s mother faded and dissolved. Prison? Hope hadn’t mentioned that the child’s mother was in prison. No doubt she thought that this information would prejudice Carlotta against the child. As if Carlotta were in any way judgmental.
Should she ask Queen about her mother? But Queen had a question of her own.
“Be that as it may, Mrs. Moon. What is your favorite book, and why?”
-57-
The next morning, Lorraine burst in on Carlotta as she was putting away her morning’s literary labors.
“The show!”
“What show?”
“Our show! It’s on today. It starts in five minutes!”
Lorraine hugged and kissed Carlotta, and then pushed past her and hurried down to the den, with Carlotta following, saying, “And good morning to you, Lorraine.”
Lorraine turned on the TV and sat on the couch, patting the spot next to her for Carlotta.
“Is your TV broken?” Carlotta was the sarcastic one today.
“What? No, of course not. I want you to see this.” Lorraine glanced at Carlotta. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Carlotta began to answer, but Lorraine said, “Shush.”
To be shushed in my own home!
The music accompanying the opening credits was a banjo instrumental of “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah,” while the title that rolled out over the yellow gingham background read: “In the Kitchen with Margaret.” And then, there was blue-eyed Margaret, in her home kitchen, brightly describing the savory wonderfulness of the vegetable curry dish she was about to prepare, “for all of you out there in television land.”
Carlotta folded her arms and leaned back, studying the production with a critical eye. Overall, it was an amateurish effort. The camera shook, giving the impression of an earthquake that the cook was ignoring in her determination to start her curry. Margaret repeated herself often. She also left long moments of silence. The lighting was bad.
There was a break and a cut to the next scene, where Margaret, back to the camera, was talking while rinsing rice, and the water drowned out her voice. Margaret flipped off the faucet, turned to the camera with a big grin, and resumed, “I can’t say it isn’t!”
Carlotta leaned forward. “That’s not Margaret. That’s Mabel!”
Lorraine nodded and winked at Carlotta. “Isn’t it a scream?”
“You put Mabel in one of Margaret’s polka dotted dresses and took away her baseball cap.”
“Yep!”
“What for?”
“For fun. It’s fun, to see if we can pass off one as the other!”
Before Carlotta could share her own opinion, there was another awkward cut to a new scene, and on-screen Mabel called out, “Who’s hungry?”
“We are!” called Carlotta’s Club, and there they all were (with the notable exception of Carlotta herself), sitting around Margaret’s table, eating vegetable curry and complimenting the cook. “Mmmm. Sure is good,” said Norbert’s voice. They were all so happy and busy without Carlotta. It was sickening.
From the TV, Mabel’s raucous voice called out, “Well, that’s all for this time. Bye for now!”
TV-Margaret whined, “Oh! That was my line.”
Mabel reasoned, “Well you didn’t say it. Someone’s got to say it. Say it, then, honey.”
Margaret put her face into the camera and said with satisfaction, “Bye for now!”
The credits rolled. Director: Mabel Paine. Producer: Mabel Paine. Talent: Margaret Birch. Camera 1: Birdie Walsh. Camera 2: Norbert Zelenka. Camera 3: Lorraine Andretta. Set design: Margaret Birch. Character Generator: Norbert Zelenka. A production of GBC TV, Gibbons Corner, New York.
Carlotta could feel Lorraine looking at her, proud that she had been on television and waiting for Carlotta to admire her.
“Well, don’t worry about it too much, Lorraine. One comfort is, nobody watches community TV. No one will see it.”
“Oh, no one will see it, huh?”
“Of course not. With four hundred channels to watch, no one will ever know about it.”
“Oh, yeah? Even though this episode has already aired five times this week, in different time slots?”
Carlotta paused, uncertain.
“Because the young men at the station who decide on the scheduling like it so much, they are giving it lots of air time.”
Carlotta opened her eyes wide, and put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, dear. Lorraine. Do you think they are laughing at you? Elderly people making fools of themselves? They wouldn’t be so cruel, would they?”
“Carlotta Moon!” Lorraine’s eyes blazed. “Just listen to yourself! What’s wrong with you?”
Carlotta didn’t meet Lorraine’s gaze, but found something absorbing to study in the corner of the ceiling.
“You know what, Carlotta? You could be having fun with us, too. You could be in the show. You could come to the Alibi with us after each filming. We all have a glass of wine. Well, maybe Mabel might have two glasses of wine. We have a nice time together, and we all want you to be part of it. But do you join in? No. You don’t. You always pretend you’re busy.”
“Lorraine, I’ve already told you. I am busy. I am writing a book.”
“And why is it that I can be happy for you, that you are enjoying writing your book finally, but you can’t be happy for me, that I am having fun with our friends—yeah, and Mabel—while you write it? Tell me that, wouldja? I’m prouda you and the book you’re writing.”
Carlotta thought Lorraine wouldn’t be, if she knew how she was portrayed as Bernadette Arnold in How Sharper than a Serpent’s Tooth.
Lorraine resumed, “Is it just because you always have to be the one with the Big Idea? You always have to be the boss?”
There are some things that can never be forgiven. One of them is to be told an unflattering truth by a dear friend.
As Carlotta accompanied Lorraine to the door, they were both quiet, absorbed in dark thoughts about each other. Their old friendship was crumbling under the hurricane-like influence of Mabel.
-58-
Carlotta stood, well-dressed in a sky blue blouse, navy pants and good walking shoes, in front of Central Elementary School. S
he was following orders from Hope, to pick Queen up at 2:45. Carlotta thought it was ridiculous to pick children up. She stood among the young mothers in yoga pants who chatted among themselves and tapped at their cell phones while keeping watchful eyes on the school door. Why didn’t children today walk home with their friends? Carlotta’s house was only six blocks away. But Hope had insisted that Queen was still getting her bearings, and continued to need close monitoring, considering her penchant for “running away.” Carlotta had insisted that going to the library was not “running away,” but she had agreed to do things Hope’s way.
“You are the mother,” Carlotta had said. “I’m not going to thwart you.”
“Thank you, Aunty,” and Carlotta had heard the gratitude in Hope’s voice. “Now,” Hope had continued, “when she gets to your house, she’ll need a snack, and then you go through her backpack and get her started on homework.”
Hope had carried on giving instructions that Carlotta heard with disdain. Homework was children’s business. What one wanted in a child was independence. Independence was fostered by staying out of the child’s affairs, and putting one’s attention on things more interesting to oneself. She had no intention of becoming one of those—what were they all being now—helicopters? No, she was not and never would be a helicopter.
Carlotta’s musings were interrupted by the bursting forth of an unruly mob from the bowels of the school. Out poured children of all sizes, some hollering and laughing, some walking slowly with papers spilling out of unzipped backpacks. Chubby, skinny, exuberant and exhausted, there were all kinds of children. They all had one thing in common. They were all white. Except for one solitary black girl who stood still in the middle of the throng, blinking in the sun and looking around.
In the seconds before Carlotta stepped forward to claim Queen, she had the realization that she had rarely in her life considered race. Being a white woman in a white town, she hadn’t needed to. She had never thought of anyone as particularly “Caucasian” before. But this afternoon, she saw before her a sea of Caucasian faces. From the corner of her eye she did at last spy—with a sense of relief—a sprinkling of Hispanics and a pair of Asians. But there was only one African American child in that entire horde of children: hers.
Carlotta walked away from the school with one hand holding Queen’s and the other swinging a bag from Butler’s Books. Lorraine had already bought the child one paperback classic. Fine. Carlotta had now bought three hardcovers. Classics, of course, every bit as good as Lorraine’s choice. She anticipated Queen’s pleasure on reading the titles: Charlotte’s Web, Alice through the Looking Glass, and Little Women. An assortment of interesting and independent heroines. But, Carlotta now realized with a stab of uncertainty, none of these heroines was black. Why had the thought not occurred to her before that Queen might like a book about an interesting and independent black girl? Were there such books? Carlotta didn’t know. She would have to make another trip to consult Arnie at the book store.
“Queen, you remember my friend Lorraine?”
“Mrs. Andretta?
Carlotta was pleased at this child’s good manners. Sometimes she had the impression that the titles “Miss,” “Mrs.” and “Mr.” were going away. That would be a terrible shame.
“Yes! Mrs. Andretta. She is not only my friend, but also my neighbor. We’re going to stop at her house on our way home, just to say hello. And I have a little present for you,” added Carlotta in a sing-song-y voice, “right here in this bag, and you can open it after we get to Mrs. Andretta’s.”
Queen smiled up at Carlotta.
“I already know. It’s a book, isn’t it?” She looked with interest around Carlotta, at the bag she was carrying.
“That would be telling,” sang Carlotta.
Although she was still nursing a grudge against her old friend, she would be stopping by Lorraine’s today just long enough to parade Queen in front of her, showing herself to be a young-at-heart, energetic caregiver of a nine-year-old child. And while she was at it, she could demonstrate that her own gift to Queen surpassed Lorraine’s.
Lorraine lived in a red brick bungalow with leaded windows. On her stone front porch were stainless steel dishes from which she fed the feral cats in the neighborhood (as well as those outdoor cats who pushed in for an extra free buffet).
Peering around to be sure no felines were lurking in the shadows, Carlotta stepped up to the doorbell and rang. After waiting three seconds, she put a key in the lock and let herself and Queen in.
“Woo-ooo!” sang Carlotta in a forceful soprano.
Queen laughed. “Woo-ooo!” she imitated in exactly the same pitch.
Queen looked around at the arts and crafts-y style house, taking in the solid lines and abundant dark wood. “This is a pretty house,” she commented to Carlotta, who tossed her head.
Lorraine emerged from her den at the back of the house, drying her hands on a towel. She had been painting, and was wearing a large white smock, stained with pigment.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in!”
Lorraine and Carlotta kissed cheeks.
“We’re just stopping by, on our way home from school.” Carlotta placed a hand on Queen’s shoulder.
“What can I get for yooz?” Lorraine turned to Queen. “You want some cookies? I’ll get out some cookies. Come on back.”
Queen and Carlotta followed Lorraine through her living room and dining room, and into her kitchen.
“I’ll put the kettle on for your Aunt Carlotta. She always wants tea. I never drink the stuff, myself.”
“She’s not my aunt.”
“Oh. Well. All righty then.”
“She’s Mrs. Moon. And you’re Mrs. Andretta. Hope wanted me to call you all ‘aunts’ and ‘uncle,’ too. But I decided to call you ‘Mrs.’ and ‘Mr.’ Except for Hope. She’s just Hope.”
“That sounds very appropriate, young lady.” Lorraine put a plate of Girl Scout cookies on the table. “And whadda ya like to drink?”
“I like tea, like Mrs. Moon. With sugar, please. Thank you.”
Lorraine arched an eyebrow at Carlotta, who understood her to communicate, A little tea drinker, huh? Please and thank you already. I don’t see so many behavior problems here. They’d been best friends for a very long time, and a lot could be communicated by an eyebrow.
“Whatcha got in the bag?”
“Oh!” said Carlotta. “This? I picked up a little gift for Queen just before school let out. She hasn’t even had a chance to open it yet.” With a light laugh, she gave the bag to Queen.
Both Queen and Lorraine gave satisfactory reactions to the books Carlotta had selected.
Lorraine approved the title choices: “No child’s library is complete without these!”
Queen said, “Hardcovers,” and there was reverence in her voice. “Thank you.”
“You are very welcome, my dear.” Generously, Carlotta added, “That was a nice book Mrs. Andretta gave you, too.”
“I started reading it already. The Secret Garden. I like that title. I keep it in my backpack and take it out for silent reading time at school. I still haven’t got to the part where she snoops to find the garden and the crying person. So far, looks like she’s a girl no one wants, because she has a bad attitude.”
“Some of the best protagonists in literature have a bad attitude,” asserted Carlotta.
She was pleased with Queen and tempted to continue the book discussion, but this was not the time. When adults were speaking, children needed to be seen and not heard. Making a child the center of things was a sure way to wind up with an insufferable brat that no one would like. Children, believed Carlotta, needed to be able to entertain themselves. Life was not all Disneyworld all the time. Besides, Carlotta needed to speak to Lorraine privately, and give her an opportunity to apologize for the true and unkind statements she had made the day before.
“Queen, Hope wants you to get started on your homework after school. You can stay here in the kitchen
with your tea and cookies, and get your work out of your backpack. Mrs. Andretta and I will be in the living room, talking.”
Queen, heaping sugar into her tea cup, nodded.
The conversation in the living room began on the safe topic of literature.
“What are you reading?”
Lorraine brandished a thick black paperback. “You gotta read this. So maybe it’s not so much your idea of literary. But it’s good! A best-selling thriller! It’s such a page-turner.”
“Let me guess. An unreliable narrator? No one is who they seem to be? The bad turn out to be not so bad, and the good turn out to be the worst of all?”
“You’ve read it?”
“I don’t need to, dear, do I?”
“Okay. I get it. Well, what are you reading then? Something so much smarter, right?”
“Lorraine. You make it sound as though I pick out books based on some wish of mine to impress people with my intellect.”
Pause.
“It just so happens I’m re-reading one of my favorites: To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf.”
Carlotta, as it happened, was not re-reading that classic. She was neither re-reading it nor reading it. She had never read it. Her copy had sat undisturbed on its shelf for forty years. She had read a quick summary of it just that morning in How to Discuss Classics You Haven’t Read, in case Lorraine would challenge her. Lorraine, however, appeared docile today, and ready to take Carlotta at her word. This was Lorraine’s tacit—and inadequate—apology for her honesty of the day before: to pretend to accept Carlotta’s pretension.
“Is that the one where she spends five pages talking about the drizzling rain, fuh crissake?” asked Lorraine. “You always pick the hardest books.”
Carlotta laughed her tinkling laugh. “Oh, Lorraine.”
Lorraine might fawn, but Carlotta had not gotten the apology she was after. Her resentment festered.
However, there was something more she hoped to get at Lorraine’s: a teacher’s informal assessment of Queen’s intelligence. She lowered her voice, as best as she was able. “This little girl, now.” She glanced through the dining room and into the kitchen, but Queen was no longer at the table. She must have got up to find the bathroom. “She’s very interesting, isn’t she?”
