by Robin Farmer
I turn the page to a powder blue suit perfect for Easter when the gum chewer stops by us.
“Youse Chuck’s daughter, right? That has to be you under all that beautiful thick hair.”
I look up, search her face. The mole on her cheek and her top heaviness seem familiar.
“It’s me.” I try to remember her name. Her flowery perfume itches my nose.
Bonnie nudges me with her knee. Men up front are turned in their seats, checking out the rear view of her tight jeans.
“Your huge, pretty bush influenced my new look.” She shakes her wig.
“That’s sad,” Bonnie whispers.
“How’s your daddy doing?” Her smile reveals lipstick-stained teeth. I recall not liking her when Daddy introduced us when I rode with him before, around the time school started. Nothing has changed. I rub my nose.
“My father is fine. My mother, too.”
Bonnie covers her chuckles with coughing.
The woman raises her eyebrow at Bonnie. She sits across from us next to a grandfatherly dude who studies her bodacious boobies.
“Like I was saying.” Bonnie’s rude tone makes me giggle.
We go back to studying the catalogue until throat clearing distracts us. I look over at her.
“I don’t know what your momma looks like, but you the spitting image of your father.”
She’s annoying, like a fly buzzing around my dessert. “I’ll tell him you said hello. What’s your name, again?”
“Miss Wiggy Titty,” Bonnie whispers.
“He, my friends call me Peaches,” she says with a knowing smirk. “And he calls you ‘Precious.’” She snaps her fingers, squints in concentration. “Nah, it’s ‘Pumpkin,’ right?”
I flinch. Her voice annoys me like squeaking chalk. “My name is Roberta.”
“Well, Roberta, if I see your daddy, I’ll tell him I ran into you.” Her blazing smile is pure evil.
Bonnie’s mouth hangs open. Hairs on my neck rise. This hussy acts like she knows more than she’s saying. Could this be the woman Mom was talking about on the phone a few summers ago? My heart clenches like a fist. I need to connect some dots.
“Oh, you live near Uncle Jimmy?”
“No, sugah,” she says, smiling.
“Wow, something stinks on this trolley,” Bonnie says, fanning her nose.
Peaches tilts forward in her seat to directly eyeball Bonnie, who stares back.
“I’m not a toy, don’t play with me, little girl.” She lifts her chin and pops her gum.
I nudge Bonnie to look away. Peaches starts talking to the man next to her who I suspect wants to be her Living Bra.
“I can’t wait to tell Mom about this chick,” I whisper to Bonnie.
“Nah, she has nothing on your mom except weight and a wig,” she cackles.
Whispering and giggling nonstop, we invent a slew of wickedly funny insults about Peaches. She rolls her eyes so hard at us, we cross our fingers, hoping they get stuck.
When I tell Mom about Peaches, I study her reaction. Nothing changes on her face, not even a hint of concern. Her movements are loose and easy as she reads a recipe.
“You know your father is a big flirt. But some of these fast women out here think his attention means more than it does.”
“But she seemed like she was insinuating something. Right, Bonnie?”
“Yes, Mrs. Forest. I wanted to tell her and her funky breath off. She reminds me of something my grandma says—it don’t matter how good looking the salad is if the dressing is bad.”
We chuckle at Bonnie’s indignation. I’m glad she’s staying overnight. Having her here lessens the tension between Mom and me.
Color-struck Bonnie, who never saw a light-skinned person who was ugly, is my Mom’s biggest fan. Mom tops her list of beautiful people.
“Don’t get in trouble over me,” Mom says, hugging Bonnie. “I’ll call you two when dinner is ready.” She shoos us out of the kitchen.
I’m sprawled on my bed with a book. Belly down on her sleeping quilt devouring the latest issue of Right On! magazine, Bonnie squeals and points to a headline: “Upcoming Contests in 1974.”
“For Black History Week, they are holding a national essay contest. You should enter.”
My dismissive wave couldn’t be more lazy. “You know how many of their stupid contests I’ve entered? I can’t even win a free subscription.”
“Girl, this is national. But I know your heart is set on our contest. I hope you beat Eileen this year. I’m sick of her winning everything.”
“I better. Want to play some more records?” I say as Mom pushes the door open.
“Hey you two, have you ever seen The Trouble with Angels? It’s coming on now.”
Nodding like a dashboard bobblehead, Bonnie pops up from the floor and dashes out the door to accept Mom’s invitation without even asking me if I want to see the stupid movie.
“I think you’ll like it,” Mom says, waiting in the doorway. “It’s about these two Catholic girls who are known troublemakers getting into all kinds of mischief.” Mom smiles. “Sounds like some people I know. I believe part of it was filmed in Ambler.”
“How does it end?”
“Come see. I’ll make some popcorn and root beer floats.”
I wanted Bonnie to myself, but Mom is trying hard to connect. I force myself downstairs to watch one of her favorite movies with my best friend.
Two hours later we watch the credits roll in silence on the sofa, Bonnie wedged between Mom and me. What started off a light-hearted story about two friends who stayed in trouble with their nuns took an unexpected turn when the most rebellious teen decided to become a nun. The biggest surprise for me is she kept her decision a secret from her friend until after graduation.
“Wow, I did not see that ending coming. You’re right, Mom, it was good.” I keep to myself how moved I am. If Bonnie wasn’t here, I would have cried a couple of times.
“They should make a Black version and star us.” Bonnie laughs and reaches for the bowl of popcorn. She grabs a handful and passes the bowl to Mom, who doesn’t respond.
“Mrs. Forest, are you okay?” Bonnie’s face creases with concern.
I look at Mom, who brushes away tears. Is she crying over Daddy?
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“I love this movie. It always gets to me,” she says, with a sheepish grin.
Whew! I slouch back with the popcorn bowl.
“My grandma does the same thing when she watches sad movies,” Bonnie says, laughing.
“I love the friendship between the girls and the way Mary changes. Just shows you can’t give up on people.” Mom sounds wistful. Is she talking about Daddy?
“Yes,” Bonnie says laughing. “Don’t give up on Roberta.”
We laugh as Mom searches in her pocketbook.
“If they made a Black version, they should get the Black nun with the Afro to play the Mother Superior role,” Bonnie says.
“What Black nun?” Mom asks, pausing.
“The one that is a figment of her imagination,” I answer. “She’s the only who saw her.”
“Mrs. Forest, cross my heart and hope to die, I saw her several times, although not in recent years.”
“I believe you, honey,” Mom says, chuckling. She hands me a dollar. “Get some more popcorn. The root beer floats will be ready when you return. Watch whatever you want when you get back. I’m going upstairs to read.”
It’s a chilly fall night. We wait on the corner under the street light for a car missing a muffler to pass.
“Can you believe she became a nun at the end?” I say.
Bonnie responds with a lopsided twist of her lips, shorthand for “hell no.” She’s quick to do that when she doesn’t feel like talking, and it irks me.
“It caught me off guard, but it makes sense,” I say.
Bonnie suddenly becomes fascinated with her chipped fingernail polish. We know each other all too well. She knows that I know she
is deliberately ignoring me when she knows I am trying to make a point I want her to agree with, even though I know she has already made her mind up. Best friends can work your last good nerve like no other.
“Mary Clancy kept watching Mother Superior remember? She felt a connection, maybe sensed they had more in common than she originally thought. That’s why they clashed,” I say as we round a corner.
Bonnie whips her head around, narrows her eyes, and shoots me an “are you nuts” look. “If you are confessing that you suddenly understand Sister Elizabeth and you are planning on becoming a nun instead of a writer, I might have to call you out for a fair one and knock some sense into you right here, right now.”
I unload a playful jab to her arm. “In case you forgot, we both wanted to be nuns back in first grade.”
Bonnie cackles, pauses, and turns serious. “Before we realized how much fun sinning is.”
Laughter from deep in my belly pours out. The kind that feels best when laughing at something one shouldn’t.
We giggle-snort as we enter the new corner store owned by Mr. Whitby, an older Black man everyone adores. We stop at the Tastykake rack.
I finger a package of butterscotch Krimpets, then chocolate. Mentally I bite each snack and compare. Bonnie bumps me back to reality.
“Don’t tell me that you’re going soft on Sister.”
I grab the Krimpets and head toward the register, Bonnie trailing me. “She ruined my life. What do you think?”
CHAPTER 16
“I’m coming in with my daughter, so watch the language.” Daddy tucks a warning into his words as we enter the crowded barbershop.
“Ah, she’s as pretty as can be. Must look like your wife,” says Jerome, the bald shop owner I met last summer. He grins so hard I see all his teeth.
“Thank you, Mr. Jerome. Hello, everyone.” I pick up several Jets to read while Daddy waits for a chair to get his Afro shaped up.
Greetings come from every direction in the shop. I recognize Ricardo, who plays chess, and a gap-toothed barber named Bennie. I spot a couple of fine boys with glorious cheekbones and perfect Afros watching me. Good thing I’m not light enough to blush. They’re so cute it hurts to even glance at them.
Daddy sits next to me with his Malcolm book, which I finally returned.
“We were just talking about Malcolm,” says Jerome. “You just reading his book, Charles? You kinda late brother.”
“I’m re-reading it. Roberta just read it for the first time.”
“Pretty and smart,” Jerome says.
“And you know it. So what’s the debate?” Dad asks.
“Listen to these fools and see if you can figure it out,” says a pretty mother waiting with her young son. She smiles at Daddy. I lay my head on his shoulder.
“As I was saying, with all due respect, Reverend Doctor, the Bible also says an eye for an eye!” Bennie says, sharpening a long razor blade against a shiny black strap. He presses the blade against Reverend Doctor’s neck and scrapes off the hairy white foam. The shaved skin looks butter smooth.
“That’s Old Testament,” the reverend replies. “The Bible of Jesus Christ and his disciples is what we should live by. Malcolm X wasn’t a Christian. We need to put that Black Muslim foolishness aside and—”
“Reverend Doctor, the white man’s Jesus kept us in chains,” shouts a young man wearing wrap-around sunglasses, jeans, a worn denim jacket and a T-shirt with the words “Ready for Revolution.” A bushy Afro and beard frame his handsome ebony face. I remember seeing him at the Malcolm X documentary.
“Bennie, you need to take them whiteys off your wall. Black folks always crying about JFK, but he didn’t do nothin’ for black folks. And Bobby and J. Edgar Hoover spied on Martin!”
“There’s no need to disrespect Malcolm,” says Jerome, as he snips the loose ends of a teenager’s Afro with a pair of scissors. “You’re talking about the old Malcolm. I just read his autobiography. He did a pilgrimage to Mecca and concluded that all men are one in the eyes of Allah. He became El Hajj Malik El Shabazz, embraced brotherhood, and rejected separatism.”
“And what did that change of heart get Malcolm but a bunch of bullets?” asks Ricardo. “Black folks still catching hell, white folks dishing it. And you’re talking about nonviolence? I’ll be damned.”
“Fool, men as Black as you and me killed Malcolm,” Jerome says, spreading his arm. “Yeah, maybe the CIA was involved, but Black men pulled the trigger. I’m more afraid of these crazy brothers out here than any white man.”
He raises his chubby frame from his seat and stomps toward the soda machine. He drops a coin in the slot, pulls out a Yoo-hoo chocolate soda and takes a long swig.
“I’m gonna tell you the truth, man,” he says to no one in particular. “I like the old Malcolm better.”
I watch this play out in awe. The barbershop is a place where a man can hold a blade to another man’s throat and no one thinks twice of it, even as the men argue. A young man can go toe-to-toe with one of the community elders without being put in his place. Here, everyone seems equal, and everyone has an opinion. But where I stood in this debate, I wasn’t entirely sure.
It takes forever for Daddy to get his hair clipped. We miss the matinee and have to go to a later show. Then we walk in and learn Mom-Mom isn’t feeling well, so we’re spending the night. She goes to bed shortly after dinner, and we pull out the Scrabble game. I love having Daddy to myself.
“That was a great conversation about Malcolm and religion in the barbershop,” I say.
“Yup,” he says, flipping channels. He settles on a sports program. Ugh. I scramble to think of a question that requires a discussion.
“Why didn’t you want us to go to Catholic school?” I blurt.
“Your mom and I disagree about the whole school issue,” he says with a bemused smile. “She will not budge,” he fingers his goatee, “one iota. She thinks desegregation makes a difference. I say the goal should be equity of educational opportunities. While we march for equality, the white man builds equity.” He shrugs. “But what do I know? She got some college in her.” A wide grin lights up his face. “You think that trumps my PhD in street sense?”
I burst out laughing. “All the nopers in Noperville say nope.”
Daddy laughs.
I grow serious. “A teacher wouldn’t scream at me to go back to Africa in an all-Black school.”
“Maybe not. But you’re kicking butt academically at a mostly white school. It’s preparing you to compete with them at an early age. For that, I gotta give your mother credit.” He studies my face with listen-to-me eyes. “Cut your mom some slack. You two fight because you’re just alike.” He heads into the kitchen.
“I’m nothing like her,” I huff. “I don’t look like her, think like her, or act like her.”
Daddy chuckles as he opens the refrigerator. “Stubborn like her, too. Two peas in a pod.”
I’d rather talk about something else. Or watch something else. Searching the TV Guide, I find gold. “Daddy, there’s a Western on. It started a few minutes ago.”
“Let’s get this party started! Want some ice cream?” he asks.
“Yes, please.” I turn the channel, wishing this night would last forever.
Daddy returns with two bowls, chocolate syrup and a container of ice cream. “Has your mom talked about Thanksgiving plans, yet?” Dad scoops my ice cream first.
“No.” I tense up.
“I’m working and may miss dinner. But we will celebrate Christmas together. I got a big surprise. Keep that between us.”
Yay. I jump up and Soul Train dance as Daddy eggs me on. I’d dance on the moon if I could get up there. In recent weeks, Daddy started dropping by for dinner a few times a week. Guess all of his overtime pay pleases Mom. She’s been downright pleasant. Clearly, he gave up gambling. I think he learned his lesson, and Mom learned hers. Thanks be to God.
Winded, I snuggle next to Daddy in a state of bliss and pretend to watch the La
te Show Movie. Mom-Mom’s TV is old and full of static. She doesn’t know it but we’re getting her a new one for Christmas.
The black-and-white movie has Daddy’s full attention so I daydream about Christmas. Daddy says money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy a Cadillac big enough to pull up next to it. I think if we’re all in the Cadillac and it’s stuffed with gifts, then that’s a fine saying. Christmas is everything, and for the longest I thought it would be ruined if we didn’t celebrate together. Now we will.
At this rate, Daddy may even be home before the writing contest! Still, I need to win it. I dream about strutting across the stage as the best writer in the entire school. Maybe the entire archdiocese.
“For the writing awards program, I’m wearing red, black, and green.”
Fixated on the staticky screen, he shushes me then adjusts the antenna. During a commercial, he faces me. “What was that again?”
“For the awards program coming up, I think I want to wear red, black, and green.”
“The writing awards? Oh, yeah. Good idea,” he says, reaching for his bowl. “My baby, or should I call you Little Malcomvina, wants to wear the colors of Black nationalism. Do you know the story behind the flag?”
I shake my head and wait for him to finish enjoying his scoop of ice cream.
“Marcus Garvey is the man behind it. About seventy years ago, there was a popular song called, ‘Every Race Has a Flag but the Coon.’ Ain’t that something?”
I suck my teeth. Devils.
“That’s where the term ‘coon’ comes from in reference to Black people.” He pinches my cheek and winks. “I’ll wear the colors, too. All of us will.”
“Do you think you’ll be back home before then?”
“You can bet on it,” he says, winking.
The movie resumes, and I lose his attention to old actors on horseback. I’ll get it back soon enough. Any second, the sheer joy I feel will ooze out of my pores like melted butter and cover the squeaky plastic covering Mom-Mom’s sofa. For now, just sitting next to him, watching him hoot and holler and occasionally adjust the antenna, ends wrapped in foil to clear up the fuzzy images, is enough. Happiness whispers in my ears. It’s been fifty-six days since we watched TV together. That I can stop counting soon is enough to shut me up. At least until the commercials.
