“You don’t scare me,” I say.
I clean up the mess again and make another bowl of milk toast. But this time I don’t give it to the mean old lady who’s my grandmother; instead, I sit down in a chair and start eating. She stares at me, her eyes following every spoonful.
“This is delicious,” I say, and smile. “Shame you spilled yours.”
I swear I can see her mouth watering.
When Miss Bea returns, Nana Philly and I are sitting in the parlor.
“Did you two have a nice lunch?”
“We had a lovely time,” I say.
“Would you like to come again tomorrow? Give your poor aunt a break?” Miss Bea asks.
“Sure,” I say, and smile sweetly at Nana Philly. “I’m looking forward to getting to know my grandmother.”
Miss Bea’s waiting for me on the front porch with her shopping basket when I arrive the next afternoon.
“There’s grits-and-grunts-and-gravy on the stove and guava duff for dessert. There’s plenty for both of you,” Miss Bea says. “I’ve got shopping to do, so I might be a while.”
“Take your time,” I say.
“Thank you, Turtle,” she says. “You’re a dear.”
Nana Philly’s in her room looking at her magazine as usual. I notice it’s upside down.
“Must be some real interesting reading you got there,” I say.
The old woman ignores me, so I go into the kitchen. I spoon out two bowls of grits-and-grunts-and-gravy. Folks here eat this all the time. Grunts are little fish and grits are like porridge. That’s the one good thing about Key West: there’s food everywhere—hanging from trees, in the ocean—and it’s all free.
After what happened yesterday at lunch, I figured Nana Philly would have wised up. But I guess you can’t teach a mean old lady new tricks, because the bowl hasn’t been in front of her for more than a moment when her hand knocks it off the table. It falls to the floor in a splatter.
“You know, there sure are a lot of hungry folks who would have liked to eat that,” I say, but all she does is stare at the upside-down magazine a little harder.
I clean up the mess and eat my own lunch with her watching the whole time. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s just like dealing with a rotten kid: if you back down in front of them, they’ll never leave you be.
When I’m finished, I carry a bowl of guava duff out and place it in front of her. She lifts her hand to smack it, but I snatch it away just in time.
“You’re not wasting dessert,” I say. “I’ll eat it.”
I sit down and take a bite. It’s delicious. It tastes a little like plum pudding.
“Miss Bea sure is a good cook.”
Nana Philly pretends to ignore me, but I can tell she’s watching. She reminds me of a lobster, with her beady eyes peeking out at me from under her red hat.
“Mama’s a good cook, too. She makes the best caramel custard. One of our old employers, Mr. Hearn, couldn’t get enough of it. He had her make it four nights a week.”
I study Nana Philly closely. “You know, Mama told me you were dead.”
She glances down quickly, and it comes to me.
“You were mean to her, too, weren’t you?” I ask. “Is that why she hasn’t come back to Key West?”
My grandmother doesn’t look up, and I know the answer to my own question.
“Poor Mama,” I whisper. Chased off by her own mother. No wonder she’s such a wreck.
A shadow crosses Nana Philly’s face and, for a brief moment, I see something like regret in her blue eyes, but then it’s gone.
It happens just like in the Bible: on the third day, there’s a miracle.
“I can tell the old girl’s really looking forward to seeing you today,” Miss Bea says.
I doubt that, but say, “Really?”
“Even had me get out her best hat,” Miss Bea says.
I’m not impressed. I didn’t even want to come here today after what I learned yesterday, but Aunt Minnie got used to me helping out, so I don’t have any choice now. This is what I get for being a good girl.
When I walk into the bedroom, Nana Philly puts down her magazine and looks at me. She’s wearing a royal blue hat with a peacock feather.
“You expecting the queen?” I ask.
Miss Bea has made conch chowder, and it’s simmering on the stove. I fill two bowls and carry them out, placing one in front of Nana Philly. I sit down with my bowl and start eating, waiting to hear her bowl hit the floor. But when I look up, she’s holding the spoon. She brings it to her mouth with her good hand and swallows the chowder.
She takes another spoonful. And another.
Soon her bowl is empty.
“You know,” I say, “I missed seeing a matinee the first day when I came here to give you lunch. It was a Shirley Temple picture.”
Her eyes fly to my face.
“Which is fine by me, because I hate Shirley Temple,” I say.
A corner of my grandmother’s mouth turns up in a crooked smile, and her eyes shine.
“Me thoo,” she says.
12
Hard Times
Everyone’s always saying that hard times bring out the best in people, but far as I can tell, the only thing that hard times bring out is plain meanness. I left my shoes outside on the front porch last night, and some rotten kid stole them.
I loved those shoes. I remember the day Archie bought them for me. He’d taken Mama and me out to lunch at the counter at Woolworth’s. After, Mama was buying me a pair of glue-on soles to help stretch my too-small shoes when Archie stopped her.
“The princess needs new shoes,” he said. “That’s all there is to it.”
He took me to a store where a pal of his worked and bought me a pretty new pair of Mary Janes.
Even though Mama’s fellas were always buying me treats—candy, hair ribbons—the shoes felt different. They were so ordinary, like something that, well, a father would buy. Walking down the street in those new shoes with Archie and Mama, it almost felt like we were a real family.
It’s August now, and everything’s hotter. It rains most days, quick afternoon showers that turn Curry Lane into a bowl of mud. Uncle Vernon’s gone back to Matecumbe, and he took a little bit of Aunt Minnie’s good humor with him.
We’re on the porch as usual. Smokey’s asleep in a patch of sun, and it’s so hot that Termite can’t be bothered to chase her. He lies under the swing, panting in the thick heat.
A bunch of kids come riding down the lane on their bikes. I eye their feet for my stolen shoes, but none of them are even wearing any.
“Who do you think took my shoes?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t put it past Too Bad,” Pork Chop says. “That kid’s got it in for us since we won’t let him be in the gang.”
“Do we have to watch babies today?” Buddy asks.
“We have to watch you every day, Buddy,” Beans says.
Aunt Minnie walks out and drops a basket of laundry in front of me. Termite yelps, startled.
“Your cat made a mess in my clean laundry,” she says through gritted teeth.
Everyone looks at me, and I look at the laundry.
Sure enough, some cat has done something despicable on a lady’s pale blue silk slip.
“Smokey would never do that,” I say. “She knows better.”
“She’s the only cat in the house,” Aunt Minnie says. “That slip’s ruined. I’m gonna have to pay Mrs. Felton for that. I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up owing her more than she owes me.”
“I swear it wasn’t Smokey,” I say. “Maybe it was Buddy.”
“It wasn’t me, Ma!” Buddy says. “I only go in my pants!”
My aunt takes a deep breath and looks down at the laundry and then back up at me.
“If it happens again, the cat’s going,” she says.
Then she picks up the laundry basket and marches back into the house.
Smokey blinks a sleepy eye open.
A few day
s later I’m walking down Grinnell Street, my toes squishing in the mud. I’m tempted to use the money Archie gave me to buy some shoes, but I don’t think this is the kind of emergency he meant.
There’s a bar where the sailors and fishermen like to waste their hard-earned money. Slow Poke’s sitting outside at a little table with another fella.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite deckhand,” he says.
“Hi, Pat,” I say.
“Hi, Terry,” he says.
“So when we going to China?” I ask.
“Whenever you want,” he says.
“Sooner the better. I sure could stand to find that gold mine,” I say. “Some kid stole my shoes.”
“What do you need shoes for, anyhow, Conch kid like you?” Slow Poke teases.
“To walk in,” I say.
The man sitting across from Slow Poke says, “Just like her mother, ain’t she?”
“Believe me, I’m nothing like Mama,” I say.
Slow Poke stares at me. “You do have a little bit of Sadiebelle in you. She wanted to see the world, too.”
“How well did you know my mama, anyway?” I ask. The other man at the table starts choking, like his drink went down the wrong pipe.
Before Slow Poke can answer, Kermit races up to me, Buddy hot on his heels.
“Ma’s burning mad!” Kermit says. “She just about blew her top!”
“Smokey ruined Mrs. Felton’s skirt! She’s in trouble now!” Buddy says, and my heart sinks.
When I reach the house, Aunt Minnie is waiting for me on the front porch, holding out the skirt.
“Please, Aunt Minnie,” I say, “I just know it wasn’t Smokey. She’s never done that before and we’ve lived in a lot of different places. Some other cat must have gotten into the house!”
She doesn’t say a word; she just shakes her head.
The supper dishes are washed and the house is quiet. I’m in my room, trying to figure out what to do with Smokey. If I were Little Orphan Annie, Daddy Warbucks would rescue me and Smokey. But I’m not lucky as an orphan.
“What are we gonna do, Smokey?” I say, rubbing her belly as she stretches on the bed. We’ve never been apart. Having to give her up is almost worse than being sent away from Mama.
Kermit walks in without knocking, Buddy right behind him. The little boy’s got his pajama shirt on backward, but at least he’s got pants on for a change.
“Poor Smokey,” Kermit says.
“I’m gonna miss you!” Buddy says, and lunges for Smokey, but my cat’s too fast. She leaps out of the way.
“I’m not gonna miss your ugly cat,” Beans says, standing in the doorway.
“Who are you gonna give her to?” Kermit asks.
“You should give her to Pork Chop,” Beans suggests.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I’ve seen him with babies.”
A piercing scream rings through the tiny house.
“What was that?” Kermit asks.
“Sounded like Ma. Do you think someone’s tick-tocking us?” Beans asks.
There’s another scream and we all rush downstairs.
I don’t think I’ll ever get the picture out of my head: Aunt Minnie in her cotton nightgown, spinning wildly in circles, smacking her back, and screaming, “Get it off me! Get it off me!”
Buddy is frozen, staring at his mother.
“Get it off me!” Aunt Minnie screams.
“Get what off you, Ma?” Beans asks. “I don’t see anything!”
Kermit turns to me, a fearful expression on his face. “Is Ma going crazy like old Mr. Alvarez? Is she gonna start running naked down Duval Street?”
Aunt Minnie lifts her nightgown over her head and throws it on the ground, clawing at her bare back.
“She is going crazy!” Kermit says in dismay. “She is going crazy!”
But before Aunt Minnie can make it to the doorway, let alone Duval Street, she faints dead away, falling face-first on the wooden floor.
“Aunt Minnie!” I cry.
Smokey, who’s followed us down, runs into the room, hissing at the abandoned nightgown. A huge scorpion, much bigger than the one in the icebox, runs out, tail waving.
Beans yelps, jumping back. “She’s not going crazy, you dummy! She got stung!” he says, then yells, “Buddy! Watch out!”
Buddy blinks as if waking up, and jumps out of the path of the scorpion.
Smokey isn’t scared, though. She starts batting the scorpion around with her paws like it’s a mouse.
“Be careful, Smokey!” I shout.
“I’ll get the rolling pin!” Beans says.
By the time he returns, Smokey’s already done the job: the scorpion’s not moving. But neither is Aunt Minnie.
“Mama’s dead!” Buddy wails, and starts bawling.
I rush over to Aunt Minnie’s side and hear her moan softly.
“She’s not dead,” I say. “But one of you better go fetch a doctor!”
Kermit races out of the room.
“I don’t want Ma to die!” Buddy cries. Liquid trickles down his leg and he starts crying even harder.
“Oh, Buddy,” Beans says, and puts his arm around his brother.
Across the room, Smokey bites the head off the scorpion and chews.
Aunt Minnie is lying in bed on her stomach, a sheet draped lightly over her. The doctor gave her an injection.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. She was stung clear down her back,” he says. “The scorpion was in the nightgown?”
“Must’ve been hiding in there,” Beans says.
“She’s going to be in a lot of pain. Vomiting. Just keep her comfortable. Where’s your father?”
“He’s up in Matecumbe,” Beans says. He looks as pale as his mother.
“Well, if anything changes, you know where to find me,” the doctor tells us. “I’ll be by again in the morning to check on her.”
We pile pillows on the floor next to Aunt Minnie’s bed and stay by her side through the night. Sometime toward dawn, I wake up and go out to use the outhouse. When I return to the room, Aunt Minnie’s awake. Her eyes are glazed with pain.
“Sadiebelle?” she whimpers.
“It’s me, Turtle, Aunt Minnie,” I say. “You got stung by a scorpion.”
“I’ve missed you, Sadiebelle,” she says.
“I’m back now,” I say, and pat her hand. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of you.”
Her eyes flutter shut.
“Sadiebelle,” she whispers.
“Yes?” I say.
“Why’d you take my dolls?”
“Oh, go to sleep already,” I say, and she does.
It’s late in the day when Aunt Minnie staggers out to the kitchen, wincing with every step. She looks around, her sharp eyes taking in everything. The boys are sitting around the table, eating their supper.
“What are you children eating?”
“Milk toast,” I say.
“Who cleaned?” she asks, her voice hoarse.
“Me,” I say. If there’s one thing a housekeeper’s kid can do, it’s clean.
“Buddy, have you had any accidents today?” she asks.
“I made him stop playing and use the outhouse,” Beans says. “He whined every time, but I made him do it.”
“You take your nap, Kermit?” she asks.
“A whole hour, Ma,” Kermit says.
She stares at us all and shakes her head as if she can’t believe it. Then she turns, walking slowly out of the kitchen.
Buddy pipes up. “Smokey killed the scorpion that bit you, Ma! Bit its head right off!”
Aunt Minnie pauses, and for a moment, I think she’s going to change her mind. But then her eyes rest on the laundry in the corner and her shoulders stiffen.
“The cat’s still going,” she says.
13
Believing in Monsters
In my opinion, the fellas who make Hollywood pictures are really just salesmen. Instead of peddling girdles, they sell thrills
and chills, and folks eat them up. Not me, though. I’m no sucker. I know there’s no such thing as giant apes climbing skyscrapers or mummies walking out of tombs. But just try telling that to the boys.
“Who do you think would win in a fight, Dracula or Frankenstein?” Ira asks, popping a piece of alligator pear into his mouth. We’re on the porch having a cut-up.
“Dracula. He’d suck Frankenstein’s blood out,” Kermit says.
“Frankenstein’s already dead. He ain’t got no blood,” Beans says.
“Yeah, but he’s got brains,” Pork Chop says.
“Too bad you don’t,” I say.
Aunt Minnie opens the door and hands me a covered dish.
“Here’s her lunch,” she says.
When I walk up to Nana Philly’s front porch, Smokey is waiting for me on the steps.
“Glad to see me?” I ask my cat. Miss Bea was only too happy to take in Smokey when I told her the situation.
I miss having Smokey with me, but I think Termite misses her even more. I can tell by the way he circles the house looking for her. The wag’s gone out of his tail.
“Miss Philomena has taken a real shine to that cat of yours,” Miss Bea says, opening the door.
“They’ve got a lot in common,” I say. “They both hate kids.”
Nana Philly and I have our lunch—grits-and-grunts-and-gravy, and fresh sugar apples for dessert. She hasn’t knocked any food on the floor since that last time, unless you count what she gives to Smokey. Miss Bea’s right—Nana Philly’s crazy about my cat. She feeds Smokey the best bits from her plate and lets her sleep on her pillow, curled up around her head.
I’m not sure, but I think my grandmother might like me a little, too, even though I am a kid. She really listens to me when I talk, which is more than I can say for most grown-ups. I tell Nana Philly about the families we’ve worked for, like crazy Mrs. Stark, who would only let Mama buy Waldorf toilet tissue because she was convinced other toilet tissues had arsenic in them, and Mr. Barry, who kept pretending to go to work every day for two months, even though he’d lost his job. Sometimes I catch Nana Philly looking at me, and she seems sad, and I wonder if she’s thinking about my mother. I know I am.
We finish our lunch and then I help Nana Philly into her bed, where she takes a nap. I’m in the kitchen washing up when I hear a loud crash. I run into the parlor thinking it’s Nana Philly. But it’s not my grandmother who’s making the racket: it’s my cat. Smokey’s fallen through the top of the crumbling, termite-eaten piano and she can’t get out. I hear her meowing pitifully inside, her paws scrambling.
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