by Janet Walker
* * *
The sidewalk reflected the sun’s rays and cast a brightness that made Madge squint. Solar heat enveloped her and points of perspiration leapt to the surface of her toffee-colored skin. Inside, her emotions generated more heat—resentment and frustration. Left up to Diane, nothing would be done about what happened to Tracy. Nothing, unless she, Madge, did something herself. And she would have to, because what message would it send to Tracy if the child believed someone could beat her without penalty? Oh, yes, something would have to be done!
Madge reached the car, unlocked it, and worked her way behind the steering wheel. When she closed the door, a sheet of heat wafted from the dashboard and sealed a glossy mask of moisture against her face. Madge slipped the key into the ignition and started the car. She counted to five—Ed had told her years ago to do that before starting the car’s accessory units—then flipped the knob that turned on the Buick’s air-conditioning system. She gripped the steering wheel, closed her eyes briefly, and let the Freon-cold breeze blow across her face. When she opened her eyes, she looked out the passenger window, at the front door of Diane’s apartment, and then gazed through the windshield, at the stretch of Haines Avenue. What could she do? Calling the police was the logical solution, but how helpful would that be when she had not witnessed the attack herself and the eyewitness, the victim, did not want to press charges? Ed had said to stay out of it and let Diane and Tracy handle the matter. Diane had just said the same thing. Was everybody crazy? Or was she the only one? No—they were worldly people. Worldly, and so their thinking was maladjusted—even Ed’s, though he had been married to her long enough to have obtained a modicum of Jehovah’s thinking. But on this matter with Tracy, even he was being as stupid as Diane. Madge pinched her lips together with resolve. But she was Tracy’s guardian more than Diane was, and so it was left up to her to do something about what had happened. This was, after all, twentieth-century Atlanta, not the nineteen-century Wild West, and there were channels through which one could go to deal with problems like this. If not the police, then a lawyer.
Madge tilted down the rearview mirror to see the damage the asthma attack and sun had caused to her makeup. Immediately, she removed from her pocketbook an eyebrow pencil, lipstick tube, and tiny sponge, and she blotted the sheen of perspiration from her foundation before retracing her lips and eyelids. Satisfied with the repair job, she put away the items, restored the mirror’s angle, and put the Buick in gear, proceeding carefully down Haines Avenue. She always drove slower than the speed limit required, she knew this. Drive like an old lady, Ed teased, but he said it without meanness. But he would think so—he rammed his way through traffic and, whenever she rode with him, always left her with jumpy nerves. He had laughed at her fear once, hurting her feelings because he said it was ridiculous that a woman her size scared so easily. But she couldn’t help it—she had always frightened easily, had always felt fragile when facing anger or threat, ever since her hormones dried up at twenty-five and even before then, because her frail respiratory system had been in place from infancy to remind her that death was never far away. Which meant that Ed’s driving, and Diane’s sharp words, and anything else over which she had no control easily upset Madge’s nerves. And when her nerves were on edge, she didn’t always handle things well, didn’t always act with sound judgment.
Which is why she should have kept driving.
When she saw them standing at the playground, Madge Porter should have continued on and passed them by, without stopping. But there was something about them that instantly struck a chord within her, and she knew who they were. Besides, there were three of them.
Madge pulled the luxury car over to the curb and stopped. They were sitting on the swings several yards away, talking lazily, smoking. They glanced at her car and then paid it no attention, and she watched them dubiously through the glass of the passenger window. They certainly looked like troublemakers—for one thing, two of them seemed to be of high-school age but were not in school, and one drank from a beer can. But what if she were wrong? This was a large housing project, after all, and what were the chances of her running into the same three girls who beat up Tracy just because she happened to be thinking about them? Madge gripped the steering wheel tightly, debated, then tapped the horn twice to get the girls’ attention. They looked at her. She did not get out but waved once, awkwardly, in affirmation. The girls looked away.
Madge pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on the wheel. Foolish of her to expect them to come running up to the car of a stranger. Who did she think they were? Young Witnesses, who trusted most people because they had no reason to fear those close to them? Madge smiled at her own naïveté and with a thrust of boldness turned off the car, removed the keys, and got out. Even if these were not the right three girls, perhaps they knew Miss Virginia Daggett and would deliver a message to her from Tracy Sullivan’s family.
The youths saw her walking toward them and stiffened with rebellion at the sight of an adult approaching them in their delinquency. They looked away from Madge with affected disdain and continued smoking. As she neared them, it occurred to Madge that the girls were ignoring her in a manner like that of people she approached in the field ministry. She found this amusing. Perhaps she reminded them of the Witnesses who strolled through their neighborhood during Saturday-morning field service, offering The Watchtower and Awake! magazines. Well, she would give them just what they feared. She produced a practiced I’m-preaching-so-I-must-look-pleasant smile and boldly strode into their presence. Her greeting was cheerful.
“Hi! How are you young ladies doing today?”
The three glanced at her again before looking away. All held burning cigarettes in their lips or fingers, and Madge wondered if the cigarettes had been intended for Diane. The skinniest of the girls, Madge noticed, studied the ground; the one who looked like a bulldog seemed very interested in the sky. The tallest, a long-limbed manly girl, sat in a swing and stared coldly out at a nearby basketball court, but she seemed to give Madge the most attention, so Madge’s preaching instincts told her to direct her words at the third girl.
“I was looking for a young lady and was wondering if any of you knew her.”
They were silent.
“Does one of you know a Virginia Daggett?”
The skinny one and the bulldog glanced at the Man, who lifted an eyebrow and rested her eyes briefly on Madge.
“Who wants to know?”
“I do. I’m Tracy Sullivan’s aunt.”
Madge expected a reaction but they merely stared at her with guarded expressions. She realized she was either talking to friends of Virginia Daggett, or else one of the girls sitting before her was the culprit she was seeking.
“Do any of you know her?” Impatience colored Madge’s voice. She wasn’t used to dealing with rude people, especially hoodlum girls. She hated this aspect of returning to the United States, because even the worldly children overseas had behaved deferentially in the presence of adults.
The tall girl fastened a look on Madge and demanded, “Why?”
Madge realized she was talking to Virginia Daggett.
“I wanted to let her know that I’m aware of what she did to my niece and that if she ever touches her again, I’ll call the police. The only reason I didn’t call the authorities this time is because Tracy and her mother didn’t want me to.”
She had watched them as she was speaking. Watched their faces crinkle with confusion. Watched the confusion become tainted with anger by the time she had finished speaking. The actors!
Virginia inclined her head as if bewildered. “Lady,” she said, “I don’t know what the hell you talking about.”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Madge replied. “My niece’s whole face is swollen right now. And she’s got a black eye! She had to stay home from school today. Now I know you young people can find something better to do with your time than ganging up on someone for a pack of cigarettes! For one thing, you should be in
school!” Madge heard her own voice in her ears, heard the anger, knew she had said too much—these were, after all, girls from the projects. Women, in fact, and quite capable of causing damage to a person’s body. Which is why she decided to end the encounter as quickly as possible.
Virginia Daggett lifted herself out of the swing and stood.
Madge gasped. Despite her own height and heels, she nearly had to look up at Virginia Daggett. Fluttering occurred in Madge’s chest but she refused to look away from the menacing youth.
“Look, lady, I don’t know who you are but you don’t know what the hell you talking about. We ain’t touch your niece!” Virginia said.
Madge’s mind went to her lungs, searching for breath—found it—and continued studying the girl. She could see why Tracy was afraid of Virginia Daggett. She wasn’t a girl but was a grown woman who was built like a rangy man—powerful long limbs and large hands and feet and a masculine jaw line. Her eyes were lucid mirrors of gray, and they were positioned close together and tilted upwards at the outer corners, like Brother Selwyn Touré’s, a Senegalese Witness Madge had known in Germany. But far from being dark, as Brother Touré had been, Virginia Daggett was the color of talc. And right now, her face was set with stubbornness, which told Madge that neither Virginia nor her friends were going to confess to the beating. But that was okay. She had made her point and now it was time to carefully back out of the situation.
“I just wanted to let you know that I knew what happened. If I’m wrong in accusing you, th-then I’m sorry. But if not, then I would appreciate it if you would not touch my niece anymore.” Madge started to turn away but felt the need to add: “And just so you’ll know: Tracy doesn’t know I’m talking to you. She asked me not to say anything to you. So you don’t have to be angry at her.”
Madge was grateful—none of them stepped forward to attack her. Instead, they were looking at one another with what looked like disbelief. This gave Madge the moment she needed to walk away, which she did, briskly. She glanced back; her chest fell with relief when she saw that they were still standing where she had left them. Despite this, she continued to expect the hoods to run up and thrust a knife into her back, or to pull out a gun and shoot her for daring to reprimand them. But no such thing happened, and Madgelyn Porter, convinced that she had done a necessary and righteous deed, unlocked the door of her polished burgundy Buick, positioned herself behind the steering wheel, and drove away from the despised realm of Ariel Place.
She did not hear the threats made against her niece by the three girls on the swings.
