“Yes, sir, I always did like the country.” Despite the company, she added to herself.
“Well, I'm sure we're delighted to have you, Blanche White.”
There it was again. Blanche checked his eyes for malice but found only laughter of the teasing variety.
“You ain't mocking me, are you, sir?”
His eyes widened slightly. “Sensitive, aren't we?”
“Isn't that what you hoped...sir?”
She braced herself for his pulling rank and putting her in her so-called place. Instead, a hint of red crept up from his neck. He brushed back his already perfect hair and managed a contrite smile. He didn't apologize, of course. That was far too much to expect from a pretty boy who'd probably been admonished only twice in his life, and never by the likes of her. She held the newspaper out to him.
“Thank you, Blanche.” This time there was no joking about her name.
Blanche went back to the kitchen and turned on the radio, but she paid little attention to the sounds that trickled into the room. Her mind was still on Everett. She'd expected him to challenge her, to pretend he'd done nothing wrong and claim that she was out of line. Actually, he'd come as close to admitting he'd been wrong as a man like him probably could. She sifted flour and baking powder into a bowl. Maybe he wasn't as full of himself as his preening as Nate made him seem. Of course, he was always on his good behavior with Grace. It's her aunt that's got the money, she mumbled aloud. She turned to the door as she spoke. Mumsfield was already smiling when he opened the door.
“Did you say something, Blanche?”
“Good morning, Mumsfield, honey. Don't mind me. I'm just talking to myself.” She added milk and eggs to the flour, along with a pinch of sugar, and stirred.
“I talk to myself to keep from having to talk to fools!” Mumsfield said in a shaky but sharp old-lady voice.
Blanche gave him a questioning look.
“That's what Aunt Em says,” he giggled.
Blanche nodded, impressed with his ability to change his voice. Even though he didn't sound like Emmeline, he did sound like an elderly woman. Blanche added three tablespoons of melted butter to the pancake batter and resumed stirring.
“After breakfast, we go to town, Blanche. I drive.” He puffed out his chest a bit when he delivered his “I drive” line. He had on his yellow suspenders again.
“We who, Mumsfield, honey?”
“Us, Blanche. You and me. Now I go to buy gas.” He gave her his scrunched-together smile and bounced out the back door.
Grace repeated Mumsfield's information about the trip to town when she came to the kitchen to fetch Emmeline's breakfast tray.
“Dr. Haley is expecting you.” Grace laced and unlaced her fingers. “He says he has a tonic that may help Aunt Emmeline.” She gave Blanche a meaning-laden look. Blanche wondered just what kind of tonic. There was no bottled cure for alcoholism, as far as she knew. It was probably something to help the old girl sleep off her gin jones. Or maybe Grace and Everett just want Mumsfield and me out of the way so they can romp through the house in the nude. It made an amusing mental picture, if not a very likely one.
Grace continued to stand silently chafing her hands and blinking like a broken stoplight. Either Emmeline or that husband of hers is driving this girl's blood pressure right on up there! Blanche thought.
“Mumsfield knows the way to Dr. Haley's office.” Grace bared her teeth in forced cheeriness that only made her anxiety more apparent.
“You all right, ma'am?”
“Oh...I...Yes, I'm fine. She...Oh, Blanche, she's just so cruel when she's like this...So cruel and...” She shook her head and fell silent.
After her encounter with Emmeline, Blanche knew exactly what Grace meant, which was why Blanche wasn't about to volunteer to take Emmeline's tray up again. She was tempted to suggest the Aunt Daisy solution, but it occurred to her that someone was already supplying Emmeline, which meant the meal ticket's wishes were not to be messed with.
Grace shook her head as though to clear it. “Mumsfield could fetch the tonic himself, but we always feel better when someone rides with him. Oh, he's an excellent driver. He's never had an accident or even a parking ticket. But you see how he is. On his own, he's liable to roam into a mechanic's shop somewhere and forget to come home until nightfall!” A mirthless grin punctuated her words.
Blanche decided to take advantage of Grace's explaining mood. “Excuse me for asking, ma'am, but just what is his condition?”
Grace's eyes widened. Her intake of breath was quite audible, but, as Blanche had hoped, the surprise of being asked prompted an response.
“Mosaicism,” Grace said. “A kind of Down's syndrome but not as bad. He's been to a special school and can read and write, and, of course, drive. And he's quite smart in some ways. Cars, and.”.” Grace's training finally overrode her shock. She stopped speaking and simply stared at Blanche in disbelief. It was all right for the “madam” to tell her “girl” the most intimate family details, but it was not all right for the girl to bluntly ask. They both knew that, her look seemed to say.
Grace picked up Emmeline's tray. “You may leave a cold lunch for my husband and me...and Aunt, of course.” Ice crystals formed on the tips of Grace's words. She pulled herself up to her full height, picking up any bit of I'm-the-boss she might have dropped by answering Blanche's question. If she had any concern for when Mumsfield and Blanche might have lunch, or what they might eat, she didn't voice it.
“And don't forget to go home and get your uniforms and things for the rest of the week.” Grace had already turned on her heel and was heading for the door to the dining room.
“And I can stop by the agency and get things straightened out,” Blanche suggested. She was so pleased with herself for having found a way to put the agency problem to rest, at least in Grace's mind, that she didn't even mind Grace's lack of response.
An hour or so later, she was in the car beside Mumsfield, squeezed between Blanche's fear of being picked up by the police the minute she set foot in Farleigh and the hope of talking to Taifa and Malik. She knew the urge to talk to them was heightened by her decision to leave them with her mother for a while. Maybe it was unfair, but she wanted to hear them loving her on the phone once more before they learned she was leaving and pain and anger crept into their voices.
Mumsfield was quiet as they left the secondary road for the highway. He still hadn't said a word by the time they reached the entrance to the highway. It was as though he and the car and the road were joined in a sacred pact that forbade him from paying attention to anything else. This is one of the ways he's different, Blanche thought. It's like he can almost become the thing he's doing. Everything else is off to the side, at the corner of his eye. I could use some of that. Of course, she could use anything that made her feel less like a Ping-Pong ball in a hurricane, despite her plans. She cleared her mind and focused on the green hills in the distance and the extra-blue sky. She let her shoulders drop and felt some of the tension seep out of her neck. The world is still beautiful, she told herself, and I'm still in it. Everything else can be put right, in time.
Dr. Haley lived in a large white house down a narrow driveway lined with forsythia. When she rang the bell, he answered the door himself and handed her a mid-sized bottle neatly wrapped in brown paper. He waved to Mumsfield and watched as he turned the car around and headed back down the drive.
Blanche directed Mumsfield to the parking lot behind Meg's Diner, at the corner of Main and Centre Streets. She told him she had a few errands to run and left him in the diner with two cheeseburgers, a double order of French fries, cole slaw, a chocolate shake, and the promise that she'd meet him at that very spot in an hour and a half. She was nearly out the door, around the corner, and in the phone booth by the time Mumsfield said goodbye to her.
She heaved a sigh as she dialed the phone and tried to make herself ready for the wave of questioning and scolding she knew was about to crash over her. “Mama?” sh
e said when the phone was answered on the other end, then quickly held the receiver away from her ear.
“Blanche! Where the devil are you? I can't stand this...My pressure...You give me that phone number so I can... And one of them nasty sheriff's deputies been here, asking a bunch of tomfool questions. I told him what you said, 'bout New Orleans, Lord forgive me. I don't like lyin', it ain't right! The Lord said...”
Despite her mother's screeching and preaching, Blanche had to smile. It was good to know Mama was still there, still herself, still all right. When the volume and speed of her mother's tirade had lessened a little, Blanche decided it was her turn to talk. “Mama!” She spoke just loud enough to be heard over her mother's voice. “I'm gonna hang up this phone if you say one more word before I get a chance to tell you what I got to say!”
Her mother stopped talking so abruptly that for a moment Blanche was herself struck dumb. It was rare that Miz Cora did as she was told. Blanche took a deep breath and launched into the story of all that had happened to her since she'd walked the kids to her mother's, kissed them goodbye, told them to be good, and headed downtown to the courthouse.
When she'd finished, Blanche was surprised that her mother didn't urge her to turn herself in. That was the sort of advice she expected from the let-us-love-one-another brand of Christianity her mother professed. But Miz Cora didn't urge her to seek God's guidance or to serve Jesus through humility.
“What about your cousin Charlotte, up there in Boston? Every Christmas she sends me a card thanking me for taking in that boy of hers when he got in that trouble with the police up there. I didn't want to be bothered with that big ole hulking boy at the time, but you...Anyways, why don't I call her on the telephone and tell her to expect you? Better'n that New York, seems to me... And I'll send the kids on up just as soon as you say...this time.”
It was as though her mother had suddenly stepped outside of that turn-the-other-cheek fantasy land she and so many other older black people Blanche knew seemed to live in. But then, why should I be surprised? she asked herself. This is how we've survived in this country all this time, by knowing when to act like we believe what we've been told and when to act like we know what we know.
“Yes, Mama, I'll get out of the state as soon as I can lay hands on my income-tax check. It should be there by the time these people come back to town next week...I'm glad it wasn't in the paper either, although it seems kinda odd.”
“Maybe the sheriff's office ain't ready for no more bad publicity,” her mother told her. “They investigatin' his office, you know. And just last week, a drunken deputy broke his leg leaving that cathouse down the end of Cressfleld Street. That wasn't in the paper either.”
Blanche hadn't known that her mother was so knowledgeable about that end of Cressfleld Street and what went on there. “No, Mama, I'm not being nosy about these people's business. I only know what Mumsfield—yes, he's the boy—only what he told me. I didn't ask him anything, much,” Blanche said. “Yes, I know it's dangerous, but... All right, Mama, all right...and thank you, Mama, for everything. Now, please let me talk to Taifa and Malik.”
It hadn't even occurred to Blanche that the kids might not be around. Her disappointment was made worse when her mother reminded her this was the Saturday Leo had promised to take them fishing. All the loving reassurance she'd planned to push through the phone now lay in her stomach like stone soup. “You didn't tell him anything, did you, Mama?”
“Course I told him something! You think I want that man runnin' round here acting like a lovesick fool? I told him you was workin' in the country this week. At least that ain't a lie. I done told enough of them for you, girl! I swear you gon' make me lose my place in heaven!”
“Thanks, Mama. I'll call you again when I can.” Blanche cut her mother off before she got up another full head of steam. “Tell the kids I love them and whatever else you think you should.” Blanche broke the connection but continued to grip the receiver. She turned her face to the phone-booth wall and cried her longing to hear her children's voices into the dead receiver. Self-preservation finally propelled her out of the phone booth.
She stuffed her soggy handkerchief in her handbag and walked four blocks to the downtown shopping district. Her first stop was the Salvation Army secondhand store on Sixth Street, where she bought a pink and white seersucker bathrobe. She walked two blocks east, past the courthouse and the Civil War monument (at which she slyly spit, as was her habit), and a block south to Woolworth's. Here she bought two pairs of rubber gloves. She never trusted employers to supply them and she couldn't work without them. Along with the gloves, she bought a set of underwear, including two pairs of queen-sized pantyhose. As usual, the latter purchase made her think that if she were a queen, she sure as hell wouldn't stuff herself into a pair of sausage casings. She also bought a toothbrush, a cake of Ivory soap, and a folding suitcase on sale for three-ninety-nine. When she was through shopping, she had fifty-seven dollars and seventy-two cents, enough to last a couple of weeks, or a month or so, if Cousin Charlotte could provide room and board until she found work.
The urge to leave now made the bottoms of her feet itch. She was just three blocks from the Trailways station. Her income-tax check seemed far away and unreal compared to the solid rectangle of the bus station. She could take the bus over to Durham and wait there for her check. Her friend Margie would put her up for a few nights, until Ardell could get her check for her. Blanche could feel the bus rolling along beneath her, see the trees and fields hurrying by as she moved farther and farther away from Farleigh. Oh, Grace would be in a snit and call up the agency, but wouldn't the agency cover for her to save their own ass? After all, they hadn't owned up to not knowing who the hell she was, for fear of offending the Mistress of the Manor. They'd think of some story in order to keep Grace's business and good will. And was it really likely that either Grace or the agency would call the sheriff? She'd just be living up to their view of all black people as irresponsible. She turned left and walked toward the station. A big interstate bus passed her, heading out of town. She quickened her pace. As the station came into sight, she suddenly saw Mumsfield sitting patiently back at the diner waiting for her for hours, trusting that she'd come back because she'd said she would.
Damn! I didn't ask that boy to trust me! He'd done her a favor by not telling his cousins that she hadn't worked for them before, but that didn't make them friends. A friend would have told him the real reason he was being kept from his aunt, especially since he was blaming himself for Emmeline's illness. A friend would tell him his cousins might have plans to mess with his money. If they were friends, she would be able to tell him about her troubles and ask for his help in getting away. The idea was ridiculous. He was rich and white, and his handicap excluded him from much of what went on in his own world. It certainly minimized what little ability he might have had to understand her life, especially her present situation. She was sure he looked on the sheriff, or any law enforcement officer, as a friend. He might even ask that kind-hearted waitress at the diner to call the sheriff because his friend Blanche was missing. She wondered if anybody was working on a vaccine against Darkies' Disease. She hurried into the station and stood in one of the ticket lines. Her legs had that “Run!” feeling again. She looked around the station to distract herself from the shouting in her head that said she should stop and think for a second. She was reminded of her last minutes in the courtroom, when she'd longed for someone to look at her, pay attention to what was being done to her. No one looked at anyone else here, either. But something happened that got everyone's attention.
She heard the siren just before the sheriff's car made a sharp, fast turn off the street, bounced over the curb into the bus station parking lot, and came to a screeching halt. Blanche quickly sidestepped out of line and out the side exit to her left. She hurried across the street against the light and walked back the way she had come.
“I like your suspenders,” she told Mumsfield when they were once agai
n in the limousine.
He nodded his head slowly a few times, in a way that gave the subject of suspenders more weight than Blanche had ever suspected it had. “Suspenders are very important, Blanche.”
“Colors, too,” she added.
“Oh, yes! Yellow suspenders make driving the best. Safe.”
“Umm hmm.” It was Blanche's turn to nod in agreement. “And red for fixing cars, and orange for eating.”
“Yes, Blanche! You understand, Blanche!” He obviously thought she was quite clever to do so. Blanche chuckled to herself. This boy had more parts than a picture puzzle.
On the way to the country house, she asked Mumsfield if he'd mind some music and was lucky enough to find a radio station playing Diana Ross. She felt better with Diana in the car. Diana's voice was like a ribbon tying Blanche to the part of the world she knew and needed. It wasn't simply her singing that soothed Blanche. Diana had once been poor, just like Blanche. If Diana could move from the welfare and the housing projects of Detroit to the top of the music charts and starring roles in movies, certainly Blanche could get herself out of this mess she was in, just as black women had been getting themselves and their people out of messes in this country since the day the first kidnapped African woman was dragged onto these shores. And wasn't she Night Girl, too? She saw herself holding Taifa and Malik's hands while the three of them looked up at the memorial to black Civil War soldiers that she'd once read was somewhere in downtown Boston. She leaned her head back against the seat and a smile curved her lips. In a little while, her eyelids drooped, her breathing slowed. It was the stopping of the car in the driveway of the country house that waked her. She emerged from a dream about taking the kids to an amusement park into the nightmare of the sheriff's car parked in front of the house.
FIVE
Just as when she'd been sentenced, Blanche's bowels reacted to the sight of the sheriff's car. But this time there was no ladies' room for her to hurry into and from which to escape. For a few moments she sat in the limousine, trying to get control of her sphincter muscles and staring out into the perfect summer day. Her eyes devoured grass and flowers, the height of the pines, the way the mockingbird on the lawn bobbed its tail. She took it all in as if to fortify herself with leaf green and sky blue before the man talking to Everett locked her away someplace gray and cruel.
Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery Page 7
