Patrice applied and was accepted to the University of Florida’s pre-law program. Aside from the small academic scholarship she was awarded, the money came straight from a scholarship fund I set up through the agency. The fund is still operating today and continues to help deserving young women achieve their goals. In all the charitable work I ever did, the food lines, the Christmas baskets, the donations made with smug satisfaction, this was the thing of which I was most proud.
Patrice knew only that I found a scholarship for her and she was beside herself with joy. So was I. Blanche, of course, worried about everything. Would Patrice have a place to live? How would she eat? Who would pay for clothing and other incidentals while she studied? I read the award citation out loud to her and filled in details as needed. In a way, Patrice was the test model for the future recipients of the scholarship. Anytime Blanche came up with a question, or financial issues arose, I amended the trust fund to accommodate the needs.
The tuition, room and board was covered in full and an additional stipend paid so that the recipient's job, for the duration of her academic years, was to earn her chosen degree.
For the next twenty years, which seems hard to believe given my age, I went to the office three days a week and paid myself an additional salary which went exclusively to the scholarship fund. I resumed my community involvement, as I had done when Walter was alive, though now my networking was aimed specifically at fundraising for the non-profit portion of the agency.
As soon as I started working again, I gave Blanche a raise, mostly for putting up with me. When she balked at being paid more than she deemed the job worth, I increased her workload. She never complained again.
Blanche began accompanying me to various charitable events, and I realized the uniform would have to go. I cringe now when I think of how long I kept my invaluable friend and helpmate in those crisp white symbols of servitude. I've always said that the worst thing anyone could ever say about me was, “She means well," but I have to claim now that I meant well. I meant for her uniforms to be part of her pay. I meant for it to be easy for her to wash them. I meant to help her avoid bleach spills and food stains on her own clothing. I never meant to put her in her place, but that's just what I did. And, God help me, it took Dovey Kincaid to make me realize it.
It was Thanksgiving of 1979 and Patrice was home from college for a few days. The younger girls were out of school and stayed home with their older sister while Blanche and I went to the church to help distribute food among the baskets to be delivered. We were working in the kitchen of the fellowship hall, which was fairly large, but a bit cramped with ten to twelve of us working side-by-side.
When Dovey dropped a jar of pickles, shattering the glass and spraying sugary green juice everywhere, she spoke without hesitation.
“Oh, dear, look what I've done! Blanche, could you grab the mop and clean that up for me, please?"
I froze immediately, which halted the entire distribution line. Blanche didn't react at all, except to head for the broom closet.
“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I said, as I found my voice. Blanche stopped abruptly. Dovey, who had marched right over to the sink and grabbed a wet towel to clean herself up, spun around with a bewildered expression on her face. All eyes were on me, all wondering what had just prompted my outburst. I didn't even try to disguise my contempt.
“You made the mess, Dovey. You clean it up."
I never meant to humiliate Blanche, though I think I did. There was no way to recover from it. No matter how you look at it, Blanche had just received two direct orders and neither of us considered what a horrible position they put her in.
“I don't mind helpin', Miz Ora," she said after a moment of awkward silence.
“Neither do I," I said as I dropped out of the assembly line and followed Blanche to the closet.
I could hear murmuring behind me as the women resumed their tasks, but I never worried or even wondered what they were talking about. Good, I thought. Let them figure it out for themselves. Dovey joined us in the clean up and we silently mopped and swept and wiped away the evidence of our mistake.
Blanche never wore a uniform again. When I asked her not to, she did not ask why. In her usual candid way, she said simply, "I can change my clothes, Miz Ora, but I can't change my color. They's always gonna be people who expect what they expect."
“You're absolutely right, Blanche," I nodded. “And I can't change anyone's expectations but my own."
Twenty-six
After Patrice went away to college, the girls rode the bus to my house every day after school. Neither Blanche nor I would even dream of having them stay home alone. Re'Netta and Danita excelled in school, just as their older sister had. Grace did not do as well. Blanche would often get notes home saying Grace had trouble staying focused and on task in the classroom. When she entered the third grade, she was assigned to a trim, pretty, blonde teacher named Miss Folsom. Grace liked her well enough at first, but she began to withdraw after the first few weeks of school.
Blanche asked her what was wrong, but Grace would only say things like, “Miss Folsom got mad at me today." Or “I don't think Miss Folsom likes me."
Blanche was obviously not happy, but she didn't say anything about it until Grace came home in tears with a note for “The Parents of Grace Lowery."
Miss Folsom was apparently at her wit's end, and I'm using the term “wit" rather loosely here, because Grace could not seem to finish her work in class. Her solution, according to the note, was to send Grace to the principal's office to be paddled for her offense.
“The very idea," I nearly shouted, “of paddling a child for not finishing the outlining of simple letters when she can already read a book, is absolutely asinine."
“She can't be disrupting the class, though," Blanche reasoned.
“Disrupting the class?" I exploded. “It doesn't say a word about disrupting the class. It says she's not finishing her work. It says she has been separated from the class by a dividing screen and moved away from the window so she won't be distracted or inclined to daydream. It doesn't say anywhere that she's bothering anyone at all. This is wrong, Blanche. This is not Grace's fault."
I felt so protective of Grace, in that moment and for years afterward, that I literally trembled with anger.
“What do you think I should do, then?" Blanche asked.
“Well, for one thing, I think you should make it clear that Grace will certainly not be spanked for something she has no control over."
“But she's got to finish her work," Blanche said.
“I agree," I said, “but it won't help her a bit to be frightened into finishing it. For God's sake, Blanche, hasn't she been through enough?"
I regretted those words the moment they left my mouth. Blanche stiffened immediately and glared at me with as much disdain as I have ever seen aimed in my direction.
“You ain't got to tell me what she's been through, Miz Ora."
“Blanche, I'm sorry," I began.
“I know exactly what my child has been through," she continued. “And I know it ain't gonna get any easier for her, that's for sure. But she got to do the same as every other child in that classroom, and that includes finishing her work, no matter how boring it may be."
“Blanche, listen to me," I pleaded. “I know she has to do her work. I know she has to find her way in the world, but this teacher does not like her and you and I both know why."
“So, I'll ask you again. What do you think I should do?"
“I think you should have her moved to another classroom."
“Huh," Blanche grunted. “They ain't gonna move her on my account. I can tell you that right now."
“They'll move her on mine," I said, ignoring the second round of regret I felt.
“And you think that'll help her? You throwin' your weight around for my child?" She grunted again. “Shows what you know."
I sighed then and sat down at the table, putting my head in my hands. What did I know? I'd never had a
child of my own and, Lord knows I'd never been colored. Didn't matter what the rules should be. It matters what they are, if you're going to play the game.
“I think we should get Gracie some help, Blanche." I said wearily. “And you know what I mean, so don't even act like you don't."
“I am helpin', Miz Ora," Blanche said. “I'm helpin' her live in this world."
“But she needs more..."
“I'll see can I get her changed to another teacher," Blanche interrupted, “but I don't wanna hear another word about help. I'm helpin' her the best I can, and that's gonna have to do."
“But if she can just talk to someone about it," I tried again.
“I done made up my mind, Miz Ora. What's done is done and we all just got to move on. You say another word about it and I'll quit."
My head snapped up then.
“I'm serious. I'll quit and go home. I got to put this behind me now. I can't be talkin' about it and thinkin' about it and cryin' over it every time I turn around. And I can't have you runnin' around tryin' to fix everything, either. We got to live in this world, Miz Ora, and we got to do it on our own."
I stood then and faced her, fighting back the tears I felt stinging my eyes.
“Blanche, I'm sorry about all this."
“I know," she said, softening. “But, Eddie was right. Things was just against us all along. We all did what we thought was right and now we just got to live with it."
And so our vow was made and sealed and never broken as long as Blanche was alive. We did not speak of it again.
Chip and Clara Jean married in the spring of 1979. Always the prudent one, Clara Jean insisted on a long engagement, though I'm certain Chip would have had her at the altar far sooner than she allowed. They eventually had two sons, who are the spitting image of their daddy. Chip quit the sheriff's department after a few years and transferred to the Mayville Correctional Facility, where Eddie lived the remainder of his life. I often wondered if he had done that as a favor to me. He had, after all, promised to look after Eddie for me, though I never expected him to take his responsibility to that level. Clara assures me it was nothing more than a financial decision and I hope that's true. She continued to work for Judge Odell until he retired in 1983 and then she stayed home with her sons. They have done well and I am as proud of them as if they belonged to me alone.
By the time Grace was eighteen years old in 1988, she had two children, not much more than a year apart. She dropped out of school when she got pregnant the first time. It was hard for me to watch her life unravel the way it did. I wanted to help her, but Blanche kept her away from me for the most part. I suppose she figured I had already done enough.
Grace stayed home with her children during the day, but I found out soon enough that Blanche kept them at night while Grace went out. That must have been when Grace started doing drugs.
The twins graduated in 1984. Sweet, quiet Danita married her high school sweetheart within the year. She grew up with Curtis Bledsoe and knew his heart was for the Lord. They moved away for a time, while Curtis went to Bible College and became a pastor, then they moved back to Mayville and started a family together. They are together to this day.
ReNetta went to a cosmetology school after she graduated. She has never married and is a hairdresser at a local salon. I always thought that was a perfect vocation for her, something that would always satisfy her inquisitive mind and creative spirit. She's good at it, too. She stops by every now and then with pictures of the hair shows she does. My goodness, I never knew how many wild and intricate styles were possible with hair. I've kept the same simple hairstyle I've worn for as many years as I have been gray. ReNetta has tried to get me to go for something different, but I put my foot down on that one.
Twenty-seven
1998 was a tough year for us. I was approaching my 80th birthday and slowing down fast. Blanche was a few years shy of her 60th and doing just fine. I don't know what I would have done without her. She was the reason I was able to work as long as I did. She basically handled everything; I was just along for the ride.
Blanche was also raising Grace's children by herself. Grace started out disappearing for days at a time. Blanche had Shawn and Rochelle start riding the bus to my house when she realized she just couldn't count on Grace being home in the afternoons. I was happy for them to be there. I'd learned long ago to enjoy a full house.
Eventually, Grace was gone for good, or at least for several years. She didn't leave a note, but word got out to Blanche that she'd run off with a known drug dealer and pimp. We both began to tire easily.
Once again, we dropped out of the various clubs and charitable organizations to which we now both belonged, and this time it was for good.
I knew I was not going to live forever and, even though Walter had made many plans of his own, I hadn't really done all the planning I should have in anticipation of my own mortality.
I had no heirs, no one to take over Walter's business or care about my personal effects. I sat for hours on end, rocking on the front porch, wondering what in the world I would do.
Patrice was an attorney by then and worked for a firm near the courthouse. They did mostly criminal law, and Patrice did quite a bit of pro bono work in the community on her own time. She stopped by my house fairly often. I knew she was really coming to see Blanche, but she spent time with me, too, and I enjoyed seeing and talking with her.
On one of her visits - it was early spring, I remember, because the flowers were blooming but it was still cool enough to enjoy the porch. Anyway, on one of her visits, Patrice brought up the subject of the Pecan Man.
“I saw Eddie last week, Miz Ora," Patrice said. “He said to tell you hello."
“Eddie," I said fondly. “How is he doing?"
“He's getting old and frail, but he says he's doing fine. I left him playing a rousing game of dominoes the other day. He keeps the young guys on their toes, I can tell you that."
“I think I always underestimated the man," I admitted.
Patrice laughed. “I don't think you were the only one who underestimated him. I've learned quite a bit about him lately."
“Do you go out to see him often?"
“Not as much as I would like, but I try to stop in when I have to make a trip to the prison, or when Mama bakes him some cookies. I'm the most popular attorney out there."
“I'll just bet you are," I laughed.
“I've been thinking of reopening Eddie's case." Patrice dropped that bombshell like it was just another batch of cookies and, Lord help me, it was as if someone had touched me with a cattle prod. My skin tingled with the shock for several minutes and I had trouble gathering my thoughts to respond. If Patrice noticed, she didn't let on.
“Something just bothers me about the whole thing. He won't talk about it, but I read through the file and something doesn't add up. I don't think he killed anyone, do you?"
“Well, no," I fumbled for words. “I've never thought he killed a soul, but he entered a guilty plea. Can you reopen a case that's closed like that?"
“Not officially, no," she admitted, “but I can do some digging and see what I turn up."
And, just like that, the lie that never ends cropped up yet again. I bit my tongue until I thought it would actually bleed.
“Does Eddie want you to do this?"
“I haven't asked him yet. I thought I would ask around and see what I come up with first."
“Patrice," I said finally, “I know you mean well, but I think you should ask Eddie if he wants you to do this before you go stirring up a pot that settled years ago."
“I'll ask him," she said.
“I promise I'll ask him," she repeated when she saw my dubious expression. “But, will you just tell me what you know about it? I know you had him to dinner that day; I remember spending Thanksgiving at your house and he was there. It was the day before Marcus died."
“I really just don't want to talk about it, hon," I said. “I'm sorry, but it was an awful
time and we've all suffered enough."
“But if you could just..."
“Patrice!"
She flinched as if I’d slapped her.
“You ask Eddie first," I continued. “If he agrees, I'll tell you what I remember. Otherwise I think it's best that we let sleeping dogs lie."
“Okay," she said softly. “I meant no harm, but - okay. I'll ask him first."
I knew she was upset that I yelled at her, and Lord knows she was confused, but I knew better than to even try to remember all the lies I told so many years ago.
“I've been thinking about my will," I said, abruptly changing the subject. “Do you do any estate law at all?"
“Goodness," she said. “No, I don't, but there are some great attorneys in the area if you want me to recommend someone."
“No, that's okay. Howard Hunnicutt has been handling our stuff for years. I'll just get him to dust the paperwork off and see where we are. I wonder, though..."
“Wonder what?" Patrice asked when I hesitated.
“If you would mind being the Executor of the estate." I finished.
“I don't mind at all. Anything you want to go over with me, so I'll be sure to get it right?"
“A few things, maybe," I said. “I'm not positive what I'm planning on doing, but I'd like to get your opinion on some ideas I have - if you have time, that is."
Blanche interrupted then, bringing us each a glass of sweet tea and taking a seat in one of the rockers herself. She looked tired and drawn and I couldn’t help but comment on it.
“You feeling all right, Blanche? You’re looking a little peaked today.”
“Just a little tired, tha’s all. Ain’t been sleepin’ good lately.”
The Pecan Man Page 14
