Mick lowered her head and smoothed her skirt. “It’s a kind of respect thing, too. For Miz Barker, I mean. She never said she approved of me, but she acted like she did, even though she used to tease me about looking like a lumberjack. So, I figured this one time…” Mick trailed off.
Blanche remained silent, waiting for Mick to acknowledge that her last reason was not as important as her first.
“It’s stupid. You’re right. But God! It just rips my guts out when black people look at me like I’m evil or dirty. Like I don’t belong here. Or anywhere.”
Blanche wished she could tell Mick she was wrong, that no black person had anything against lesbians or gay men, but she knew Mick was right. She’d once heard a black historian say that hatred of homosexuals was taught to African slaves because slave babies could only be made by female-male couples. Somebody ought to tell gay-hating blacks that slavery was over and loving was about more than baby-making.
They stopped by Miz Barker’s house to drop off Blanche’s pies and the ham Mick had baked. The kitchen was under the control of a quartet of women Blanche thought of as part of The Regulars—the women in the community who always helped the sick, made sure all the food a grieving family could use was prepared and presented, made sure their street was kept clean. They were the women she always thought of when she heard some right-wing jackass—black or white—going on about how black people needed to do for themselves instead of blah, blah, blah. If we didn’t do for ourselves, she thought, we’d all be dead by now.
The viewing and funeral were at Roland’s Funeral Parlor on Columbus Avenue. People were going in and coming out as Mick cruised the block for a parking space.
Pam and other members of the family sat to the left of the coffin. Blanche went straight to the front and hugged Pam.
“We’re very sorry about your grandmother,” Malik told her as he shook her hand.
Taifa nodded her head. “She was a good person,” she added.
Blanche looked from Malik to Taifa, pleased with them.
Mick added her condolences, and they all shook hands with Miz Barker’s son and his wife, Miz Barker’s sister, who sat in a wheelchair looking confused, and Pam’s mother, who presided over cousins, grandkids, and great-grandkids swelling the ranks of family mourners.
What was left of Miz Barker looked like no one Blanche had ever known. In death she seemed to have shrunk to the size of a wizened child in adult clothing, her skin stretched across her face like a rubber mask. She was laid out in a gunmetal-gray coffin filled with a foamy white lining like frozen shaving cream.
After a minute or so, Blanche walked Malik and Taifa to the door. She’d told them before they left home that there was no more need for the Ex-Cons, so they were eager to be on their own. But first Blanche made sure they’d done their homework.
They’d be out all day tomorrow, Malik with Aminata and Othello, and Taifa and Shaquita on a mall trip with Joanie to New Hampshire sponsored by Rudigere Homes, during which Taifa expected to sell a lot of candy.
“There’s ground turkey for burgers in the fridge and leftover chili,” Blanche told them. “Taifa, do you have exact change for the bus? You remember the last time you—”
“Chill, Moms, chill. I got it covered.”
Blanche looked from one to the other. “Don’t get into no foolishness on the bus. Like I told you, act like—”
“Mom, we ride the bus all the time. We’re not babies.” Malik laid his hand on her arm as though he were trying to calm a fretful child. They both kissed her on the cheek. She had the distinct feeling they felt sorry for her.
She took a seat in the last row of folding chairs. She believed a funeral was the place to leave your sorrow and pain piled around the coffin like so many baskets of flowers and walk away ready to be healed, if you could. But she’d already shed most of her misery when she’d cried into the children’s arms. Even so, she felt the gathering tide of grief—as though all the people in the room had pooled their heartache over Miz Barker’s death and whatever else they needed to cry and moan about. She felt it in herself, too, a kind of opening up on the inside, like moving closer to the people around her without moving at all.
A young man rose and went to the podium in the corner of the room opposite the coffin.
“My name is Calvin Barker. I want to thank you…”
Blanche judged him to be a great-grandson.
It seemed everybody—including Blanche—and every business in the neighborhood had sent a card or telegram to the family, all of which Calvin was reading. Particularly touching messages got a loud “Umm-humm” from the mourners. Each time it happened, Blanche felt the grief tide rise a little higher.
When the cards were read, Calvin asked people to come to the podium if they had anything they wanted to say about Miz Barker. Most people stood and spoke from their seats about what a good neighbor and friend Miz Barker had been. Finally, a young woman rose from her seat and went to the podium.
“My own mother put me out after her boyfriend raped me. This woman”—she pointed at Miz Barker’s coffin—“took me in.”
“Praise Jesus! She was a good soul,” someone called out.
The young woman went on: “She helped me to understand that what had happened was not my fault. She helped me get my life back together and encouraged me to keep on moving on.”
“Amen, child, amen,” a mourner replied.
“I am here to praise her and to thank her. To tell the world that there was no more decent human being in the world, God rest her soul.”
“Tell it, child!”
The current swelled as the young woman stopped talking and began to sing “Nearer My God to Thee,” punctuated by sobs from members of the family. The room was swamped by a wave of grief. Tears flowed, family members hugged, and other mourners clasped hands as they were all washed in one another’s sorrows and released from them in a way that was easy and sweet and hard as birthing. Just as Blanche thought she would drown in so much feeling, a small child asked, “Momma, is that lady gonna sing another song?” and dried their eyes with laughter.
Mick didn’t want to go to the cemetery and neither did Blanche. When they arrived at the Barker house for the after-funeral gathering, it was already nearly full of people juggling paper plates and plastic cups. The house smelled of ham and turkey, greens, pig feet, chitterlings, corn bread, garlic, and lesser spices that made Blanche’s stomach growl. She worked her way toward the sideboard spread, with Mick right behind her.
Blanche filled a paper plate and found a not-too-crowded corner where she could stand and eat. She exchanged greetings with folk she knew and didn’t know. All around her people were talking about everything from buying a house to how to get rid of bill collectors. Whatever sadness there was for Miz Barker had been left at the funeral home in favor of celebrating her life with a plateful of good food. Chili and death, she thought.
Pam was moving through the room thanking people for coming. She looked worn to the bone. Blanche drew her away, made her sit down and sip some tea. But Pam couldn’t stop talking. It was as though words were a fence she’d built between herself and her grief, one that needed constant repair.
“She wouldn’t have liked all these people in her house. She’d talk to people all day in the store. But only family came here.”
“What about Ray-Ray? Didn’t he come here, too?”
“Yeah. But he was family as far as she was concerned. He came by the store to see Gran right before he died, you know. Him and his friend.”
“His friend?” Blanche felt the blood draining from her face. “What friend?”
Pam shook her head. “I didn’t know him. Ray-Ray said he needed to talk to Gran, so I didn’t hang around. Lots of people did that, you know, came by the store like they needed to buy something, but really they came to talk to Gran. I think that’s why she was so irritable about
me being in the store with her, afraid I’d stop people from talking. Once I figured that out, I knew when to leave for a while.”
“So was Ray-Ray’s friend just a friend, or…” Blanche tried not to seem too eager to hear Pam’s answer.
“Boyfriend. Cute little dude. Kinda clean cut. Had on a sharp old suit. I think Ray-Ray called him Donnie. I could tell they had a thing going from the way Ray-Ray looked at him. Didn’t faze Gran. She was just glad to see Ray-Ray. And now they’re both dead.” Pam sighed, a long, fluttery sigh.
Blanche hardly heard what Pam was saying. She was suddenly so cold, she was sure she’d see her breath if she spoke. The picture of Donnie that had formed and faded in her mind when she’d talked with Othello earlier was returning in full color. She saw him in Miz Barker’s store with Ray-Ray, then again days later, alone with Miz Barker. Did his slap cause her heart attack, or was it the shock of being slapped by her Ray-Ray’s lover that had killed her?
“…first time I ever saw Gran go around the house and check the doors and windows before she went to bed. It was like she knew death was coming and was trying to lock it out. But it didn’t work, did it?” Tears sprang to Pam’s eyes. She excused herself and ran quickly up the stairs.
Blanche wanted to reach out to Pam, but she was afraid of blurting out what she was seeing in her mind’s eye about who had killed her old friend and why. It would hurt Pam too much right now. And besides, Blanche wanted to be sure. Really sure.
“Blanche!” Aminata tapped Blanche’s shoulder and made her jump. Blanche locked thoughts of Donnie in the back of her mind and nervously turned to Aminata.
“How you doin’?” they asked simultaneously, and laughed about it.
“You first,” Aminata said. “Musta been terrible seeing that boy kill himself like that. You still look kinda strained around the eyes.”
Blanche nodded. “Thanks for looking out for the kids. I really appreciate it.”
“I was glad to do it. I’m half in love with that son of yours anyway, you know. I only wish my own son…”
Blanche was tempted to change the subject, but figured that’s what most people likely did to Aminata, as though her son were a birth defect too ugly to talk about.
“How is your boy holding up, Aminata?”
Aminata crossed her arms. “Sometimes I think he’s doing better than me. Sometimes…I don’t know. Every time I see him, I see a change. Not growing-up kinda change. More like he’s learning things in there that…I still can’t believe it, you know. I still wake up thinking I dreamed the whole thing, expecting to hear him in the…I raised that boy to respect life, to love life. He was so gentle and sweet when he was little that he could have been…” Aminata bit her lip and lowered her eyes.
Blanche grasped her hand hard. “It’s not your fault, honey,” she said.
“That’s what Othello always says. But God! I wish…” The pain on Aminata’s face was as fresh as if her son had just been arrested. “If I’d just known what lead can do, I’d…”
“That’s just it,” Blanche said, remembering what her children had said to her about Marc Brindle. “If you had known, you’d have done something. You couldn’t do something about what you didn’t know, honey.”
Aminata squeezed Blanche’s hand, then released it. “Most people don’t ask me about him.” She gave Blanche a sidelong look. “Afraid I’ll go off on my son thing,” she said with a smile that made Blanche aware of how foolish it was to assume you knew more about a person than the person knew about herself.
“Except for Othello,” Aminata added. “He always asks. Always listens.”
They both looked across the room at him. Othello was searching Aminata’s face with his eyes. Did he feel her wave of unhappiness from that far away?
“You may be half in love with Malik, but I’m half in love with Othello, so that makes us even,” Blanche said, to her own surprise.
Aminata nodded. “He is special.”
He grinned when he saw Aminata smile, as though his smile were as dependent on hers as moonlight on sunlight.
“I really got lucky.”
“It ain’t just luck,” Blanche said, and suddenly understood how her jealousy of Aminata was related to Malik becoming very much his own person, with his own ideas, and secrets that didn’t include or revolve around her. This woman was his friend. Lead poisoning was his issue, both chosen without the least bit of concern for her two cents worth of opinion.
“But how are you feeling, Blanche? Musta been awful being in that house.”
“I’m okay. I had a good cry, so I’m all right, for now.” She told Aminata about the children’s arms around her as she sobbed. “It felt strange to be the one getting the comfort.”
Aminata nodded. “They’re growing up. I can already see what kind of man Malik is going to be. Working with him really gives me a lift! You know we found the name of the company that owns those abandoned buildings, right? If we can get the names of the officers tomorrow…I can’t wait to bust these suckers! It’ll be good for the organization, too. Make folks see we can really do something about this mess. ‘And a little child shall lead them,’ isn’t that what they say?”
Aminata left with Othello, and Blanche looked around for Mick. She was talking to Lacey. Blanche wondered what folks in the ’hood thought about Lacey being a very up-front sex worker. She noticed a clutch of women cutting their eyes at Lacey. The set of their shoulders and their expressions made it clear they weren’t admiring her outfit, sharp as it was. Had Lacey noticed? Did it matter to her?
“Hey.” Blanche put her arm around Lacey’s waist. “You make a mean cup of tea, honey!”
Lacey laughed. “And you can suck it up, too, girl!”
“We were just talking about Ray-Ray and Miz Barker, their being friends and dying so close to each other,” Lacey told Blanche.
“He came to see her right before she died,” Blanche said. The Donnie door in Blanche’s mind threatened to swing open. She leaned firmly against it.
“Weird,” Mick said. “Like they were saying good-bye to each other.”
Blanche and Lacey exchanged amused looks in memory of when they’d believed life lined up that neatly. But Blanche was aware of the true connection between Ray-Ray’s and Miz Barker’s deaths: The same hand raised against both of them. One hand belonging to one man. One man. Cold once again crept up Blanche’s spine and encircled her midriff as though she’d stepped into a walk-in freezer. Beneath the ice, a whole sea of emotions swirled through her—anger at her own stupidity, a sadness for what had happened to Miz Barker and how it might have been prevented a fury against Donnie and everyone else involved in the search for that foul tape, a longing to just sit down alone somewhere and cry.
Lacey and Mick switched to talking about how sad it was when all the old folks started to die off, and naming all the recently dead elders from the old neighborhood. Blanche was hardly present. She hoped that what was happening inside of her wasn’t written on her face. Apparently it was.
Lacey lay her hand on Blanche’s arms. “Sweetie, you’re looking a little peaked. You had a real shock yesterday. You need to take it easy for a couple of days.”
Blanche left, but she didn’t head for home and rest. She had to meet Bea Richards.
Blanche was early. She slowed her steps and watched the gypsy cab drivers who worked the Tropical Foods market. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a regular cab outside of this store. The gypsy drivers looked for fares in both directions—making reservations for after-shopping rides with folks going in the store, and asking people leaving the market loaded down with bags if they needed a ride. In the few years she’d lived here, the gypsy drivers had changed from older American-born black men to younger men from Africa and the Caribbean, especially from Haiti. Had the older men moved on to a spot where they made more money? She hoped so but doubted it. Retired? On what?
Mr. Raymond, a black Santa Claus look-alike who was her usual gypsy driver, was just pulling off.
“Hey, Miz North Carolina!” he called as he rolled by with two women in the backseat and the front passenger seat full of grocery bags.
“Hey, how you doin’, Mr. Raymond?”
“Tryin’ to make a dollar, tryin’ to make a dollar.” He waved and kept on going.
Mr. Raymond’s words repeated in her head as she watched two people—one on either side of the street. One was trying to sell homemade baked goods; the other was offering to carry people’s groceries to their car, their house, or even the bus stop for a quarter a bag. Where were all these lazy, shiftless, don’t-want-to-work black folks politicians and newspapers were always going on about? All around, there were street vendors selling everything from incense to little black dolls in hand-crocheted outfits. Making work, she thought: doing what poor black people did to get money enough to get by. She’d read there’d been a lot of jobs created in Boston. What they didn’t say was who had gotten those jobs. She rarely saw black people working construction in this town, and there weren’t even that many blacks in the post office. She could easily count on one hand the number of black salesclerks she dealt with downtown or at the malls. The last time black people had full employment in America was during slavery. She joined the stream of mostly women and children entering the market and was immediately in another world.
The smell of fruit in various stages of decay, the peppery aroma of spices both known and unknown, the earthy odor of roots not native to these parts reminded her of barefoot women cooking over old fires. Languages swirled around her: Spanish, Jamaican patois, Portuguese, African languages she ached to recognize. She felt herself an ingredient in a rich gumbo, simmering down to a nourishing thickness in a broth made of all their juices.
A slim, honey-brown woman in a red sweater rolled a shopping cart up to Blanche.
“Bea Richards?”
Bea nodded and wheeled her cart down the aisle. Blanche wished she had a bit more information about Bea. For all she knew, Bea could be one of what Ardell called the Sanctified Suckers: women silly enough to fall for the kind of minister who considered screwing as many women in the congregation as possible a fringe benefit of his job as God’s go-between. Bea didn’t look like a fool—but what did a fool look like? Blanche vowed not to say anything sharp, no matter how tired Bea’s story.
Blanche Cleans Up: A Blanche White Mystery (Blanche White Mystery Series Book 3) Page 25
