Chapter 2
Late that afternoon Becca parked her car on the shoulder of the gravel road near Mrs. Brackett’s house and stepped out onto the deserted and dusty road. The air was warm and laden with moisture, and dark clouds made it seem that night was fast approaching though sunset was still hours away. Becca glanced at her collapsible umbrella on the back seat, thinking it might double as a defensive weapon in a pinch, then forced that thought out of her mind as unproductive paranoia. She locked and closed the door without touching the umbrella.
Mrs. Brackett finally opened her front door after a wait of what seemed an eternity but was in fact no more than thirty seconds. It was clear even through the screen door that the old woman had been napping—her eyes were clouded by sleep (first time Becca’d seen them without that hawk’s proud and incisive stare) and her white hair not neatly combed.
On seeing Becca, Mrs. Brackett took a moment to smooth the wrinkles in her light-blue gingham dress, rub her eyes once, and pull her hair back with those leathery hands. “Don’t get many unannounced visitors,” she said through the screen. “Least none you’d want to open your door to.”
“Sorry. I should’ve called.”
The woman waved her hand. “Phone don’t work half the time, don’t answer it when it does.”
Becca nodded. “Can I come in for a minute?”
“Latonya and Jonah aren’t here.”
“I doubted they would be.”
Mrs. Brackett stared at her, those hawk eyes in full flare again. “Then what you want?”
“I think I want the same thing you do—to help Jonah.”
Mrs. Brackett pushed the screen door open with her foot and stepped to the side far enough for Becca to enter, then closed and bolted the heavy front door.
Becca stood just inside the doorway not sure if she should move toward the kitchen area with its row of straight-backed chairs along the wall or the T.V. side with its single upholstered armchair. Mrs. Brackett turned from the door and stared up at her, seeming prepared for them to conduct whatever business needed to be transacted while standing there near the door. Becca smiled uneasily under the black woman’s gaze but suppressed her nervous impulse to speak (as she’d suppressed her impulse to flee while waiting on the porch during that interminable pause). These two battlers—the worn black-skinned survivor and the fresh-faced blonde idealist—engaged in a silent stand-off in the shaded low-ceilinged well-kept shack made all the dimmer for the shading nature was providing in the dense clouds outside.
Mrs. Brackett finally reneged. “Bring a chair,” she said with a curt wave toward the kitchen. She shuffled past Becca and sat in the armchair.
Becca grabbed a chair from the kitchen wall and quickly brought it to a spot about three feet in front of the armchair and at a slight angle to one side. She sat in the chair, holding her back straight against the straight ladder back. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Brackett offered a slow nod.
“I’d intended to speak to you and Jonah yesterday about a special opportunity available for this summer.”
“Before Latonya bust in.”
Becca nodded. “So I didn’t have a chance. But I’d like to tell you about it, and hope to get your help in convincing Latonya to consent to Jonah’s participation.”
“Latonya don’t convince.”
“So I gather.”
“Latonya do what Latonya want, when she want.”
“Mrs. Brackett, I’ve looked into trying to go around Latonya for Jonah’s sake; but it can’t be done, at least not in the near-term. We’ve got to get her approval if we want to help Jonah.”
Mrs. Brackett clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth and shook her dark head one time, as if suffering a spasm of chronic pain.
Becca continued. “There’s a Summer Learning Program at Lakeview School that is perfect for Jonah—daytime care and supervision with a customized educational curriculum. I’m not a teacher but I’m guessing they would encourage Jonah’s creative talents while strengthening his weaknesses in math skills and vocabulary.”
“He like to draw pictures.”
“Yes, I’ve seen. He needs to have the freedom and encouragement to do that in a nurturing environment.”
“I know.”
“This program would provide that structure, and could lead to other similar customized learning beyond the summer. I’m confident once his teachers see the talents we’ve seen, they’ll find a way to bring them along.”
Mrs. Brackett sighed. She’d heard such high-blown but hollow promises from white folks periodically throughout her long life.
“But we need Latonya’s signature and cooperation for Jonah to participate.”
“How soon?”
Becca looked down at her lap. “Wednesday?”
“Next week?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Mrs. Brackett shook her head in disgust. This too was an old familiar ploy by the white establishment—extend wonderful opportunities for improvement if you can meet just this one little requirement: this one impossible mandatory prerequisite. “Latonya is gone.”
“We’ve got to find her, and soon.”
The old woman shook her head. “Don’t want to be found.”
“We’ve got to try.” Becca took a folded copy of the consent form from the pocket of her lemon-colored T-shirt. “Let me leave this with you. If Latonya comes home, please ask her to sign where I’ve indicated.” She pointed at the blue-ink check mark beside the signature line.
“She won’t sign.”
“Tell her it’s best for Jonah.” She laid the sheet of paper on the lap of Mrs. Brackett’s dress.
“She don’t care.” A hardness fell across the woman’s features that made her face seem more a chiseled stone bust than living skin—finely crafted smooth-surfaced stone from a long ago civilization: Pharaonic Egypt, Solomon’s Ethiopia.
Becca leaned forward in her chair till her face was barely a foot from that hardened stone bust. “We’ve got to try for Jonah’s sake. Please help me.”
The stone softened just a tad as the woman offered a short nod to the blonde girl’s pleading eyes.
Birthday Dinner Page 11
