The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond

by Brenda Woods

  “A real Tuskegee Airman, seriously?”

  No wonder I like airplanes. It must be in my blood, too.

  “So you know who they were?”

  I nodded. “Of course, we learned about it in school. I even know about Elizabeth Coleman, the first black woman to get an international pilot’s license, because I bought a book about her at the book fair.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “So is the Tuskegee Airman guy still alive?”

  “Yep,” she replied. This was the second time she’d said it. And I thought I was the only person who said yep.

  “Do you think maybe he’ll take us flying?”

  “His flying days are long gone, Violet . . . He lives in Memphis with his daughter, and he’s almost a hundred years old and in a wheelchair.”

  Right then, the plane started moving and soon we were ready for takeoff. Faster and faster it went until finally we were off the ground. “This is my favorite part,” I told her.

  “Mine too.”

  I gazed out the window at the city below, and soon we were soaring. I love soaring.

  During the flight, I started the what-name-I-should-call-you conversation.

  “Mom thinks I should call you a grandmother name instead of Roxanne,” I confided.

  “What do you think?” she asked me.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. Did you know that Roxanne means ‘star’?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you always say yep?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “Because I do, too . . . anyway . . . back to what I should call you.”

  “I did a little digging and came up with the name Bibi. What do you think of that?” she replied.

  “Bibi?” I’d never heard anyone call their grandma that before. “How do you spell it?”

  “B-i-b-i. It’s Swahili for ‘grandmother,’” she replied.

  “Swahili?” I’d done some research about Swahili, and this seemed like a good time to impress her. “There are only five countries where Swahili is the official language. TDUCK.”

  “TDUCK?” Roxanne repeated.

  “Tanzania, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Uganda, the Comoros, and Kenya. TDUCK.” The pleased look she gave me let me know I could instantly add her name to my people who think Violet Diamond is incredibly smart list.

  “You’re very smart, aren’t you? Your dad was very smart.”

  The last time she’d talked about my dad, it had made her cry. Quickly, I made a silent prayer-wish that she wouldn’t start boohooing, and when I glanced up at her face, her eyes were dry. Whew.

  “So what do you think about calling me Bibi?” she asked.

  “Bibi,” I repeated. Just saying it made me smile. “I like it a lot.”

  And so Roxanne Kamaria Diamond became my bibi.

  • • •

  The landing was very un-smooth. The plane skidded and did a couple of hops in the air, and I held my breath. Please let me live, I thought. Finally, we came to a stop and I breathed.

  “That was a really bad landing,” I told Bibi as we gathered our things.

  “Really bad.”

  “Don’t worry, Bibi. I’ll do a better job than that when I’m a pilot.”

  26

  LOS ANGELES

  There was one thing I had to do as soon as I got off the plane—buy postcards, because I’d promised Athena, Yaz, and Daisy. And if I didn’t mail them by at least tomorrow, I’d probably be back home by the time they arrived, and that seemed silly.

  “I have to buy postcards before we leave,” I told Bibi. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course, Violet,” Bibi said as she reached in her purse and took out her wallet.

  “It’s okay, I have my own money,” I told her, and when I made a beeline to one of the stores, Bibi was right behind me.

  Before long, I’d picked out five postcards and a refrigerator magnet. I held up the magnet of the Hollywood sign for Bibi to see. “It’s for my mom.”

  “I’m sure she’ll like it.”

  We loaded onto the shuttle bus that was going to take us to the parking lot where she’d left her car, and on the way I noticed a building that looked like a flying saucer had landed in the middle of the airport. “What’s that place?” I pointed. “It reminds me of the Space Needle.”

  “That’s called the Theme Building. It was built in 1961, if I remember correctly. There’s a restaurant inside.”

  “Can we go there now?” I pleaded.

  “I think you need reservations, but I’ll call and see,” Bibi said, and reached for her cell phone.

  Reservations? That spelled probably expensive. I remembered what Mom had said about some artists not making too much money and said, “Never mind.”

  But she was already talking on the phone, and whoever was on the other end must have given her good news, because she got a big smile on her face and said, “The name is Roxanne Diamond. Thank you so much. Yes, fifteen minutes.”

  “Lucky us. There was a cancellation,” Bibi told me, and the next thing I knew we were skedaddling off the bus. Towing our suitcases, we took the elevator up into the saucer.

  I don’t know about Bibi, but I felt pretty excited. Some of the food on the menu was the usual fancy-schmancy restaurant stuff, but then I saw just what I felt like eating, an extra tasty spicy cheeseburger. And that’s what I ordered, along with fries and a big glass of lemonade.

  Bibi ordered a Cobb salad and mineral water, and for dessert we shared a chocolate lovin’ spoon cake, which tasted so good, I wished we’d ordered two.

  I watched her as she pulled out her purse to pay the bill and was glad that we look alike, that our skin is almost the same color, that her eyes are as brown as mine. There would be no question marks in people’s eyes today.

  And as we got up to leave, a smiling brown-skinned man, lady, and girl about my age came in and were led to their table. I heard the girl call the man “Daddy.” The smiling man was holding his daughter’s hand.

  I wish my daddy was with us.

  And he would kiss my forehead the way her daddy just did.

  And look at me with love in his eyes.

  “Can we go there again?” I asked as Bibi and I climbed back onto the shuttle bus.

  “Los Angeles is a big place and there’s lots to do, Violet,” she replied.

  “Like Disneyland?” Please please please.

  “Like Disneyland.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

  “So?”

  “Tomorrow we’ll go to church and then we’ll have the Diamond Family Sunday Feast,” she informed me.

  The way they always do when I get nervous, my insides got squiggly. “Huh? There’s more family? But Mom told me there was only you.”

  “Same as my mother, I was an only child and what distant family I have left on her side is in New York City.”

  “New York City? Can we go there? I really want to go there bad. It’s number one on my list of places I want to go to.”

  “Someday, Violet . . . but about Sunday dinner,” Bibi explained, “I’m talking about your grandfather’s family.”

  “But my grandfather’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he died years ago, but a few members of his family live in Los Angeles and we take turns hosting the Diamond Family Sunday Feast. Tomorrow’s my turn to cook.”

  “Will other kids be coming?”

  “Only one.”

  “My cousin?” I asked.

  Bibi answered, “Yep.”

  “Awesome.”

  27

  A STREET LINED WITH PALM TREES

  The street where Bibi lived was lined on both sides with palm trees so tall, it looked like they were trying to touch the blue sky. “Wow! It�
��s pretty here.”

  Bibi smiled.

  With one exception, all of the palm tree trunks leaned in the same direction. “Wonder why that one didn’t grow the same as the others?” I asked.

  “Same as some people . . . probably born different. Like me, I suppose. Everyone warned me not to pursue my art, said it was a waste of time. Colored girl, artist. Most folks laughed, even my daddy. Told me to be a social worker . . . even a nurse. But the art was in my mind and soul and it had to come out. I couldn’t help it. No matter what, it kept showing up.” Bibi gazed up at the palm trees, then at me.

  I thought for a few seconds about what she had said.

  I felt different inside, too. “I think words are in me,” I said. “Just when I think there are no more to learn, another one shows up.”

  “Maybe you’ll be a writer.”

  “A writer? I never thought about that, but being a writer might be cool, very cool.”

  Bibi unlocked the gate and we entered the front courtyard of her house. Inside, there was a garden with all sorts of cacti, a bunch of other plants, and one patch along the wall with nothing but blooming yellow sunflowers.

  “Sunflowers are my favorite,” I told her.

  “Mine too,” she replied. “We’ll pick some later, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The house was painted a color that was sort of red-orange and it had a red tiled roof and a big stained glass window. It looked like pictures I’d seen in books about Mexico. “Is this a Mexican house?” I asked.

  “It’s Spanish style. Quite a few of the houses in this section of Leimert Park are.”

  “Leimert Park? I thought this was Los Angeles?”

  “It is Los Angeles . . . a part of South Los Angeles, but some neighborhoods have special names.” Bibi put the key in the lock and led me inside. A bunch of mail from the door mailbox slot blocked the entryway floor, and she hurried to gather it up. “My house is a mess,” she said. “Forgive me. I wasn’t expecting company.” Then she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

  I stored my suitcase and backpack in a corner and headed to the living room, where I plopped on the sofa and looked around. It wasn’t like any room I’d ever seen before and I loved it. The walls, including the ceiling, were painted lavender and the wood around the windows was painted the color of salmon. Every wall was covered with all sorts of paintings and other kinds of artwork. There were wooden statues and stuff made from clay crammed everywhere. One whole shelf had nothing but turquoise figurines, maybe thirty in all. There was enough art for a museum, and that was just in the living room. From what I could see from where I was sitting, the dining room’s four walls, which were painted bright yellow, were covered with more paintings and face masks.

  She needs a bigger house.

  And that’s exactly what Bibi said when she came out of the bathroom. “I need a bigger house, don’t I, Violet?”

  “Just call me V, okay? It’s what most people call me. Even my mom, except when she’s mad.”

  “V it is, then . . . but if I forget now and then, will you forgive me? I’m getting old.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough.”

  “That’s what my gam always says when I ask her.”

  Bibi chuckled. “Smart woman.”

  She gave me a tour of the house. There was a small den, painted bright green, with a flat-screen TV, two recliner chairs that looked comfy, and a desk with a laptop computer. She showed me her bedroom, which was pretty messy, like my room at home. It was painted bright orange.

  I thought about the walls in our house.

  Boring.

  “You sure like pretty colors,” I commented.

  The next bedroom was very neat and was painted bright blue. Periwinkle, Bibi called it. It had a fluffy bed. “This will be your room, Violet,” Bibi said.

  My own room here.

  But the room across from it was a little dark because the drapes were closed. Inside, I could see there was no bed, just an old-looking dresser and an entire wall of framed papers and photographs. It was the only room in the house that was painted white. “Is it okay if I look at the pictures?”

  Bibi nodded and flicked on the light.

  From a distance, I thought I saw pictures of me, and as I got closer I realized I was right. My school photos were labeled for every year, beginning with kindergarten.

  Her having my pictures there made me start to feel a little less like a guest.

  Above mine were school pictures of my dad.

  My mom had lots of photos of him from when they were married, but none from before. He was so cute. “Was this his room?” I asked.

  Bibi picked at her nails and replied, “Yes, it was. Till the day he left for college. Once New York City bit him, he rarely came home except for Christmas. Summertime would come and he’d promise, but then he’d get a summer job or internship there.”

  I inspected the photos again. “We really look alike, huh?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Also on the wall were a bunch of his framed diplomas and awards. One said class valedictorian. “What’s a valedictorian?”

  “The highest-ranked student in the graduating class. He gave an amazing speech. We were the proudest parents who ever lived. I can still hear his voice. ‘My name is Warren Thurgood Diamond and I was sent here to inspire you.’”

  “His middle name was Thurgood . . . like Thurgood Marshall?”

  That made Bibi smile. “Yep,” she replied. “His father wanted him to be a lawyer, but from the time he was little, Warren had his mind set on being a surgeon.”

  I examined every corner of the room with my eyes. I wanted to be able to see him, hear his voice, talk to him. I felt like he’d been stolen from me. “Do you think maybe his ghost is in here?”

  Bibi gave me a you’re-a-strange-person look and replied, “No. I think his spirit is with God.”

  “In heaven?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I suppose because her eyes were getting watery again, she changed the subject. “Want to see my studio? It’s outside.”

  I glanced at the photos one more time. Knowing they were here, where I could see them anytime, made me happy. I shut off the light and trailed Bibi outside to the backyard. About ten wind chimes and a hundred Christmas ornaments dangled from the patio. Some were stars and others were globes in every color. “Wow. Are these always here?”

  “Always.”

  I felt as if I was in an odd, unique, and beautiful world. Like maybe we’d left the Earth.

  “It’s just a converted garage,” she said as she turned the knob and welcomed me inside her studio.

  Inside there were easels and canvasses, big and small. All around there were paints and cans, a zillion brushes, and the floor was so spattered with paint of every color that it looked like a painting itself. She even had one of those wheel things for making pottery. “I’m afraid it’s not very organized,” she apologized.

  “That’s okay, my gam’s office isn’t organized, either,” I told her, then asked, “Do you sell a lot of paintings?”

  “Enough to put some travel money in my pocket. I have a serious case of wanderlust.”

  A great new word. “Does that mean you like to wander around?”

  “To travel,” she explained.

  I grinned. “I have that, too.”

  Bibi walked toward me, reached out, swallowed me up with her arms, and hugged me tight, and I hugged her back. Right then, Bibi seemed less like a stranger. She felt warm and smelled nice, like a vase of flowers.

  I rummaged through the studio, looking at this and that, touching the paintings and containers of paint. “I don’t think I have art inside me like you do because I’m not that good at drawing and I never really painted except in school art class, but I really want to
learn. Can you teach me?”

  “Yes, Violet, I will,” she promised, “but right now Bibi needs to go inside and put her feet up. The old girl is getting tired. Later on we’ll go to the market. I need some things for tomorrow’s dinner.” Like a tail on a donkey, I was right behind her.

  “Are you hungry or thirsty?”

  I rubbed my still very full tummy. “After that ginormous lunch, no way.”

  We went to the den and she turned on the TV with the remote. “You mind the Cooking Channel?” she asked. “Might give us some ideas for tomorrow’s dinner.”

  “Okay,” I replied, then glanced at the computer. “But is it okay if I send my mom and Daisy an e-mail?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Bibi turned on the computer and logged on. “There you go, sweetie.”

  Sweetie?

  I sent a short e-mail to my mom and Daisy, letting them know everything was okay, and in no time at all they replied with happy faces. “Done,” I said, and turned off the laptop.

  Bibi settled down in the recliner, put her feet up, and motioned for me to sit in the other chair. “Been a very long week,” she sighed.

  We watched the Cooking Channel for a while before Bibi nodded off and snored. Outside, the wind began to blow and an orchestra of chimes clanged.

  I like it here.

  But as she napped, I caught myself wondering if Bibi would sneak into my room at night and check on me, the way Gam does when I spend the night at her house. I hadn’t even been gone a day, but I already missed my comfy bed, Mom, Daisy, Gam, and Poppy, the same everyday mostly boring stuff that goes on in Moon Lake, my kitty, Hazel, motormouth Athena, Yaz, shouting orders on the ice.

  Violet Diamond is a little homesick.

  28

  A MILLION MILES FROM HOME

  About a half hour later, Bibi woke up and we headed to the market to buy food for tomorrow’s dinner.

  The grocery store wasn’t too far from her house, and inside, almost everyone was African American. There were a few people who I knew were from Mexico or someplace like that because I heard them speaking Spanish, but I didn’t see one single white person. It was nothing like Moon Lake, where I’m usually the only black person in the store, or even Seattle, where there are all kinds of people, and being in a place where nearly everyone was African American for the first time felt different. Even though I was still in America, it felt like I’d traveled a million miles from home.