The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond

by Brenda Woods

  “I’m in the mood for a soul food feast. What do you think, V?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Ever had grits pie?” Bibi asked.

  “I’ve had grits, but never in a pie. Doesn’t sound delicious.”

  “Well, it’s a family favorite, V. My grandmother from Louisiana used to make it. Thought you and I should give it a try. I know her recipe by heart . . . think the only thing I don’t have at home is vanilla extract and buttermilk.”

  It was as if Bibi had memorized the store and she knew right where everything was.

  “And for the lemon icebox pie . . . I’ll need some condensed milk.”

  “That sounds good,” I said as I tagged along beside her.

  “It is and it’s easy,” Bibi told me.

  Then, like she was writing a menu inside her head, she rattled off, “And short ribs, salmon croquettes, fried okra, jambalaya, and corn bread.”

  By the time we finished shopping, the cart was filled almost to the top, and it was almost dark when we loaded up the car and headed back to her house.

  “You getting hungry, V?” she asked.

  “You must be reading my mind,” I told her.

  “Taco Bell okay with you?”

  I told her yes and in a flash she’d changed lanes. Minutes later we pulled into the drive-through and ordered.

  I’m not sure why, but being with Bibi felt different from being with Gam. Not better, just different. It was like one was mint chip ice cream and the other was cookies ’n’ cream: I like them both and both are sweet.

  That night, I showered and washed my hair in Bibi’s pretty bathroom that had black and yellow tiles. While my hair was still wet, she rubbed in something called Moroccan argan oil. It made my hair really easy to comb through, even easier than the stuff Yaz had helped me buy. Bibi said I could have the small bottle. She promised it would keep my hair soft and shiny but not greasy. “Thanks, Bibi.”

  And later, as I climbed into bed, she asked, “Do you say your prayers with your mother or by yourself?”

  “Oh, I just make wishes, but Mom claims they’re really prayers,” I explained.

  Bibi’s face turned serious. “Do you believe in God, V?”

  I answered yes and pointed up. “I know He’s up there.”

  She kissed my forehead and said, “Good night and God bless.”

  29

  THE SUNDAY MORNING PARTY

  If being at the market had made me feel like I was in another country, church the next morning made me wonder if I was in a faraway galaxy.

  It was called the Holy Trinity First Baptist Missionary Temple of Los Angeles. “Huh?” I asked.

  “Mostly we just say Holy Trinity,” Bibi whispered. She was wearing a white suit and matching white shoes, not African clothes. In fact, since we’d left Seattle, I’d never seen her in African clothes.

  “How come you don’t wear African clothes anymore?” I asked.

  “I only wear African garb for art events . . . it feels right to present myself that way.”

  One person was warming up the organ, another the piano, and a man strummed a guitar. The choir was just getting in place. We were early and the church was only about half full. “If you don’t get here early, it’s hard to get a seat,” she explained.

  Lots of people knew Bibi, and when one lady called her Sister Diamond, I asked, “Is she really your sister? I thought you didn’t have any.”

  “We are Sisters in the Lord and interconnected by the Holy Spirit,” she explained. “Church Sisters.”

  We hadn’t been there very long before I found out that Bibi had a whole bunch of Sisters in the Lord.

  With a proud look she introduced me over and over again as her granddaughter. “My . . . my . . . ain’t you a pretty little thing,” one of the women, who Bibi called Sister Williams, told me. She was wearing a bright blue suit with rhinestone buttons and a hat in the same color that had three peacock feathers.

  “Thank you . . . I like your hat,” I replied.

  “Some of the women here sure dress pretty,” I told Bibi.

  Bibi smiled.

  By ten o’clock, Holy Trinity was packed with African American people, old and young and in between, and the church was filled with music and singing.

  Suddenly, a man in a black suit appeared on the stage. “Welcome to the Sunday morning party! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” he shouted.

  People all around me, including Bibi, stood up, raised their arms, and shouted, “Praise Jesus!” Some were clapping their hands and moving with the music and others sang along with the choir. It almost felt like I was at a concert, so I stood up and clapped to the beat.

  Then unexpectedly, everything got quiet. And as if they’d practiced it many times before, everyone began to sit down. It was like someone had let all of the air out of a balloon. Soon, I was the only one standing. Gently, Bibi took my hand and sat me down.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Shhh.”

  The guy up front wearing the black suit quietly said, “Good Sunday morning. What a pleasure it is to have each and every one of you here today.”

  All around me people answered, “Good Sunday morning.”

  And when he commanded the people to open their Bibles to a certain place, like robots, everyone who had a Bible did.

  Bibi scooted me close to her and pointed with her finger to where everyone was reading and together we read along. It was in a section of the Bible called Proverbs.

  Then, like a teacher, the guy up front started to talk about what we’d just read. Some people even took notes. I wondered if later there’d be a test.

  During the rest of the service, the choir sang more songs and the preacher did a lot more teaching from the Bible and everyone took a communion wafer and ate it, including me. I closed my eyes and waited to feel more holy, but I didn’t. Maybe I would later. When I opened my eyes and gazed up at Bibi, she was grinning at me. And I grinned back.

  30

  THE DIAMOND FAMILY SUNDAY FEAST

  Normally, I would stay at church and socialize for a while, but you and I have some serious cooking to do,” Bibi said as we nearly sped back to her house.

  “What time will they be here?” I asked.

  “Six.”

  I glanced at the kitchen wall clock. It was just after noon.

  Bibi hurried to change her clothes and advised me to do the same. “Around here the cooks get their clothes dirty.”

  First we diced onions, celery, green onions, bell peppers, tomatoes, and garlic, and set it aside. Then we got the short ribs going. Next we put on the butter beans. And after that we chopped up the chicken for the jambalaya. Even with the kitchen door and window open, it was hot and both of us were sweating.

  “Maybe we should turn on the air conditioner?”

  Bibi laughed and pointed to the window. “You’re looking at it,” she replied.

  The smells from the food filled the kitchen and Bibi was humming happily when she decided to put on a CD. “You like Nina Simone?”

  Not knowing who Nina Simone was, I shrugged.

  The music sounded like it was from a long time ago, but it was still good.

  “She’s my favorite . . . well, she and Nancy Wilson,” Bibi said, and began singing along about Sunday in Savannah, swaying to the melody.

  We were working fast, but I liked it and wondered if this was what it felt like to be a restaurant chef. In my mind, I added chef to my list of potential careers.

  By four o’clock everything was cooked or still baking, and Bibi gave me a high five.

  Together we put the extension in the dining room table and brought in chairs from the closet so there were enough seats for seven people. We each took an end of the white lace tablecloth and lifted it. Like a parachute it floated to the table. Bibi
took out her real silverware from the china cabinet, good dishes, and cloth napkins, and we set the table.

  “Do you always make it so deluxe?” I asked.

  “Deluxe? That’s a funny word for someone your age to use.”

  “I like funny words,” I told her.

  Bibi stopped what she was doing, clutched a gold-rimmed dish to her chest, and smiled at me. “You’re so much like your father,” she replied. “And to answer your question, no, I don’t usually make it so deluxe, but this is a special occasion,” she added.

  “Because I’m here?”

  “Yep . . . because you’re here. Been a long time since I shared this house with anyone.” For a few nanoseconds, she stared kindly into my eyes, then said we should get dressed.

  I went to my room, slipped on my purple and lavender striped dress, and was gazing in the mirror, fixing my curls, when the doorbell rang.

  Right away, loud voices came from the living room, a man’s deep one and a boy’s voice.

  I stepped out of the bedroom and heard the boy yell, “So where is she?” He zoomed into the hallway, and as soon as he saw me he ran toward me so fast, we bumped into each other and I nearly fell.

  “You should really watch where you’re going,” I told him.

  “Mr. Diamond!” the man shouted from the other room. “What’d I tell you about running in the house?”

  “Mr. Diamond” was just my height, with brown skin, dark eyes so big they looked like any minute they might pop out of their sockets, and a round face. Something about him reminded me of a grasshopper. I tried not to, but I couldn’t stop myself and I giggled.

  He sneered. “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing,” I said, then asked, “What’s your name?”

  It sounded like he said, “I’m Ed.”

  “Hi, Ed,” I replied.

  “Not Ed.” He snickered and spelled out A-M-H-E-D. “Amhed. It means ‘highly praised.’”

  Right then I felt like what Poppy calls a nincompoop. “Oh.”

  The man came up behind Ahmed. “Violet?” he asked.

  “Why’re you askin’ her that? You can tell it’s her from those pictures on the wall,” Ahmed told him, and stared at me hard. “She looks just like those pictures, doesn’t she?”

  The man was tall, about as brown as me, and bald, with freckles on his cheeks. “Nice to meet you. I’m your second cousin Harris.” He reached out to shake my hand.

  “Hi, I’m Violet,” I told him.

  “We already know that,” Ahmed teased.

  “And this is my son, Ahmed.”

  “Hey,” Ahmed said.

  “Hi,” I replied.

  The way these two were gawking at me, I felt like a mannequin in a store window. And I was glad when the doorbell rang again.

  As if it were his house, Ahmed shouted, “I’ll get it!” and bolted to the living room.

  Harris and I stopped at the kitchen, where Bibi was still working on dinner.

  “Smells awful good in there,” he told her, then turned to me. “Your grandma’s a mighty good cook. You could learn a little something from her.”

  I beamed. “I helped Bibi with the whole feast.”

  “Bibi? Who’s Bibi?” he asked.

  “I’m Bibi. It’s Swahili for ‘grandmother,’” she informed him.

  “Lord have mercy! Here you go with that Africa mess again. This is not Africa, Roxanne. Let the child call you Grandma.”

  Bibi turned up her nose at him and went back to cooking. “As usual, Harris, I’m ignoring you. And this is not your business.”

  “I like Bibi,” I told him. “Really.”

  “All right then. So what’d you cook for us, Bibi?” Harris started looking in the pots.

  “I know you’d better get outta my kitchen before I hurt you. And where’s your wife?”

  “Victoria had to work a few extra hours at the hospital. One of the other nurses had some kind of emergency. She’ll be here after while.”

  Harris grabbed one of the hot hush puppies Bibi had just taken out of the fryer, popped it in his mouth, grinned, and ducked out of the kitchen.

  Whoever had rung the bell had come inside, and I heard women’s voices in the living room. I peeked in and saw two ladies who were dressed the same except for their shoes and looked just alike. Twins. Their faces looked older than my mom’s, who is in her forties, but younger than Bibi’s, who’s old enough.

  “Roxanne Diamond! Do I smell short ribs?” the one wearing red shoes asked as she made her way to the kitchen.

  As soon as Bibi saw her, she stopped what she was doing, dried her hands on her apron, and hugged her for a long time. The two of them were still hugging when the woman finally noticed me and pushed Bibi away. “This your grandbaby?” she shrieked. And then whoever she was hugged me—hard. “I’m your cousin Lorna Diamond. We’ve waited a lot of years to meet you.”

  “I’m Violet.”

  She turned to Bibi. “And she’s beautiful, too! And look at all that hair.” She glanced my way and asked, “That is your real hair, isn’t it?”

  “Yep, it is.”

  “Hard to tell now’days,” Lorna told Bibi.

  With all that commotion, the other woman, whose shoes were yellow, had come into the kitchen. “Hi, I’m Violet,” I told her, and stuck out my hand for her to shake.

  But that didn’t stop her from hugging me just as tight as her twin sister had. “I’m Laura Diamond, Lorna’s twin.”

  Obvious.

  “Ain’t she pretty, Laura?” Lorna asked.

  “As a picture,” Laura replied.

  Later, I would find out that Lorna and Laura Diamond were both third-grade teachers. Neither had ever been married. The way they acted, it was kind of like they were married to each other. I wondered what it felt like to have an identical twin. Two Violet Diamonds—nope, I didn’t want another me.

  The last person to show up was Victoria, who rushed in uttering an apology. “Sorry to be late. Tell me y’all didn’t eat yet.” She was wearing pink nursing scrubs and her braided hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She smiled when she saw me.

  “You must be Violet.”

  “Duh,” Ahmed said.

  “I’m your cousin-in-law, Victoria,” she said, gave me a shoulder hug, and hurried to the bathroom to wash up.

  Cousin-in-law? I didn’t know there was such a thing.

  Bibi, Lorna, and Laura began putting the food out on the buffet table, and I was just standing around. “Do you need me to help, Bibi?” I offered.

  “Bibi?” the twins said at the same time.

  “Swahili word for ‘grandmother,’” Harris informed them from where he was sitting in the living room, watching Poppy’s favorite station, the Golf Channel.

  “Bibi,” Lorna and Laura repeated. “Cute,” they added.

  But Ahmed scowled. “Bibi? Why don’t you just call her Grandma or Nana like I used to call my grandma before she died?”

  For some reason, probably because everyone was fawning over me, treating me like I’m special, I was beginning to feel like a star. I looked Ahmed square in the face, cocked my head to the side, and replied, “I don’t want to call her Grandma or Nana . . . I wanna call her Bibi.”

  Ahmed gave me a snide look. “Doesn’t make any difference to me. You can call my auntie whatever you want.”

  My auntie? The way he’d said it made it sound like he owned her.

  Creature.

  “Time to eat!” Lorna shouted.

  In a flash, everyone surrounded the table and joined hands while Bibi recited a short prayer. “Our Father in Heaven, we give thanks for the pleasure of gathering together for this occasion. We give thanks for this food prepared by loving hands. We give thanks for life, the freedom to enjoy it all, and all other blessings. Amen.”
/>   And all of the Diamonds, including me, echoed, “Amen.”

  The feast of foods-I’d-never-eaten-before was yummy. And talk around the dinner table was filled up with jokes, stories, and a lot of laughing. None of them acted like they’d just met me—they treated me like they’d always known me. I liked this funny family and the way they made me feel—like I belonged to them.

  31

  EAVESDROPPING AGAIN

  After dinner, because Bibi had cooked and Victoria had just gotten off work, Lorna and Laura stayed inside to clean up and made everyone else vamoose. Harris, Ahmed, Victoria, Bibi, and I were sitting on the back patio under the lit-up pergola when I excused myself to get some water.

  “Other than that hair, you think she looks half white?” I heard either Lorna or Laura ask.

  I stopped dead in my tracks and was getting ready to turn around and sneak back outside before they saw me, but when I thought about the truth I’d learned from eavesdropping on Mom and Gam a few weeks ago, I decided to stay out of sight and hear what else they had to say.

  “If I didn’t know you better, I’d accuse you of having just made a very ignorant statement. What is half white supposed to look like, Halle Berry or Alicia Keys? There are many ways to look half white. Some of my biracial students have looked more white, others more black. Most of them have been somewhere in the middle. I had one girl who looked Persian. Biracial comes in just about every shade of skin, and all colors and kinds of hair, from pin straight to nappy. You can never predict what’s going to come out of the mixed pot,” the other answered.

  “I know you’re right,” the other twin agreed. “I had a boy in my class who everyone thought was Latino until his black Jamaican daddy showed up on parent-teacher night.”