by Lisa Patton
SEVENTY
MISS PEARL
Thirty minutes into The Voice I hear a rap on the door. I knew I shouldn’t have waved at James Hardy this morning. Soon as I did it I regretted it. His chest puffed up the second I lifted my hand. That man can keep on knocking as far as I’m concerned; I am busy. Usher is on the television.
Looking at my main man with his handsome self is the best way I know to take my mind off everything that’s happened. On the bright side, I’ve got two job offers. First, the University has a position with my name on it: a supervisor in the maintenance department making fifteen dollars an hour plus benefits, including health and dental insurance and retirement. I can even attend the University again at a discounted rate. I’m supposed to give them an answer by close of business Friday.
Miss Wilda came over here personally the other day to let me know the board unanimously approved my application for House Director. She even said there’s a plan in the works for staff benefits. Eli Manning is on board to help the pledges with their fund-raiser. When he heard about the protest, he called Selma personally and commended her on a job well done.
The best part about the offer is Lilith Whitless will not be my boss. That lady finally got her due. I might not know everything that’s going on behind closed doors over there, but I do know one thing: Before God, I will never be in the same room with that woman again. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
I haven’t made up my mind yet. There are pros and cons for both positions. Attending the University at a discounted rate translates to quite a bit of money. When I explained that to Miss Wilda, she said it was perfectly understandable. On the other hand, having a lovely apartment to live in has value and is something I would greatly appreciate. But I have to consider my future and where I have the best opportunity for advancement. No matter the outcome, I am happy. Knowing the girls took a stand for me is something I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.
Lord have mercy, here comes the knock again. I mash the pause button down so hard, I leave an imprint on my thumb. Then I drag myself off the couch and pad over to the door. Once I put my eye up to the peephole, I nearly fall out on the floor. It’s not James Hardy. The Evil Queen herself is perched right outside my door.
What in the world could she want? I sigh so loud I’m quite sure she can hear me, but I do not care. She can stand there all day long if she wants to. I am not opening my door for her. Now I wish it was that James Hardy fool. As I’m headed back to the couch I hear her say, “Hello. Miss Pearl?” in a tone that’s not harsh.
So that’s what she’s doing. Putting some nice in her voice. Coming over here to save face. Go on home, lady. You’re not fooling me. I plop back down on the couch and snatch up my remote.
“It’s Lilith Whitmore. I have something for you.”
Something for me? Like what? A warrant for my arrest? What on earth is so important that this lady has made it her business to drive all the way out to my neck of the woods? She’s crazy if she thinks I’ll listen to one more word of her disrespectful bullcrap.
“It won’t take long.”
Why would I want to show my face to her? So she can slap it again? I may not have a college degree, yet, but I am no dummy. Maybe I should call the police. She’s on my property now. Where’s my phone?
“I’ll leave it on your stoop. Please don’t wait too long to get it, though. I wouldn’t want it stolen.”
Stolen? What makes her think anyone around here would want what she has? And who does she think is a thief? Maybe I should open this door and give her a big piece of my mind. Let her know despite what she thinks she sees on the outside, my neighborhood has more love on the inside than that Natchez mansion of hers has ever had. That I know.
“I’m leaving now. I hope it will be okay out here.”
That’s it. I’m fixing to let her have it. I push myself up, pad back over to the door and put my eye up to the peephole again. She’s digging inside her extra large Louis Vuitton pocketbook. Probably going for her gun. Because of me, she’s lost her board president position. I’ve read about people like her, snapping all of a sudden.
But the more I think about her coming to shoot me I reconsider. Mama Carla said she was watching everything that happened at my going-away party from a safe spot across the street. She’s nothing but a chicken. With her head cut off! I have to stop myself from laughing out loud imagining her running around the House headless.
Instead of a gun she pulls out a wrapped gift in shiny light blue paper tied with a white satin bow. And here comes a card. I watch as she bends down and sets them both on my doormat. She stands back up, then turns and walks away. The echo of her clicking heels can be heard a mile off.
Once I figure she’s gone for good, I creak open the door, bend down, and scoop up the gift and the card. Simply because I’m curious. Half of me is scared to see what’s inside. Suppose it has some kind of deadly poison inside, set to go off when it opens? Or a small bomb ready to set me on fire?
On second thought I better not open the box, but I go ahead and take a chance on the card, open the envelope, and slide it out slowly. It’s on fine ivory paper with a deckled edge, a watercolor rendering of the Alpha Delt House with our Greek letters over the front door. I’m still alive—praise Jesus—so I turn it over to see what in the world she has to say for herself.
Dear Miss Pearl,
It’s never been easy for me to admit when I’m wrong. Call it control. Call it a generational curse. Call it whatever you want, but it doesn’t justify the bitter truth. I treated you horribly. The bad news, for me anyway, is that you aren’t the only one. To be candid, I’ve hurt so many people, in so many ways, I don’t know how I’ll ever begin to clean up the carnage.
This is for you. I’m not worthy of it. Everything it represents is the opposite of who I’ve become. I’m not sure what to do about that, but it’s certainly not your problem. Although I don’t deserve it, I can only pray that someday you may be able to forgive me.
Even though I’m no longer president, I hope you’ll please return to the House as the House Director. Amending the bylaws was the easy part, I’m sure. But finding another real Mississippi Pearl would be impossible. You are our official jewel, the heart of Alpha Delta Beta.
With Love,
Lilith Turner Whitmore
I am thunderstruck. My heart, the one I thought had petrified when it came to her, cracks. These are the last—last—words I ever expected to hear from Lilith Whitmore. Half of me believes it must be a hoax; she couldn’t have written these words if a gun were put to her head. But the other part of me says: “Open the gift, Pearl.”
When I remove the bow and tear back the wrapping, I find a small black velvet box. Real slow like, I open the lid. When I see what’s inside, my breath catches. It’s Miss Lilith’s pin. The one she wears over her heart every time she walks in the House. I’d seen plenty of them over the years, but seeing hers up close makes me think it’s older than most—an antique from another generation. Someone told me her mother was an Alpha Delt. Perhaps it was hers.
“Pearl,” I hear a small voice call from the stairwell. The sound of her heels fills the air as she walks toward me. I’ve never seen her looking so casual. Blue jeans and a short jacket. Her hair is a mess, no makeup on her face. Once she gets closer she tries looking at me, but her lids fall, like she can hardly do it.
There’s a battle going on between my head and my heart. My heart wants to believe her, but my head is still telling me no, it’s all for show.
Before I have a chance to put words together she says, “I am the antithesis of every symbol on that pin.” Then she hangs her head. She’s close enough now that I can see sprouts of gray have rooted in her part. After a long stretch of time, she finally pulls her head up. “I am ashamed of myself for ever wearing it. But that shame pales in comparison to the disgusting way I’ve treated you.”
Confusion is swirling through me every which a way. So much of it, I can’t speak. At
first I thought I was crazy thinking I could hear emotion in her voice, and now, this close to her, I see real tears.
“Instead of listening to you, when you came to me about the House Director job, I insulted you. Of course you’re qualified.” Her shoulders crumple, like she’s hiding from herself. She presses a hand against her cheek, hangs her head again. “I can’t stand the sight of myself.”
This woman is not the Lilith Whitmore I know.
I’m thinking of at least touching her on the shoulder, but before I can do it she says, “To think I held a hard line about the college degree requirement is … deplorable. Oh my God.” She squeezes her head in her hands. “I’m a monster.”
Now I feel like I have to say something. If I don’t, I’ll be the monster. So I go ahead and say exactly what’s been on my mind since she started talking. “I appreciate all you’re saying; I really do. I’m curious, though, what changed your mind?” It must have to do with her getting fired.
“Four weeks ago, at the House, when all the girls took a stand for you, and rightfully so, Annie Laurie—my one and only child, the love of my life—told me she was embarrassed to be my daughter. And not to call her again.” Her voice cracks. Teardrops stream down her face. “I hurt so much I can hardly breathe.”
This lady is crying her heart out. And struggling for her words. After digging in her pocketbook, she pulls out a used tissue and dabs her cheeks. “I started th-thinking about what I’d already passed on to her, and I couldn’t stand myself. No wonder she has no fr-friends.”
“That’s not true, Miss Lilith. She has friends.”
“It’s absolutely true. She was cut from Alpha Delt. Not a single vote.”
I jerk my head back, give her a dazed look. What is she talking about?
She wipes another tear from the end of her nose. “I saw the list. Not a single vote. So I manipulated the Rush ballot. I couldn’t stand for her to be hurt and rejected again. I’d tried everything I knew to buy her a set of friends, but it never worked. When I saw her at the House, with the girls actually embracing her for taking up for you, something clicked. I finally understood what a witch I’d become and worse, what I’d passed on to her.” She hangs her head again and sobs.
I take a deep breath. This is a lot to hear out of someone. Especially her.
She blows her nose, looks me in the eye. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about generational racism. I never thought I came from a racist family. But after thinking about it for days I realized: We’re all racists. Even my own mother. The woman I strove to be exactly like. I’m embarrassed to admit that, but it’s true.”
I start to comment, but decide to let her finish.
“Gage and I were furious when Ole Miss wanted to change the mascot to the brown bear. We rued the day we had to stop singing Dixie at the games. And we really hated it when we were forced to stop waving our little Rebel flags. I thought Ole Miss was crazy for making the change. It was all tradition, but I never thought about the real reason behind it until you said what you said. It’s terribly offensive. Please know I am so, so sorry.” When she pleads I see honest emotion on her face. I’m starting to believe her.
If this isn’t an uncanny turn of events I don’t know what is. For the last twenty-five years I’ve been sitting in the therapist’s chair counseling hundreds of girls through whatever they’ve been going through and now here she is, as broken as any person I’ve ever seen, taking her own seat. Not in my closet, at my home. I want to be very careful what I say, because until now, she’s done ninety-nine percent of the talking.
“Why don’t you come inside? It’s cold out here.” I reach my arm across her shoulder, guide her into my apartment. After offering her my seat on the couch. I take the chair.
Before I say a word I hand her the box of tissues I keep on the end table. She removes a few and nods in thanks. I lean toward her. “Mrs. Whitmore, you have been given a special gift. Do you realize that?”
She lightly shakes her head no.
“Some people go their whole lives with their eyes closed. They live in darkness and never see light. They never see the error of their ways. And they sure don’t admit it.” I take a chance, put my hand on her knee. I’m half expecting her to draw away, but she leans in closer. “You have done a difficult thing. I appreciate you coming to talk with me. From the bottom of my heart I thank you.”
“Will … will you please call me Lilith?”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Sure I will.”
“Pearl?” She says, with her eyes on mine. “Would you allow me the honor of pinning you?”
I nod, feel my own tears stinging the backs of my eyes. Fifteen minutes ago, when I heard her knock, my heart was full of anger and resentment. Thank you, Lord, I wasn’t too stubborn to open the door.
“Thank you,” she says. “Let’s stand up, please.”
Once we’ve both pushed ourselves up she takes the box from my hand. She removes the pin and places it in the palm of hers. With trembling fingers she touches each of the symbols. She glances at me, tries to smile, but she can’t do it. “The quill is our symbol of truth and the quest to obtain it.” She hesitates, takes a deep breath. “The white rose represents our sympathy toward one another in times of need or hardship. And, finally”—she holds my gaze—“the pearls symbolize love, perfection, and purity.”
I smile at her. And so does my heart.
“When an Alpha Delta Beta is pinned, it’s a symbol of her love, devotion, and never-ending friendship with her sisters.”
Now her hands are steady. She reaches out, pushes her tiny gold pin through a pinch of my sweater, and clasps it softly. She does the same with the quill, hanging from a small gold chain. Then that lady wraps her arms around me like I’m a member of her family. The resentment I’ve been harboring melts away, as if my heart has been placed in a hot oven and the dirt and grime have seeped out into the pan. But when she pulls back she hangs her head like heavy bricks of shame have been reattached to her shoulders. Her chin is quivering.
I reach out to touch her arm. “What’s wrong now?”
She won’t look at me, just talks to the floor. “I can’t help thinking about initiation in December. I won’t get to pin my own daughter. She’ll never be able to forgive me.”
“That’s not true, Lilith. When she sees the change in you, she’ll come around.”
“Not after what I’ve done.” Her sobs return.
For the first time I feel her pain. Because of a choice she has lost her only daughter, the very essence of her heart and soul. “Raise up your head, Lilith. There’s something I want to tell you.” As she lifts her gaze her poor little ol’ face looks like she’s been inside a torture chamber. Not wanting her to look away, I make sure to lock my eyes onto hers. “I’ve done plenty of things I’m not proud of.”
“You mean you’re not perfect?”
Now she’s got me tickled. “No, ma’am. Far from it.”
A forced grin is all she can muster.
“I’ma tell you something else I know. Your daughter will forgive you.”
“After what I’ve done?” She shakes her head. “No way.”
“Yes, she will.”
“How do you know?”
My mind drifts back to Aunt Fee and all the times she and Mama told me those very words. Slowly I lift my arm, show her my tattoo.
“What does it mean?”
“It means: I have been forgiven.”
“What have you done? Everyone loves you.”
A lump springs in the back of my throat. When I open my mouth to answer words won’t come. So I have to force myself to speak. “I gave up my own flesh and blood. An innocent baby girl—to a couple up in Memphis I didn’t even know. It was selfish. But I know the good Lord forgives me and she does, too.”
Lilith tilts her head to the side. A deep furrow lines her brow. “Selfish? Adoption is the most unselfish act I know.” Her posture has stiffened; the tone in her voice is pointed. “I
f you couldn’t raise her—no matter the reason—you did the right thing. You showed her great love. Not to mention the love you gave to a childless couple. You enriched their lives beyond their wildest dreams. You gifted them their greatest joy. You are not selfish, Pearl.” Adamant eyes lock onto mine.
I feel my shoulders relaxing. Sharing my story with her has given me a surprising sense of relief. And her unexpected words have given me fresh encouragement. I sure do appreciate her reassurance.
Before I can tell her Lilith reaches over and gently pats my cheek. “Now I’ll tell you something.” She pauses, making sure she has my gaze. “I spent years, the best years of my life, thinking I’d never have a child of my own.” The emotion in her voice is raw and bloodstained. “If it weren’t for the selfless choice of another teen mom, I wouldn’t have Annie Laurie.”
I’m tempted to gasp, but instead I stay still. I know her pain. Although our situations were opposite, they were the same difference. “You have no idea what it means to me to hear that. I’ve spent my entire adult life thinking about my choice and how it has affected my child. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what kind of woman she is today.”
“I’m sure your daughter is a very lovely young lady.” She leans toward me with a tender gaze. “Gage and I have friends in Memphis. We could help you find her.”
I smile, feel our hearts joining together. “That’s mighty sweet of you, Lilith, but I put that in God’s hands a long time ago. That’s her decision. If she wants to find me, I’ll be waiting.” Then I take her pretty manicured hand in mine. “One day soon, let’s you and I go out to lunch. I hear the City Grocery is a good place. We’ll sit down, order us a nice glass of wine, and really get to know each other.”
“Does this mean … you’ll be my friend?” she asks timidly.
Less than thirty minutes ago I swore before God I’d never be in the same room with this woman. It just goes to show we should always choose our words carefully because we never know what the future holds. All at once I’m confounded by the power of forgiveness. Lilith Whitmore was my least favorite person and now, thanks to God, opened secrets, and receiving hearts, we have our own bittersweet bond. “Of course I will.”
