by Greg Lilly
RUBY HAD HER clothes on and bag packed when I walked in her room. Her cardinal-crested hair had been coiffed for the short ride home. I noticed the style partially covered the bump on her forehead.
“Look at you,” I smiled. “I feel lucky to have such a beautiful woman to escort out of here.”
“Sally came by this morning and set my hair.” She patted the side of her head with care.
“Sally?” I asked.
“She’s the girl that fixes my hair. Valerie called her.” Perched on the side of the bed, she beamed.
“That was very nice of Val to think of it.”
“I just feel a hundred percent better with my hair done.”
Another diva in my life, I thought. “I know what you mean. Nothing feels better than looking good.”
“I taught you well,” she smiled. “So when can we go?”
“The nurse wanted Dr. McConnell to stop by to release you. She should be here any minute.” I glanced at the door as if I had just given the cue for the doctor to walk in, but she must have missed it. “Got any of those chocolates left?”
Ruby just grinned, cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “They’re all gone. Those nurses must get hungry during the night.”
“Nurses, my ass. Ruby Harris, you ate that entire pound of chocolate.” I tried to act stern, crossing my arms and frowning.
Late on her cue, but finally showing, Dr. McConnell walked in the room. “Ms. Harris, you passed all your tests.” She took a seat across from Ruby and glanced at her clipboard. “I want you to lose some weight.”
I tried to catch Ruby’s attention to give her an I-told-you-so look, but she kept her eyes on the doctor.
“And, I’ve talked with your family doctor and set an appointment for a week from tomorrow for you. Call him right away if you have blurred vision or headaches, but I think you should be fine.” The doctor scribbled something on her clipboard. “Okay, you can check out at the nurse’s station.” She got up to leave, then turned back to Ruby. “And I don’t want to see you in here again. Stop wrestling burglars.”
Ruby giggled, “I bet he got the worst of it.” We checked out, and once in the car, Ruby asked, “Can we drive by the cemetery? I want to see if the grave stone has been placed for Walterene.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” I asked, pulling the car out of the parking deck into the bright sun.
“I haven’t done anything but rest for the past three days. I want to go. Turn right.”
“Okay, maybe we can stop for lunch-if you aren’t full on chocolates,” I kidded. “Where’s your favorite lunch place?”
She stared out the window for a while, not responding.
“Ruby? You okay?” I worried she might still be experiencing lapses from her head injury.
She turned to me with a sad smile. “I miss Walterene. We would go to lunch on sunny spring days like this, or maybe do a little browsing at Park Road Shopping Center. But here I am, old and alone.”
“You have me,” I offered.
Her smile widened a bit. “You have your own life back in California.”
“Valerie and the rest of the family are here. I know they come to visit.”
Her gaze returned to the passing houses and small shops as we drove down Seventh Street. “Do you know I have never lived by myself? Walterene and I moved into that house straight from our parents’ houses.” She rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know what to do with myself without her.”
“We’re only a phone call away. Valerie is just a few minutes’ drive from you.” As I said it, I realized that hadn’t been the case Saturday when she’d been attacked. No one was there to help her; she had been alone and vulnerable. I wanted to say I would stay with her, but knew that was impossible, even if I lived in Charlotte. My hand found hers. “Ruby, you’ll be fine. We all go through changes, losses, but we keep going. Wouldn’t that be what Walterene would tell you?”
She turned toward me. “Yes, Walterene would say, ‘Ruby, toughen up,’” She began to cry again.
I pulled off the road into a gas station. “I miss her, too.”
We hugged and cried until neither of us could catch our breath. “Okay,” I sniffed, “let’s not let Walterene see us bawling like two old women.”
She laughed a short snort. “Right. She wouldn’t like that.”
At the cemetery, the day glowed warmer and brighter than the last time. Of course, the lack of hundreds of mourners dressed like black crows crying over the open grave made this visit easier to manage. Only Ruby and I stood over the dirt patch that outlined Walterene’s plot. The mourning crows had been replaced by cardinal-crested Ruby and me, the scruffy robin confused about where to nest.
I wandered away from the grave to allow Ruby some time alone with her thoughts and Walterene. I found myself under the same low-branched willow oak where Mark and I had talked after the burial, sat on the cool grass, and looked up through the branches at the deep blue sky. “Walterene,” I called. “Please look out for Ruby. I failed.” But she probably already knew that. “I don’t know how to help her, but I will do whatever it takes. You or someone up there-you know, maybe someone with a high rank and experience, like maybe Mary or Joseph, maybe even Jesus-could help me find the way to do it right, to make her feel safe and loved the way you did.” I didn’t pray very well in words, but I cleared my mind and pictured Ruby happy and strong, living on her own. “Thank you.”
I sat quiet for a moment feeling the breeze and sunlight on my face, letting my thoughts go where my mind wandered. Daniel drifted into my meditation, not speaking, not moving, just a calm image of him. His dark eyes glistened as the wind caught his hair. I didn’t allow my mind to jump into the state of why, who, or how; this wasn’t the place for analysis, just reflection and observation. A slight sigh woke me from my contemplation, and I couldn’t remember how long I had been there.
Still by the grave, Ruby kept her head down, lips moving. I got up, brushed off my pants, and strolled from one grave to the next, idly reading markers to give Ruby time to finish up. Walterene had the same kind of mind as me: logical, a little emotional, sometimes too judgmental, a lust for pleasure, but she had the wisdom to handle it. I did miss her. What would she do in my situation?
I smiled as the answer came to me.
Chapter Twenty
FUCK ‘EM. THAT was the spiritual message I’d received from my prayer to Walterene, the woman who taught me how to get along with people I didn’t like, to take the polite, Southern approach to conflict. Of course, that had been fifteen years earlier; maybe as she aged, she’d decided being genteel wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Certainly, Vernon and Gladys had never employed the tactic. Are these words to live by? I sat on the front porch of Walterene and Ruby’s house smoking a cigarette and contemplating the meaning of “Fuck ‘em.”
“Ruby,” I called. “Want to go see Grandma?”
She pushed the storm door open and asked, “You going over to the Dilworth house?”
“Thinking about it,” I said.
Ruby wiped her hands on a dishtowel she seemed to always have nearby. “You go ahead. I might take a nap in a few minutes.” She started to turn away, then stopped. “You know, Gladys will probably be home.”
“I know.”
MARTHA ANSWERED THE doorbell; the dark skin surrounding her eyes sagged with wrinkles and time. On my previous visits, I hadn’t taken a good look at how she had aged like the rest of the family. “Good afternoon, Mister Derek. I’m sorry, but your grandmother is sleeping and your mother and father aren’t home.”
“That’s okay.” I walked in the door she had opened only a crack. “I had a few things I wanted to ask you.”
She scurried after me as I headed for the kitchen. “What do you want to talk to me about? You should be talking to your parents if you got questions, not me. I don’t get involved in the matters of this family, never have, never will. Mister Derek, you stop walking away from me.” Her frantic monologue pulled
out my smile.
“Martha, relax.” I sat down at the small kitchen table in the breakfast nook. “Come sit down.” As she fidgeted and settled down on the chair across from me, I jumped up. “Let me get us some tea.”
“I’ll get it.” She almost rocketed out of her seat.
I smiled and returned to my chair. “Is it okay to smoke in here?” I placed my Marlboro Lights on the table.
The iced tea swirled in her hands as she checked the door. “Okay.” Her reluctance evaporated. “In fact, I might just join you.“She handed me two glasses and placed the pitcher of tea on the table, then, with the slow movements of someone not wanting to make any noise, she pushed the sash of the window up to let the anticipated smoke drift out of the room.
I poured our drinks while Martha slid into her chair and produced a pack of Camels from her dress pocket. She touched the end of her cigarette to my flickering lighter and inhaled.
“Whew,” she exhaled stormcloud-gray smoke, “I needed this.”
Lighting one for myself, I asked, “Hard day?”
“Almost over. I don’t like to smoke in the house, but if anybody asks, I’ll blame it on you.” She grinned, and I knew we had a common vice that bound us. “Now, I told you yesterday that I don’t know anything about that old man.”
“Mr. Sams?” I asked.
“Don’t get coy with old Martha. I reckon that’s why you’re here, talking to me.” She gulped her tea.
“Martha,” I soothed, “when I was little, I’d come in here and watch you cook and talk for hours. You used to call me your daisy.”
“Daisy.” She laughed, then opened her mouth to say something, but she must have thought better of it.
“Daisy,” I repeated. “Pansy is what you meant, wasn’t it?”
“No, oh, no, Mister Derek. I never thought that.” Her eyes pleaded for forgiveness as she held my hand across the table.
“Martha, this isn’t the fifties. I’m gay. It’s not a secret; it’s not something to be ashamed of; I love men, always have. That’s why I liked being in here with you. I knew you were a strong woman who loved men. I remember seeing you and your husband together and wishing that my parents acted as in love as you two did. I always thought you knew a secret to make men love you that the women of my family didn’t have.”
She blushed a little. “Mister Derek, you flatter me.”
“And you can stop calling me Mister Derek. We’re both too old for that.”
“You know,” she began, “since Oscar died, this job and this family have been my life. We never had kids of our own.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I ground out my cigarette in a cereal bowl she had placed between us.
“Oh, don’t be. I have a bunch of nieces and nephews just like Ms. Ruby and Ms. Walterene do, although it does get lonely going home to an empty house. I used to watch all of you playing around here and wished me and Oscar had a big place for the whole family to gather.” She wriggled the bowl back and forth. “My niece, Gloria, is a vice president at Bank of America downtown. She does some kind of computer work. Janeen, another niece, is a nurse over at Presbyterian Hospital.”
“I’m sure you’re proud of them.” I watched as the memories played across her face.
“They were all such good children. Reminded me a lot of you and your brother and sister. That Tim sure would get into trouble from time to time.” Tim’s reputation as a rascal never wavered in the eyes of those who knew him. “And Valerie was such a sweet girl.”
“Since I came back for Walterene’s funeral,” I decided to get to the point, “stories and denials about Mr. Sams seem to be everywhere. I’m curious about that. I know Walterene loved him like one of the family, and now that she’s gone, I can’t find anyone who wants to talk about him or his memory.”
Martha lit another cigarette and took two quick drags. “Like I told you yesterday, that was before my time here.”
“But you must have heard something.”
“Mister Derek, let the dead stay dead.”
“That’s not the way to honor their memory. I won’t do that for Walterene, and I know you won’t do that for your husband Oscar. I want the same respect for Mr. Sams; he meant a lot to Walterene.”
She stared at the bowl of ashes for a second, then took another drag from the cigarette.
I waited.
“I see what you mean. I never mentioned this to anyone in your family, not that it matters, but Mr. Sampson lived across the street from my mother. He loved working here, just like I do.” Her tired eyes held me for a moment. “I remember him always talking about what a good family Mr. Ernest Harris had. Mr. Sampson didn’t have any family of his own, just this one.”
“Wait.” Words from Walterene’s diary came back to me; she had seen his daughter in town. “Didn’t he have children?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “His wife died in childbirth, but the grandparents, Mrs. Sampson’s folks, raised the baby girl. He didn’t know how to deal with a baby.”
“Is his daughter still alive?”
“No,” she sighed. “Back in the seventies, she was killed by drugs. That family was doomed. His wife died, then him, and finally, the only daughter shoots poison up her arm. When his wife died, and with the baby growing up across town without him, he worked all the time; kept his mind off things, I guess. I think that’s why he stayed on so long with Mr. Harris, and why it hurt him so much when he was fired. Mama said he killed himself, but us kids thought the men in sheets got him.”
“The Klan?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Those were some bad times. You didn’t hear that much activity in Charlotte, usually only out in the country. But, time to time, they’d come through Brooklyn.”
” Brooklyn?” I asked, not aware of any area in Charlotte called that.
“Downtown, used to be a black place called Brooklyn. It’s where the government buildings are today. Also, Wilmore was a beautiful place, just over the railroad tracks past South Boulevard. That’s where Mama’s house was, and Mr. Sampson’s. Wilmore and its neat clean old mill houses was the place where all the colored people lived who worked for the white families in Dilworth and Myers Park. Now, all that is rundown, almost as bad as the projects. Anyway, the Klan didn’t have much need to be here.”
“Is there ever a need?”
A sad smile graced her black somber face. “You and me know there ain’t ever a need for that, but some folks do. That’s why it’s still around.”
“So, you think the Klan killed Mr. Sams?”
She considered her stance. “Mr. Sams killed Mr. Sams. Although Mama said nobody who knew him thought he had done anything wrong, he ran like a guilty man. Why else would he be in those woods alone at night?”
“But wasn’t he chased? Do you remember anyone around his house that night?”
“I couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve, and probably fast asleep when it all happened. Mama didn’t tell us anything about it except that he was found hanging in a tree.” She took a long sip of her tea.
“The tree outside Walterene’s house,” I added.
Hands still on her glass of tea, her brown eyes widened. “What?”
“Yes, ma’am. Walterene knew exactly which tree he had died in, and when that area was developed after the war, she and Ruby bought the house built on that plot of land.”
Martha stood and leaned against the sink, hands supporting her weight. “Ms. Walterene always had a sentimental spot in her heart for old Mr. Sampson.”
I took over rotating the bowl as I talked. “Yeah, she has a collection of elephants, apparently started by an old stuffed toy Mr. Sams had given her.” I counted the number of bowl rotations from a good spin: two and a half. A few ashes flew out onto the table, and I wiped them up with my hand.
“That was Mr. Sampson, I remember he claimed his ancestors rode elephants across Africa. He always talked about elephants.” Martha returned to her chair at the table. “Mama said he was full of baloney
and sawdust. That old man ain’t no African prince any more than I am Cleopatra’s wash woman.’ Mama was a good Christian, but she didn’t like to hear people putting on airs.”
I smiled at the thought of Mr. Sams telling African fairytales to little-girl versions of Walterene and Ruby. “Does the elephant have any special significance in,” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it, “in African folklore, uh, culture, life?”
“Ask an African,” she shot back with a smirk. “I’m American.” To my relief, she winked at me as if to say, stop trying to be so politically correct. Then I remembered Walterene’s message from the grave: Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em if they take themselves too serious; fuck ‘em if they ignore you; fuck ‘em if they lie to you; fuck ‘em if they try to fuck you. I smiled back at Martha as she tapped her cigarette pack on the table. “So, what does an elephant symbolize?”
She lit another Camel and exhaled. “Strength and dignity, that’s the elephant.”
“He must have seen that in Walterene,” I said more to myself than to Martha.
“Yes, sir. Ms. Walterene had strength and dignity.”
The kitchen door burst open. “Martha,” Gladys barked. “Is that cigarette smoke I smell?” She stood in the doorway glaring at me. Martha snuffed out her cigarette and jumped to her feet. The jerky, stick figure of Gladys the Bitch made me think of Nancy Reagan on crack, her fists placed on her thin hips in an expression of power like an emaciated Wonder Woman, meant to put terror into the hearts of Martha and me. It only made me laugh.
I leaned back in my chair and lit another Marlboro. “Gladys,” I blew smoke in her direction, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Gladys didn’t move.
Martha looked from me to Gladys and then back to me. “I should go check on Ms. Eleanor.” She excused herself and hurried past Gladys without a second look.
I stared back at the Bitch, waiting for her to twitch-a standoff worthy of a John Wayne Western. She dropped her hands and walked to the cabinet opposite me, not letting her eyes stray from mine. I smiled at her crumbling to make the first move, and then I took a drag from my cigarette.
