Blanche Cleans Up

by Barbara Neely

“He wasn’t talking to you, was he? He was on the phone with somebody.”

  “That’s right,” Miz Barker said. “He called somebody.”

  “When was this?”

  “Same day you come in the store asking for him.”

  “Before or after I came?”

  “Before.”

  Blanche’s heart did a hop. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  Miz Barker looked at Blanche from beneath her heavy eyelids. “I think maybe it had to do with Ray-Ray having something that didn’t belong to him.”

  So that was what all that “protecting Ray-Ray” business had been about the other day, cagey old fox. “Did you tell the police?”

  “I ain’t ’bout to tell the police nothing like that! They already think we all thieves. Anyways, police don’t care about no young black man’s dying. All you got to do is read the paper to see that.”

  Blanche couldn’t disagree. She just wasn’t sure this ought to be the end of it. And neither was Miz Barker:

  “That don’t mean I don’t want to know what happened to my boy. If somebody did hurt him, I want to know who it was, even if I can’t do nothing about it.”

  And someone did hurt him, Blanche said to herself, as certain as if she’d been a witness. The memory of Allister Brindle calling Ray-Ray out of his name and raving about his stolen tape flashed quickly across her mind, followed by Allister’s telling Sadowski to call Samuelson. She felt as though she were being drawn out of her body through the top of her head.

  Miz Barker pinned Blanche with her eyes. “We got to do something,” she said.

  That was the second “we” Blanche had heard today, and she didn’t like this one any better than the Malik-Aminata one. But she’d guessed there was a reason Miz Barker was telling her and not Pam or the police about this.

  Miz Barker leaned back in her chair and rocked a little. A thin smile warmed her face. “I know I can depend on you, Blanche. Taifa told me about how you helped that lady up there in Maine and that white boy down home. I know you’ll do as much for your old friend.”

  Blanche laughed. Did they put something in these old girls’ food? How else could they sound so innocent and lay on so much responsibility, if not guilt? Then they made you feel good about bearing up under their orders even though you really didn’t have any more choice than a stone had about being moved. How do they do it? And when do I get old and slick enough to participate? She wanted to know.

  “Miz Barker, I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

  “Yes, there is. Ask them ancestors I hear you talk to; then you git a good night’s rest. You’ll know what to do by morning.”

  This would make the third time Blanche had been mixed up in somebody dying too soon or in a wrong way. She felt both the weight of what Miz Barker wanted her to do and a kind of sizzle at the base of her spine, a kind of crackle of excitement over the prospect of trying to find out what had really happened to Ray-Ray.

  She couldn’t fool herself that she was agreeing to help for Miz Barker’s, or even Ray-Ray’s, sake. She was doing it because she liked doing it. She liked sticking her nose in where it wasn’t supposed to be and finding out things other people didn’t want her to know. She liked doing this the way some people liked jogging or dancing or going to the mall. It made her feel like she was putting all of herself to good purpose. She still got hits of feeling seriously useful when on the job and with the kids, but it wasn’t like it had been when she was still learning her trade or when the kids were small. She hadn’t realized how much she missed that feeling. She probably ought to be thanking Miz Barker instead of the other way around.

  Blanche hurried home to make the call she didn’t want to make.

  “Cousin Charlotte, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but…”

  “Somethin’ happen to my baby?! What is it, Blanche, tell me what—”

  “No, no. Shaquita’s fine, Cousin Charlotte.” Blanche paused and gathered herself. “It’s Ray-Ray.”

  “Ray-Ray? What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “He’s dead, Cousin Charlotte.”

  “Dead? Dead? Oh sweet Jesus! Sweet, sweet Jesus!” Cousin Charlotte’s voice was a hoarse whisper as though shock had sucked up all the volume. “Tell me what happened.”

  Blanche told her about Ray-Ray’s drowning, but not what Miz Barker had to say.

  “Oh Lord! How’m I gonna tell poor Inez! He was her only child. The only one.” Cousin Charlotte’s sobs brought tears to Blanche’s eyes.

  “He was my godson, too, Blanche,” Cousin Charlotte said.

  “Oh, Cousin Charlotte, I’m so sorry.” As a child, Blanche had always envied the kids with these backup parents.

  “I can’t talk right now, Blanche. I’ll call you back.” Cousin Charlotte’s voice was choked with tears.

  Blanche tried to just sit, to clear her mind for a couple of minutes, to just breathe and be there. She couldn’t manage it long. Thoughts of Cousin Charlotte trying to tell Miz Inez about her only son’s death quickened Blanche’s breath and made her want to run from herself. Her skin felt raw, as though Ray-Ray’s death had mauled her like some ugly beast.

  She roused herself and took a large plastic container of red beans and one of black from the fridge, gathered onion, garlic, cumin, tomato paste, and chili powder, and got out the big pot. Ray-Ray watched her, not saying a word, only grinning his grin and moving his arms so that his muscles rippled. She didn’t try to pretend that it was all her imagination. Ray-Ray, or at least a part of him, was walking around her kitchen like he owned it. But since he wasn’t talking, she held her tongue, too.

  She opened a pack of chicken franks and washed them. She’d throw them in the chili when it was done for chili dogs. She checked the fridge for salad greens, took out the ears of corn she’d bought the day before, and put them back again. Too much trouble. The kids could clean and cook the corn themselves. More and more she was trying not to be responsible for every bite that went into their faces. Twice a month Taifa was responsible for dinner, and so was Malik. They were rarely the greatest dinners she’d ever eaten, but that wasn’t the point.

  She wondered when Cousin Charlotte was going to call her back, and willed herself not to look in Ray-Ray’s direction. Finally, she couldn’t hold out any longer. He was leaning against the refrigerator door. He crossed his arms and gave her a “Well?” kind of look.

  Blanche sank into a chair. “May the Ancestors welcome you,” she told him. “But if you’re here, I figure you want a report. I don’t really know nothing,” she told him. “I mean, I know you stole that tape of Brindle’s. And you were right, weren’t you? Brindle did put his preacher on you.” She looked at Ray-Ray, hoping he would add something to the conversation. He didn’t. “Damn! You’re as bad as that old lady! Both of y’all expect me to do it all by myself.” She sighed and closed her eyes for a second, trying to relax the tension in her back. “You could at least tell me who you were talking to on the phone. Was it Marc?”

  No answer.

  She opened her eyes: Ray-Ray was gone.

  “Smart-ass,” she mumbled. “Death don’t change everything.”

  She wished Ardell were home. Why’d she have to be playing Miss Nanny of the Sea just now?

  Blanche grabbed the phone on the first ring.

  “Well, at least everything’s under control,” Cousin Charlotte said. “Lionel, Ray-Ray’s daddy, is going to bring Ray-Ray’s body down here for burial. That’s what Inez wants, poor woman. Her heart’s broken, just broken.” Cousin Charlotte snuffled a few times. “Well, the Lord’s will be done,” Cousin Charlotte sighed.

  If it gives you comfort, Blanche thought, but she didn’t say it. Everybody ought to have something that helped life work for them, especially at a time like this—even if it was something that didn’t work for Blanche personally.

  “We’ll have to stay on another week, Blanche. You can hold Inez’s job a little longer, can’t you?”

  “No pro
blem, Cousin Charlotte,” Blanche said, and stifled a sigh. It was the least she could do.

  The kids came home separately.

  “Moms! You hear about Ray-Ray?” Taifa bellowed from the kitchen doorway.

  Blanche stirred the chili and told her about the conversation with Cousin Charlotte.

  “Yeah, that kinda stuff is really tough on old folks, I guess. I feel sorry for Miz Inez. You makin’ chili? Great!” She sauntered off to the living room and turned on the radio.

  “Yo, Mom, Ray-Ray drowned!” Malik told Blanche when he came in ten minutes later. “Dude was just trying to take a swim and bam!” Malik sniffed the air. “I hope there’s dogs in that chili. We got hot dog buns?” He went to the bread box to make sure, then thundered up the stairs.

  Blanche wondered what it meant that both Taifa and Malik moved quickly from Ray-Ray’s death to chili. She could see the connection, one being necessary to ward off the other. Was that why there was always food after funerals? Maybe Malik and Taifa just reacted to something inside that was stronger than the polite sadness they’d learned to show when someone they knew died, something that automatically turned them away from death toward food, the thing that meant life. Or was it simply that they were young, and death, even when it brushed the edges of their own family, was still a myth in their minds?

  “I hate it when people die!” Shaquita announced when it was her turn to come in and tell Blanche about Ray-Ray. “Poor Grandma! She was pretty close to him. And poor Miz Inez!” Shaquita leaned over the stove to look down into the big pot. “That’s a lot of chili!”

  Blanche laughed. Three for death and three for the chili. Life was still in balance. “Some for leftovers,” she told Shaquita. “It’ll be even better after it sits a day or two.” Blanche waited, suddenly positive Shaquita had something else on her mind.

  Shaquita shifted from foot to foot and looked everywhere but at Blanche for half a minute more before she spoke again: “I know tomorrow’s a school day and everything. But I already did my homework, and I know what I’m going to wear tomorrow, so that’s all ready, so…I know how you feel about company on Sunday nights, Aunt Blanche, but could I…”

  “Pookie?” Blanche interrupted. She couldn’t stand but so much stammering and futzing around.

  Shaquita nodded. “I talked to him. We straightened everything out. I…”

  “What does ‘straightened everything out’ mean?” Blanche stirred the chili so hard, some slopped onto the stove.

  “About Saturday, why he didn’t show up. I haven’t told him I’m…I wanted to, but I didn’t want to do it on the phone, and he was tied up all day, so…”

  “So you plan to tell him tonight.”

  Shaquita nodded again. “And I want you to meet him.”

  Blanche told herself to relax. Just because she wanted to twist that boy’s testicles tight enough to keep him from ever knocking up somebody else’s child didn’t mean she’d actually try. After I meet him, I’ll have a nice long, hot soak with lots of bubble bath and read the Sunday papers, she promised herself as a reward for being decent to Pookie.

  “Okay, he can come over. But you gotta tell him tonight, Quita.”

  Blanche shooed Taifa and Malik upstairs to do the last of their homework when Pookie came. His slouchy posture and side-swinging arms were so common among young men these days, he seemed familiar. He had two gold chains around his neck and a diamond stud in his left ear. So this is our Pookie, she thought, every gangly, bullet-headed, low-talking bit of him. His wide, deep eyes added warmth to his lean face. He smiled and his prominent lips looked even more kissable. Poor Shaquita—she hadn’t had a chance. Pookie had that irresistible-loving thing that some black men oozed like sweat. He might as well have had “Bad News” stamped on his baseball cap. Blanche looked at him as though he were a cat hair in her soup.

  Pookie stuck out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miz Blanche. Quita says you’re really special.”

  And charm, too. She gave him a toothy smile before he and Shaquita drifted off to the living room. Blanche fixed herself some tea and carried it upstairs. She decided to read the paper in her room instead of the tub. She’d get her bath once the kids were down for the night. She didn’t want to be naked and soaking wet when Shaquita broke the news to Pookie.

  She settled down with the Sunday Boston Globe. She started with the funnies, then went through the magazine and entertainment sections, working her way into the hard stuff. She didn’t know why she bothered. Neither paper was worth all that much, unless you liked to read about criminals in the Herald and what to do about them in the Globe. Of course, she always read the black paper, the Bay State Banner, but was still partial to the Amsterdam News, warts and all.

  She thought she heard the front door close, and she definitely heard Shaquita coming up the stairs. Blanche opened her door. “You okay?”

  Shaquita looked like she’d been hit over the head with something heavy and was trying to decide whether or not to fall down.

  Blanche took her wrist and pulled her inside.

  “Did you tell him?”

  Shaquita nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  Shaquita shrugged. “Nothing, really. I mean he…he didn’t say anything. It was like I never said it or something. Like he didn’t hear me or something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He…He just sat there! I said, ‘Pookie, did you hear me?’ and he just looked at his watch. ‘I gotta make a run, schoolgirl,’ he said, like he was making fun of me or something. ‘Gotta go.’ And he was out of here, just gone.” She looked up at Blanche as though she might be able to explain Pookie’s behavior.

  “Maybe he was just shocked and couldn’t…” Blanche stopped talking. It wasn’t her job to dredge up an excuse that made Pookie’s walking out on Shaquita make sense. Maybe twisting his little nuts is an idea whose time has come, she thought. On the other hand, his acting like a first-class dickbrain could only help her convince Shaquita to make the right decision. Shaquita slumped where she stood.

  “You need to get some rest, Shaquita. The important thing is that you told him and now you can turn your mind to deciding what to do.”

  “How can I decide anything if he…” Shaquita shook her head.

  Lord! Had she ever been this blind?

  “People say things in more ways than just with words, honey. He told you something by not saying anything.”

  “But what? What did he tell me? I still don’t know if he…”

  “If he what? Wants you to have a baby?”

  Shaquita just looked at her.

  “It’s not his decision to make, Shaquita. It’s yours. He’s not pregnant. You are.” Blanche knew she was preaching at the girl, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “It’s your body. You might have shared it with him, but you’re the sole owner, honey, and you’re the one that’s got to decide what’s going to happen to that body now.”

  Shaquita looked so alone, so tender, sympathy finally stilled Blanche’s tongue. She put her arm around Shaquita’s shoulder and felt the girl lean into her.

  “I want to talk to you and Pookie before you make a decision—okay?” Shaquita nodded. Blanche walked her to the door.

  Blanche had just settled on the toilet when Taifa knocked on the door, then slipped into the bathroom.

  “So, when you gonna tell me?” Taifa demanded to know.

  “Tell you what, Taifa?”

  “About Shaquita.”

  Blanche’s first impulse was to say it was none of Taifa’s business, then to complain about not even being able to poop in peace. Both thoughts dissolved under the don’t-bullshit-me look on Taifa’s face and the memory of how insulted Blanche used to feel when Mama pulled that mess on her.

  “I didn’t tell you ’cause I’m hoping it won’t last long.” They’d had enough conversations about abortion so that Blanche knew she didn’t have to explain.

  “But she wants to have it, don’t she?” Taifa s
at on the side of the tub and crossed her long legs.

  “Why you so sure she wants to have it?” she said.

  “Well, you remember the other night she was talking about wanting to be an archy-whatever?”

  “Archaeologist.”

  “Right. Well, remember, she said she wished she didn’t have to go to college to learn how to dig up dead people? See, she don’t really want to go to college. Every time I hear her talking to her girlfriends all they talk about is their boyfriends and babies. It’s stupid.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Does Cousin Charlotte know?” Taifa asked.

  Blanche shook her head and added, “Shaquita’s got some hard decisions to make.”

  “Cousin Charlotte’s going to make her butt!” Taifa rose and stretched. She patted Blanche on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Moms, I’m not gonna want to have a baby when I’m in high school, and I ain’t afraid to go to college, either.”

  “Excuse me? What makes you think she’s scared of going to college?”

  Taifa wandered over to the medicine cabinet. She pumped some hand lotion into her palm, sniffed it, and stirred it around with one finger. “Well, maybe not exactly scared, but like, well, you know.” Taifa studied her face in the medicine-cabinet mirror as though she were considering it for a prize. “Like she won’t be part of the ’hood anymore, but what will she be part of? And Pookie, man, lots of girls like him, so…I’m gonna make a sandwich, you want one?”

  Blanche could only shake her head. She was still taking in all she’d just been told about Shaquita and Taifa. Taifa was full of noise: loud talk, louder music, arguing about every little thing. But inside that noise there was somebody taking in everything happening around and to her and doing something with it. So much for that old saying about empty barrels. Noise and empty didn’t necessarily go together.

  Blanche thought about the many conversations she’d had with Shaquita about college. Not once, not once, had she picked up what she could clearly see, now that Taifa had pointed it out. Blanche had thought Shaquita’s nervousness was about getting into college. But why would that concern somebody who’d gotten good marks since first grade? Poor child. She had to be truly confused to think that having a baby and raising it was less scary than going off to college. But of course, that wasn’t all that was happening. The boyfriend had plenty to do with it, too. Was getting her pregnant his way of keeping Shaquita out of college and with him? No. He probably hadn’t thought about anything past the head of his dick.