by Donald Welch
Freda received little or no support from her family when it came to her career choice. Both her parents were Witnesses, as in Jehovah, and were totally against her singing and her lifestyle. Because of that, she didn’t bother much with either of them.
As Freda took the dress off, Alicia Keys’s song “Fallin’” came on. Nicole braced herself because Freda could be negative when it came to other female singers, and Alicia was a frequent target of hers. “Oooh, I hate that girl!” Freda said, sucking her teeth. “You know she only made it because of Clive Davis.” Clive Davis was the record mogul behind numerous successful female vocalists, including Whitney Houston.
“Hell, if I had the same opportunity, I would be where she is and maybe further,” she said. “And don’t let me get started on Beyoncé. She’s just another chicken head who’s standing in my way.”
“Freda, I like Beyoncé,” Nicole said. “You’re sounding like a hater.”
“Humph,” Freda snorted. “What is there to hate on?”
Before Freda’s mother, Lillian, became a Jehovah’s Witness, she was a singer. Her biggest claim to fame was as lead backup singer for Teddy Pendergrass. As a matter of fact, on the evening of his infamous near-fatal car accident in 1982, Freda’s mom and two other girls were following his car on the road. Rumor had it that she and Teddy were an item for a short time. Who knew for sure? Yet that was the extent of her career.
Today Lillian sang at the Kingdom Hall. Nicole had heard her sing. If there were a sing-off battle between Freda and her mother, Moms would win. In the late ’80s, Lillian was the backup singer for another Philly superstar, Patti LaBelle, who graciously handed over the mic to Lillian one time too many.
Lillian started smelling her own pee. Instead of appreciating Patti for giving her the opportunity to show off her vocal skills, Lillian began making statements like, “Patti better watch out, ’cuz I’m coming for her!” Now Lillian was good, but when talking about Diva LaBelle, that was crazy talk. When Patti hit her stride, which was always, she took no prisoners. It taught Miss Lillian a lesson and broke her spirit, which was probably why she didn’t want an entertainment career for her daughter. One by one, Miss Lillian began to lose all her contacts with the industry. Calls weren’t returned; work dried up.
Looking at Freda’s mom, it was obvious that at one time she was a stunning creature. Her demons were the streets, fast living, and men. All of those played a part in beating her up mentally and physically. She felt she had to make a choice—God or suicide. She chose God. Along came Mr. Henry, the only man in the neighborhood who bothered to pursue her despite her tarnished reputation, plus take on a daughter to care for. But he loved Lillian that much to marry her and embrace the role of stepdad to Freda.
Over the years, Lillian kept in contact with one person from her old life, a true friend for whom she named her daughter, the real Freda Payne. Ms. Payne was once an inspiration to Lillian.
Like so many faithful converts, Lillian judged everyone else and how they lived, especially her daughter, Freda.
Five
Memories Light the Corner of My Mind
WHEN NICOLE WAS about eleven or twelve years old and lived on Titan Street in South Philly, one of her best friends was a girl named Adrienne Ward. She was rail-thin, with a rich, deep chocolate complexion, and Nicole thought she was absolutely beautiful. In fact, she wanted to look just like her. She had this air of confidence that Nicole lacked. She was Miss Thing, and no one could tell her she wasn’t.
Neighborhood kids teased Adrienne all the time about her dark skin and short hair. One kid called her “a dirty-headed tennis ball.” Adrienne would nudge Nicole and laugh even harder than they did. Nicole wondered if she should have laughed, too. Since Adrienne was laughing, then it must be okay, she thought. So she joined in.
However, one day at Benson Elementary School, there was an experience that would haunt Nicole forever.
First, you had to know the neighborhood. Benson is in the heart of South Philly, where every girl living on the west side of Broad Street knew double Dutch.
The Mummers Parade on New Year’s Day was portrayed as a South Philly tradition, but that was strictly on the east side of Broad—the white side. There wouldn’t be any black folks out in the cold weather watching that event. In fact, black folks shunned it for years because some string bands wore black face makeup and depicted African Americans as comic buffoons. Nicole’s father said the parade was a time for white men to dress up in feathers and get drunk. Blackface in the parade was eventually banned, but it remained a bitter pill among many Philadelphia blacks.
Benson School had the dodgeball and double Dutch titles. Team competitions at school and in different neighborhoods were commonplace. Each summer, the city’s Department of Recreation held a double Dutch competition. Those girls at Tenth and Ritner never could touch the Benson girls, and that double Dutch team at St. Bart’s was just sad. Rasheeda, one of the Benson stars, had a sprained ankle that year, but the school still won. Channel 10 featured the school on the evening news as they received trophies. Benson was b-a-d. Nicole’s mother and father still displayed her trophy on the fireplace mantel.
No one could beat Adrienne at double Dutch. She was the team’s very best. No matter how hard you tried—forget it! That was her game. That child could jump some rope!
Maxine, an older girl by three years, lived one block from Nicole and Adrienne. She challenged Adrienne to a double Dutch duel. The one who jumped the fastest and the longest would be “the best gun” in double Dutch.
Nicole laughed because everyone in the neighborhood knew Adrienne’s reputation as the queen of double Dutch.
It was like a scene in a cowboy movie. The fastest gunslinger and the new rival would duel it out on the corner of Twenty-seventh and Wharton. In this case, their quick feet and agile moves would be their choice of weapons.
News spread throughout the school and nearby streets: “Maxine’s gonna take on Adrienne, on Fridee after school on the Twenty-seventh Street lot.”
By that afternoon, curiosity seekers—young and old—gathered on the empty lot to see the competition, and they circled Rasheeda and One Mo’ Sandwich Terri, who handled the rope work. One Mo’ Sandwich Terri got that nickname from the kids at school because she looked like if she ate one more sandwich, she’d be fat. Yet Rasheeda and One Mo’ were champion jumpers and good friends. Frog-Eye Franny brought her mother’s big pink bedroom alarm clock from home to time the action.
Maxine went first. She jumped like she was runnin’ for her life with her tongue hanging out. She made Nicole’s head spin. That tongue-hanging-out was something black girls did when they knew they were doing their thing! It’s the same as when a sistah from South Philly was gettin’ down on the dance floor-—and she knew she was throwin’ down. Every eye in the room would be on her. She was workin’ hard: then that tongue came out—a symbol of confidence and an I know I’m killin’ it attitude.
After heavy-paced nonstop jumping, Maxine was done. Sweat streamed down her cheeks, her hair stuck out like she was electrocuted, heavy wet rings of sweat came through her blue school uniform, and her knee-high white socks gathered around her ankles like loose rubber bands. She knew she’d nailed it. Franny shouted, “Two minutes and twenty-eight seconds.”
Cheers came up from the crowd, which only drew more onlookers. Even a police patrol car stopped to see what the commotion was all about.
Next up was Adrienne. Nicole shouted, “Go, Adrienne!”
Her friend wore an expression of sheer determination and focus. Rasheeda and One Mo’ Sandwich Terri started the count, “five, six, seven, eight…” as the “queen of jump” swayed back and forth to get the rhythm of the rope before leaping in. Nicole couldn’t believe her eyes. She had never seen Adrienne jump like that. Like there was some sort of grand prize to be won. But there was. She was protecting her invisible crown of Double Dutch Queen of South Philly and the continued adoration from the neighborhood.
; Rasheeda and One Mo’ put the pepper to the ropes as Adrienne’s black legs moved at bionic speed. Maxine’s face started to contort. She looked possessed, and her nervous look resembled that of a hooker in church at Sunday-morning prayer service.
Adrienne had clearly exceeded the speed and time Maxine spent on the ropes. All eyes went to Franny and that big pink clock. She looked at the big black numbers, her frog eyes popping even larger. “Three minutes fifteen seconds!”
The crowd screamed, applauded, and Nicole roared along with everyone.
While Adrienne received accolades from the spectators, Maxine abruptly burst from the sidelines, pulled the rope, and shouted, “That bal’-headed bitch ain’t beat me. Look at her. Hair so fuckin’ short, her momma got to roll it up with rice!”
Only a few people giggled. But Nicole didn’t. The crowd was aware Maxine was embarrassed she’d ever called the challenge, and she was a poor loser. Rasheeda and One Mo’ gathered the jump rope and moved away to avoid any further confrontation; Frog-Eye Franny ran home with her mother’s big pink bedroom clock.
If my parents heard me use that language, I’d be dead, Nicole thought. She wasn’t going to laugh at the teasing, even if Adrienne laughed, too, or even if she nudged her to do so. But Adrienne didn’t even make a sound. Tears formed in her eyes as she picked up her schoolbooks and slowly walked through the quiet crowd toward home.
Maxine stood triumphant, as if she just won. Didn’t my girl just slaughter her in this match? Nicole thought. The wrong person was crying. Nicole followed Adrienne down Twenty-seventh Street to give her some support and let her know she’d rather be a dark sweet chocolate with no hair, thank you, than be a cross-eyed loser like Maxine, who saw two of everything.
“Nicole girl, you are crazy. I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout Maxine Hamilton. She ain’t only cross-eyed, she smells like cat pee. So there!”
Nicole and Adrienne laughed so hard, they had to sit on the nearest front steps to compose themselves. Unfortunately, they landed on Miss Ethel’s white marble front steps—her pride and joy. Everyone respected that small sign in her window: NO STANDING, SITTING, OR SPITTING ON MY STEPS. Hopefully, she wouldn’t chase them away, but they just couldn’t walk any farther. Giggling overtook the girls. Soon, though, Adrienne’s voice softened as she became more serious, “But I do wish I was as pretty as you are, Nicky.”
“What? Why?”
“You remind me of Hilary Banks,” she said.
Nicole snapped, “Who wants to look like her?”
“Me!” Adrienne snapped right back. “I look at the The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air every week just to watch her. Yeah, she might be ditzy, but you light-skin girls get all the attention from boys, the teachers call on you first, and you get to be in the front line of all the class pictures. Me? I have to jump rope and sweat to get my attention.”
Nicole was stunned and didn’t know what to say for two reasons: What Adrienne said was true, and she was embarrassed for having light skin.
“We are sisters to the end, Nicole. I’m gonna be at your wedding, and you’re gonna be at mine.”
“Yeah, like ‘Ebony and Ivory’ from the Stevie Wonder–Paul McCartney song.”
Nicole told Adrienne how her mother played that song a lot. Her mother wasn’t crazy about Paul McCartney, but she loved Stevie Wonder and said, “That little blind black boy got some talent!” But in any case, her mother had everyone in the house humming that tune over and over. Nicole’s father was hoping the tape would break.
“I want to be Ebony,” Nicole proclaimed.
“Girl, you can’t be no Ebony. You too light,” Adrienne said. “I’ll be Ebony; you can be Ivory.”
The next day Nicole went by Adrienne’s house so that they could walk to school as they did every day. No one answered the door. This was strange because Raja, the family dog, was pacing back and forth at the front window. There was no answer, so Nicole turned to leave. Raja was whimpering in the front window to get her attention.
Nicole tapped on the window. Still no answer. If she waited around any longer, she’d be late for school, and Miss Jones did not play that. Getting marched down to the principal’s office was Nicole’s worst nightmare.
All during Nicole’s classes, Adrienne was on her mind. And where was Mrs. Ward? Why hadn’t she answered the door? Nicole couldn’t focus on her schoolwork, and she had a math test that day, too. She couldn’t wait to get out after the dismissal bell blared. Nicole hauled her tail to Titan Street. Adrienne lived only four doors up from her. Nicole banged on the door and shouted, “Adrienne! Adrienne, are you home?”
Mrs. Ward answered the door and took what seemed a lifetime before she spoke—long enough for Nicole to realize just how much her daughter resembled her—dark chocolate and very pretty.
Mrs. Ward spoke so softly through the front glass door that Nicole had to strain to understand her. “Adrienne’s in the hospital, Nicole.”
“The hospital!” Butterflies fluttered in Nicole’s stomach, which always happened when she was nervous or scared.
When Nicole’s uncle Paul got nervous about stuff, he would laugh and say, “Those suckas be flying all over in every direction ’n’ you gotta get ’em to all fly in one direction. They’ll settle down. Just close your eyes and concentrate, puddin’.”
But her uncle Paul’s cure wasn’t working this time. Those butterflies in Nicole’s stomach had a mind of their own, and they were not listening to her. She didn’t like them that much, and she wanted them to fly out.
“I only came home to get some things for her, and then I’m on my way back to the hospital, Nicole,” Mrs. Ward said.
“What happened?” Nicole’s butterflies were going crazy now.
“She had another attack, baby. The doctors said she must have overdone it yesterday. Were you girls playing too hard at recess? It was very hot yesterday, and Adrienne knows that with her condition, she needs to find some shade, sit down, and relax.” Adrienne suffered from asthma and epileptic seizures, but she never talked about her illnesses.
“We just jumped some rope, that’s all, Mrs. Ward, but she was okay because we walked home together. Can I go and see her?”
“Not today, baby. Maybe tomorrow if she’s up to it. Then your mother can bring you by after school.”
Mrs. Ward touched Nicole’s saddened face, and Nicole sensed that Adrienne was in greater pain than she could imagine. Why had Adrienne let Maxine push her into that silly challenge? All over a stupid jump rope game.
“Okay, well, tell her to hurry up home.”
“She’ll be fine, Nicole. I’m sure she wants to be right back here with her best friend. Both of you will be laughin’ and playin’ again real soon. Don’t worry.”
ADRIENNE’S FUNERAL was gloomy, but she looked so peaceful in her casket. Nicole, her mother, and her nana sat in the church to pay their respects. Nicole’s father didn’t want her to attend the funeral at all, because he believed children couldn’t understand the full meaning of the funeral ceremony and death. But Nicole’s mother won that debate: “That’s her best friend who passed away. One day she may regret not saying good-bye.”
One by one, young and old, friends and family took their places behind the church microphone to say how sweet Adrienne was, how funny she was, how nice she was.
Just as I said what I wanted to say about my friend, who should walk in but Maxine! She knew better than to sit with Nicole’s class and double Dutch team. Their heads were down in prayer, but Nicole passed the message about Maxine’s arrival. She was sitting in the back with her ol’ cross-eyed self, crying, and making all that ridiculous noise. She only did it for attention. The team made sure she saw their dirty looks. Nicole rolled her eyes so far back in her head, she got a headache! She probably sees two caskets, Nicole thought, two Adriennes. Good.
The autopsy revealed that Adrienne had had an epileptic seizure and asthma attack. Both occurring at the same time were too much for her heart. She never came out of her coma. Nico
le’s friend went to a place where they say everything is better. Where everyone loves one another and no one is judged on how they look. Nicole was angry that Adrienne had left her. Hadn’t they pledged they would be friends to the end? Well, was this the end? From that day forward, Nicole never again took a friend for granted.
SHE DROVE INTO the underground parking structure of her condo building in the upscale Rittenhouse Square neighborhood, and Nicole caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She looked good! Once again, Zenora had worked her magic. Her hairstyle—a shoulder-length layered bob with honey-colored highlights—was the bomb.
Nicole had grown up only blocks away from the Square, but it seemed like a million miles away when she was a child. She’d walk through the Square with her mother on their way to shop at Wanamaker’s department store on Market Street and would always wonder what those people did to be able to live in the magnificent high-rise buildings. She rarely saw any black people and later learned that the Square was once an exclusive neighborhood for old-moneyed white Philadelphia families, and that blacks had had to arrive and leave through the back entrances until a few decades ago. And now, here she was, a successful investment banker with her very own place on the Square.
Nicole took the elevator from the garage to the nineteenth floor and entered her showroomlike apartment. She walked into the living room and sat down on her chocolate brown L-shaped plush sofa. Its peach-colored throw pillows matched the walls, which were graced by original pieces of African American art by Romare Bearden and Elizabeth Catlett. Oriental rugs were placed throughout the rooms of her home, enhancing the glistening hardwood floors.
She glanced toward her dining area as she thought about tonight’s party. An oblong mahogany-and-cherry-wood table with seating for eight was in the center of the room. On it sat a large Waterford crystal vase of fresh white gladioli and calla lilies. The bouquet filled the air with a hypnotic fragrance.