Rain Water
By Buttrfli Jones
©2017
This book is dedicated to all of the strong women in my life, as well as to new beginnings.
Life is to be lived and is nothing without love.
Be well.
Buttrfli
“What’s your name, Lady?”
‘The Famous Question’, as they called it, became the drop of water that broke the dam. Ms. Tandy looked with her head cocked sideways and her eyebrows lifted, trying to figure out why this peculiar little girl was asking her a question. She studied Paisley's face for some time, deciding whether or not she would even respond because she did not want to answer any future questions. Ms. Tandy stood up like an Amazon queen and walked toward Paisley with her hands on her hips and looked her squarely in the eyes as she pushed her index finger into Paisley’s chest.
“What’s YO' name, lil’ girl? How yuh gone come to somebody else house an’ ask DEM as if yuh da one in charge? Yuh ain’t got no home trainin’?”
Paisley stood firm with a stone expression on her face. All that she was truly after was attention and that is exactly what she got. Someone was talking to her. She was not invisible.
"My name is Paisley Parker, but I hate dat name so you can call me Sunshine." Paisley made bold eye contact with Ms. Tandy and plastered a smile on her face as she talked while not looking away for a second, which intrigued and scared Ms. Tandy simultaneously. Paisley had not spoken that many words at one time to anyone and her words came in a rush of desperation. Ms. Tandy had an array of emotions that happened on her face all at once and the emotion that she settled on was anger.
“Well I don’ give a good got damn whacho name is, lil’ girl. Get off from ‘roun’ mah porch.” Ms. Tandy waved her arms in a fashion as to ‘shoo’ the young girl like an annoying gnat, turned her back on Paisley and proceeded to walk to her front door as if that would end the conversation. Ms. Tandy had lived the majority of her 40 years on Earth minding her own business and thought that Paisley would do well to do the same.
“No.”
Paisley stood with her right foot on the edge of the porch and her left foot on the step below as if to prepare herself in the event that she had to run. Her defiance could be heard beyond the small timbre of her voice, louder than the soft hum of the air flittering the leaves in the autumn trees. Louder than the hum of the train tracks in the distant view that carried Paisley’s imagination most nights when she could not sleep. Louder than the heartbeat that was pounding in her ear like a war drum ready for battle. Fear was eating up her guts like hot lava, but she refused to move. Something had drawn her there. She could not turn back.
Ms. Tandy’s head snapped as if jerked and she came at Paisley with the force of a tornado. Unconsciously, her right hand extended above her head, ready to come down and slap Paisley firmly on the face to emphasize her point of wanting the girl to leave. But when Ms. Tandy looked at Paisley . . . REALLY looked at the girl . . . her hand fell limp and slowly at her sides. Paisley maintained her stony resolve, with the exception of the heavy tears that were rolling down her face. Instead of slapping her, Ms. Tandy grabbed Paisley by the shoulders and shook her.
“Girl, whas wrong wit’ yuh?! Is yuh crazy o’ somethin’?”
Ms. Tandy knew crazy all too well, as she had seen enough craziness in her life to last her a lifetime. She did not want to deal with an adolescent invading her peaceful time on the porch. Being outside and looking at nature was Ms. Tandy’s only reprieve from the loneliness she felt indoors. She sat on her porch every day, watching the traffic and the people passing by. At times, she would close her eyes and listen to the birds or sit in solitude, singing old hymns. She was thankful for the break in routine, but she did not want to deal with another crazy in her life.
“I’m not crazy, Ma’am. I just don’t wanna go home . . . yet.”
At that, Ms. Tandy let out an audible “Hmmppphhh” as she let go of Paisley and the look on Ms. Tandy’s face was one of understanding. As Ms. Tandy walked away, Paisley finally brought her left foot to meet her right and stood on the porch, staring at the peeling paint along the front window. Ms. Tandy sashayed her round bottom and sat back down in her white plastic chair, continuing her hobby of watching the world. Paisley stood and Ms. Tandy sat for what seemed like hours, both lost in their own thoughts until Ms. Tandy finally spoke.
“If is one thang I know, is knowin’ yuh cain’t go home.”
Ms. Tandy pulled some shelled peanuts out of a pocket in her tablecloth dress and the crack of the shell broke Paisley from her reverie. Paisley came and sat down on the splintery wooden boards and forever took her place. Ms. Tandy thought about a time when all she could think about was getting away. The frequent feelings of nausea and panic . . . desperately feeling as if she did not want to leave but knowing that she needed to go in order to survive. Thoughts and memories lost a bit of their luster, but the emotions associated with her escape never left her. She walked into her destiny, fearing she would be like Lot’s wife and turn into a pillar of salt if she looked back. She also believed that she was a dead woman if she returned. No matter how much she convinced herself that she had made the right decision, she was plagued by images of those she once loved. Faces that had faded over time, yet still remained a dominant factor over her emotions.
The young girl on her porch reminded her of a young girl in her past that forever remained in her heart. The young girl served as a reminder that there was still a part of herself out in the world, no matter that the one she loved most no longer loved her. Paisley needed to hear the sound of a voice, feel a presence, look someone in the eye to know that she was still alive. Ms. Tandy was a distraction from a life of loneliness. There was something about Paisley’s eyes . . . an unspoken need that pulled at the heart of Ms. Tandy. The two looked at one another as if there was an understanding beyond the obvious.
Days following their first encounter, Paisley would come by after leaving school and stay until the sun went down. When the weekends came, she would make her way to Ms. Tandy’s home as soon as she got dressed, oftentimes sitting in solitude on the stairs until Ms. Tandy opened her front door. Ms. Tandy was still unsure that she wanted someone invading her space and she kept Paisley at a distance, only letting her come as far as the porch. As time passed, a reluctant Ms. Tandy started to look forward to their daily exchanges and in the days and weeks and months that followed, they fell into an unspoken routine.
The porch of 622 Muse Street became the backdrop to their story.
On one particular Sunday afternoon, the rickety old porch creaked under the weight of her usual white plastic lawn chair as she rocked her plump body forward and backward. The sound of the porch always lent to the notion that the wood could split and that they’d all fall into the pit-of-hell at any moment. Ms. Tandy never showed concern about the age of the wood, or her weight. She sat and stepped and moved with a confidence that the wood need fear breaking under her movement. Her presence was commanding and her voice was captivating.
Despite the possibility of the porch breaking into a thousand splintery pieces, Paisley did not want to move. Each day the conversations between the younger and older lady created a comfortable place to build their foundation. Paisley sat with her legs crossed on the wooden porch with jagged, splintered wood scratching the backside of her sun-browned thighs as she tried to adjust the oversized dress that her mother brought home in a brown paper bag a few days prior. Paisley often wondered if her mother really knew what she looked like, as every article of clothing Paisley wore seemed to be made for everyone other than her. As Paisley became lost in the conversational moments her discomfort was forgotten and she allowed herself to be transported to a different time and place and the beautiful, pe
aceful escape she had found..
Ms. Tandy was tall and dark like coffee with skin as smooth and shiny as the wood on a new violin. She always had on some form of a shift dress that looked like a sheet or tablecloth sewn together. Her voice, how she tended to sing her words like a talkative Negro spiritual, always kept Paisley’s attention. One distinguishing quality about her, with the exception of her coffee-black skin, was her hair. No one in the town had ever seen a black person with hair as long and thick as Ms. Tandy’s. People used to say that you could tell by her nose that she had “Indian in her family” or that she stood apart from the ordinary Negro because of her “good hair”, but she never divulged to anyone where she came from or who her family was.
Ms. Tandy could be illustrating the progression of hair on her big toe and Paisley would sit transfixed and hang on her every word. Paisley watched the thickness of her lips, imagining the words springing forth like drops of water from a garden hose and watering her mind like a drought stricken countryside. There was never a hint of sadness in Ms. Tandy’s voice. She had not been educated past the 4th grade but she liked to say that she had a diploma in Living and she knew exactly what to do to survive.
“Yuh know, Gal . . . I done watch jus’ ‘bout erry one in dis street day in an’ day out. Da same folk jumpin’ an’ a hoopin’ an’ a hollarin’ down at de church-house err’ Sunday, dem same ones wouldn’t give a chile a dolla’ fo’ bread. Yuh see mah house! I ain’t got too much-a nothin’ but I ain’t neva’ been stingy. Dese folk out here preachin’ bout God’s love need tah do more den run they mouf! If they ain’ helpin’ nobody out here, dey worse den erry one dey sendin’ ta Hell wit’ dey Bible beatin’!”
Conversation had revealed that Ms. Tandy did not care too much for regular church-goers. She thought most of them hypocrites. Paisley had never been to church one day in her life, so she had no idea what Ms. Tandy was referring to, yet she listened with the attentiveness of a student on the front row of class. From what she had gathered in her short time of life was that church was not a place that welcomed people like herself, her mother or Ms. Tandy. Church was for perfect people. She reasoned at that young age that church was not a place she needed to be if they wouldn’t let someone as beautiful as Ms. Tandy go there in peace.
Ms. Tandy looked at the people in the neighborhood returning to their run-down homes dressed in their Sunday best. She watched them get out of their beat up, ‘two-days-away-from-breaking-down’ vehicles to look in her direction with a disdain reserved for women like Ms. Tandy who would rather sit at home than come worship in the House of the Lord. Ms. Tandy met their looks with boldness, standing tall and fearless, almost daring any one of them to say anything to her face. She looked in their direction and yelled at the top of her lungs.
“Yuh holy-rolla peoples out here ain’t no betta den nobody else! Ya hear me? Yuh ain’ no betta!”
Paisley looked at Ms. Tandy with fear and admiration. Many times she wanted to say the same to the children in her class. Paisley was considered the lowest of the low on the poverty spectrum, so she was an easy target for the ones that wanted to feel better about their own situations. Children would always single her out for ridicule in order to divert attention away from their own lack.
The people in the neighborhood disregarded Ms. Tandy’s angry outburst and walked into their homes, writing Ms. Tandy off as the ‘Crazy Lady’ that was never going to Heaven. She did not matter, nor did her words. To them, she was just a standard neighborhood fixture like a liquor store on the corner or a sidewalk crack.
Paisley wondered why people considered Ms. Tandy as crazy. She wondered if they thought the same of her. She wondered if as she walked down the street the whispers wafted through the cracks in the wood frames and windowsills, up to the ears of God about the peculiar little girl and the crazy woman who crowded the streets of the good people with their strangeness. She pondered on how it was possible that she and Ms. Tandy’s eyes were framed to look at things differently than the rest of the neighborhood, and realized that she did not mind being different.
In their neighborhood, the haves and the have-nots were as apparent as rain on a tin roof. Just as you could never escape the pitter patter of rain upon the metal sheet roofs, you could not blur the lines of poverty and abundance. Despite being considered one of the ‘have-nots’, Paisley looked around her at Ms. Tandy’s old weathered and worn house. She gazed at the small rows of vegetables planted on the side of the house and the peeling white paint that covered the broken wood. She pondered for a moment at all the things that were wrong with the little home, and soon realized no matter how debilitated the condition it was always clean. There was always some nice smell coming from the door, whether cinnamon sweet or spicy. Ms. Tandy always smelled of Dial soap and baby powder. She was always clean and shiny. She did not have much, but what she had she cared for.
Paisley on the other hand always looked as if she was a step away from homelessness. Her mother only showed up when Paisley was in bed and was usually gone by the time she woke and if she decided to stay the night, there was usually some man in her bed . . . a different one every time. Paisley had long learned not to keep count or question the frequencies. Paisley would be reminded that her mother was, “ . . . grown and didn’t have to answer to no lil’ kid.”
Paisley was responsible for dressing and grooming herself, picking her clothes from whatever pile she could find. Most of her available choices were worn or ill-fitting, but she tried to make the best of what she had and pulled her kinky-coiled hair into a puff or a bun every morning. She was fully aware of the soft looks that her teachers gave her . . . the subtle hints at clothing donations that were available when no other students were around. No matter what she looked like, she maintained the best attendance and academic record of any student in the class.
Although Paisley was looked down on by everyone else, she was accepted by Ms. Tandy. She could care less what the world thought about her . . . Ms. Tandy did not look at her with disgust or sympathy. Paisley could breathe and be loved in peace. She realized that she would take the comfort of the porch and Ms. Tandy over the world and its normalcy any day.
“You know, Ms. Tandy . . . You know why I hate my name?”
The previous conversation was paused and the shift was felt, seemingly a calm before the storm. At times Paisley would break the regularity of their one-way exchange with a bit of dialogue. During those times, Ms. Tandy would sit attentively in awe at the words that came forth. Conversing with Paisley was almost like talking to someone her own age. For a young girl her words were few, but when she did speak, they were insightful. Her eyes shifted downward in a shameful manner, as her soft voice echoed the soul secrets that she only shared with Ms. Tandy.
“Paisley Parker is the worst name I coulda got. Almost everybody in school used to say my initials were “P.P.” because that’s what I smell like. So I asked my teachers to call me Sunshine, ‘cause that is one thing nobody hates, ya know? Everybody loves the sun . . . ”
As she spoke, her right foot circled on the wooden step below it, giving her courage to vocalize those emotions that she hid when she needed to be bulletproof. She felt a bit silly saying the words to another human being, but she also felt a certain vulnerability with Ms. Tandy, slowly growing unafraid to be the scared little girl that she was at times. Ms. Tandy looked at the young girl that was so full of wisdom beyond her years, and remembered at that moment that Paisley was still a nine year-old child. Paisley tried very hard to display strength in her voice and demeanor, but there were short moments when her strength faltered, her mask was removed and her pain showed.
Ms. Tandy never asked questions as to why Paisley was always at her house. She and Paisley had oftentimes seen Paisley’s mother driving down the street in different cars with different men, behaving as if Paisley was a figment of her imagination from a time far passed. Paisley’s mother treated her more like a little sister than a daughter, expecting her to understand the need
for freedom and space. There was a 14 year difference between the two and at times, Paisley despised the fact that she was the more mature one. Looking at the tough exterior that Paisley had developed, reminded Ms. Tandy that the young-old-soul still needed some mothering.
“Lil’ Miss Sunshine, don’t pay dem damn fools no nevamind. Dem same nappy head lil’ kids laughin’ ‘bout thangs beyon’ yo’ control gone be beggin’ you fo’ a job one day. Mark mah words! Didn’t yuh say yuh done won de Spellin’ Bee few weeks back?”
At that remembrance, Paisley’s face lit up like a lightbulb. “Yes, yes Ma’am. I sure did! I even beat the 6th grade kids!” Ms. Tandy fought the urge to pull her tight to her bosom and rock her with celebration. Instead she motioned her to sit down cross-legged on the porch so she could braid her hair. Paisley sat with her straight, waiting for the narrow comb to create straight lines with precision throughout her rough mane. No matter the pain from Ms. Tandy’s heavy hands pulling and tugging her tangled strands into uniform rows of braids, she wanted the end feeling of beauty that came from the process.
“Paisley a beautiful name! An’ you a beautiful girl. From now on, brang yo’ clothes ova here an’ we gone wash ‘em err’ Saturday, yuh hear me? Now, I got some ole’ dresses in dere fa yah ta wear and yuh gon’ start lookin’ like a lil’ lady! No more-a-dis nonsense.”
Ms. Tandy waved the bright orange comb as a wand, weaving it through the air as her words pierced the air. As Paisley sat on the floor of the porch in between the dress material hanging amid Ms. Tandy’s plump thighs, she wrapped her arms around Ms. Tandy’s left leg and whispered a thank you that Ms. Tandy felt despite the inaudibility. Ms. Tandy reminded Paisley of something unknown and familiar and although Ms. Tandy rarely smiled, there was a softness to her nature. She did not need to touch Paisley to nurture her and she unconsciously gave a motherly consistency that Paisley craved. Paisley alternately reminded Ms. Tandy of the daughter that had left her and although she and God did not have the best relationship, she suddenly felt like He was trying to be her friend again.
Rain Water Page 1