by Brenda Woods
“I love you, V.”
“Love you, too . . . Bye.”
I hung up the phone and headed down the hallway to the kitchen, where Bibi was cooking dinner. “I told my mom that you’re flying back with me and we’re all going to Serious Pie!” I yelled out excitedly, and when I turned the corner to the kitchen, the mixer bowl filled with mashed potatoes was spinning like a merry-go-round.
“Sounds like a plan, V.”
When she turned off the mixer, I stuck my finger inside, scooped up a taste, and put it in my mouth. “Yummy . . . What else are we having?”
“I have a pork loin on the grill. You like pork?”
“Yep, but what’s a loin?”
“Long piece of pork that can be cut into steaks. I marinated it last night . . . And there’s a salad that’s waiting on you to put it together.” Bibi pointed with her chin toward the counter. “I’m sure you know how to slice tomatoes and avocados. The lettuce is already washed.”
I washed my hands and rolled up my sleeves. “Do you have any red onion? Because red onion tastes good with avocado and tomato.”
“I’m sure I do. Check the vegetable bin.”
I rummaged through the bin and finally found one. “Voilà,” I proclaimed like a magician.
Bibi went outside to get the loin, and when she came back in, I was busy on the salad. “You’re quite a little cook, aren’t you?” she commented as she sliced the pork.
“I’m learning. A few weeks ago, Athena’s gramma taught us how to make meat and macaroni pie. I could teach you, but it takes, like, all day.”
“Who’s Athena?”
“My best friend. She’s Greek. Her gramma is staying with them because her mom just had a new baby. Mrs. Matsoukis, that’s Athena’s gramma, says we’re all one human race . . . just in different colors.”
Bibi stopped slicing and shook her head.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s not so simple, Violet. White folks made the race laws in the first place, and our history is complicated.”
“Oh . . . well, she lives in Greece, so she can’t change any American laws.”
“Your friend’s grandmother is right . . . in a perfect world, we are all flesh and blood, the same species, one race, the human race. But this isn’t a perfect world and most people insist on holding on to the many-race concept. I want you to be realistic, Violet. At this moment in time, on this planet Earth, in the eyes of most, even though you have a white mother, you are considered to be black. Do you understand me?”
“Yep, I really do. But if that’s what you think, that we’re all one race, why didn’t you want my dad and mom to get married?”
“I don’t feel that way anymore. In the past years, I’ve learned a lot. Now I realize, who am I to tell God who to join as one? Who am I to tell another person whom to love? My evolution was beginning right before you were born.”
“I know. Mom told me about the letter you wrote but never got mailed.”
Bibi glanced in my direction. “Did she tell you everything?”
“There’s more?”
Bibi stopped cooking and sat down. “You’re probably too young to understand.”
I shrugged.
“After your father died, I got sick.”
“Were you in the hospital?”
“Yes, a special hospital for people whose minds are broken. I was very depressed. I was in and out of that hospital several times. Then I ran away, traveled the world to try and forget.”
“To forget my dad?” I asked.
“To forget the hurt.”
“You seem okay now.”
“I’m better. Time has been kind.” Bibi hung her head. “I’m sorry, Violet. I was selfish, only thinking of myself, pretending you were better off without me. I told myself you didn’t need me. There were many times I wanted to see you, call you, and there were days I promised myself to but didn’t. I had myself convinced you had a nice life up there in Washington. You do, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“I know you’re still a child, so I don’t expect you to understand all of this, but sometimes people make a mistake for so long that it starts to feel like it’s not a mistake at all. And then one day, you tell yourself it’s for the best.” Bibi patted my arm. “Life had given me some roadblocks, but losing your father was my Waterloo.”
“What’s that mean?”
“My defeat.”
Except for the sound of a siren in the distance, there was silence.
“In my nightly prayers, you were always at the top of my list. Always. I’m not perfect, Violet. Nowhere near perfect. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” I replied.
Bibi pulled me to her, hugging me tight, and I hugged her back. The hug felt like love—love as good as Gam’s and Poppy’s. And afterward I felt so filled up with love, it was as if it was about to burst out of the top of my skull.
Right then, it seemed like a good time to change the subject to something happy, so I did. “Do you have a secret ingredient for your mashed potatoes? Most old people have secret ingredients in their recipes.”
“So I’m old people?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
She smiled without showing her teeth and I could see a twinkle in her eyes. “You can’t un-ring a bell, Violet.”
I figured that one out fast. “Once it’s done, you can’t undo it, right?”
“Right. As for the mashed potatoes, I like to sneak in a little garlic and a pinch of fresh rosemary . . . gives it some zing.”
“Thanks. Mashed potatoes are one of my favorite things.”
“Mine too,” she commented, then added, “Did you know they used to have a dance called the Mashed Potatoes?”
“Seriously?”
“Yep, and a song to go with it. I think I still have that record in my stack of forty-fives.”
“What’s a forty-five?”
“A forty-five RPM. One record, two songs . . . an A side and a B side.”
“Can we listen to it?”
Bibi bolted from the kitchen to the living room and I followed. She pulled open a cabinet and slid out a shelf that had a bunch of black discs.
“Wow, old records? Can I see?”
“Sure. But be careful. Some of them are almost as old as me,” she said with a wink.
“I found it!” I shouted. “‘Mashed Potato Time’ by Dee Dee Sharp.” I flipped the record over. “And the B side is a song called ‘Set My Heart at Ease.’”
She snapped a yellow plastic thing into the center of the record.
As if she was reading my mind, Bibi said, “It’s called a spider.”
Soon, the record was spinning and music filled the room.
“Show me the dance,” I begged. “Is it hard?”
“No . . . it’s so easy, almost anyone could do it.” Bibi slipped off her shoes, got a little up on her toes, and, keeping time with the music, started mashing and turning her feet like someone trying to smash a bug over and over. She took me by the hands and in no time I was doing the Mashed Potatoes. When the record ended, we played it again. Bibi was smiling so big that her gums showed. I wondered if mine were showing, too.
After dinner, we sat in the living room, playing her favorite 78 RPMs, which were bigger than 45s and had a lot of songs, like a CD does. Nat King Cole, Nina Simone, Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday, and Nancy Wilson.
“Now, this is music,” Bibi told me as the sun set.
Maybe, like Bibi’s mashed potatoes, life has special ingredients, too—times that make it more special—stuff that gives it more zing. I closed my eyes and stored this time with her in my memory. And later, I promised myself, I’d start a new list. A list of times I will always remember.
36
THE BLUES
; What’s gesso?” I asked as I examined a large plastic container in Bibi’s studio. She was dressed in paint-stained jeans and an old yellow T-shirt that had the words Peace, Love, and Happiness plastered across the front.
“Surface prep for canvasses and other things people paint on. Goes on before you paint to seal the canvas and make it smooth.”
I read the label. “Says you have to wait twenty-four hours minimum before you paint.” I sure didn’t want to wait a whole day before getting started. “Do we really have to put this stuff on first?”
Bibi pulled two large canvasses out from a shelf. “I primed these a while back. I try to always have some ready for when the mood to paint strikes me.”
“Do you only paint when the mood strikes you?”
“Not if there’s a project I need to finish. Then it’s the same as a”—she spelled out the word—“J-O-B.”
“Is today a J-O-B, or did the mood strike you?”
“Neither. Today is a teaching day. Haven’t done that in a while,” she replied as she set up the matching blank white canvasses on side-by-side easels. “What’s your favorite color, V?”
That wasn’t an easy question to answer. “I think blue. Or maybe purple. I don’t know.”
“Ask yourself this question. What is the one color that always makes me feel good inside? Be decisive.”
I took a few seconds before I blurted, “Okay, I choose blue.”
“They’re my favorites, too. There are about fifty-nine different colors of blue.”
“Fifty-nine! That’s a bunch.”
Bibi pulled out a chart with different shades of blues and I studied the names. There was electric blue, Bleu de France, midnight blue, cobalt blue, Persian blue. “There are too many to memorize,” I decided. I’d have to write them in my journal.
“For real,” Bibi replied, and motioned for me to follow her to a wall that was lined with drawers. She opened one and I peered inside. Tubes and jars of paints were inside, all blues. “Pick one . . . the one that speaks to you.”
I wanted to tell her that paints don’t speak, but I knew what she meant. Finally, I fished out the one that I liked the best. “This one . . . ultramarine.”
“Now for the palettes. We’ll need large ones for this exercise,” she said as she retrieved two.
“And brushes,” I reminded her.
“Nope, no brushes. We’ll use our fingers.”
Finger painting? She’d better be kidding.
“I’m not a baby.”
“It’s just an exercise in color, Violet. There are all kinds of things to paint with: palette knives, rollers, fingers, not just brushes.”
“I don’t want to exercise. I just want to learn to paint with a brush . . . please, please, please and thank you very much.”
The disappointment in my eyes must have shown, because she replied, “All right already, V. We’ll use brushes, then.”
“I want to paint a bird. Can you teach me to paint a bird? A blue bird.”
Bibi let out the longest sigh I’d ever heard. “Yes,” she replied, and asked, “A bird alone on the canvas?”
“No, in a tree. A pomegranate tree, because the fruit reminds me of red ornaments. And so I’m going to need some red and green, and I’m gonna name it Blue Bird in a Pomegranate Tree on a Sunny Day. So I’ll need yellow for the sun.”
Bibi chuckled. “Your persistence shouldn’t surprise me. Warren was the same . . . once he made a decision, that was that. Sounds like you have your mind made up, Violet.”
“Yep.”
“We should at least sketch first, then.” Bibi smiled and said, “First we’ll sketch?”
From the way she pulled out the sketch pad, I could tell there was no getting around the sketch part.
Persistence definitely runs in the family.
“Do all artists sketch first?”
“Some sketch directly on the canvas, but I’m methodical.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I have a special method. First I sketch, sometimes in color, sometimes in black and white. Then, I sketch on the canvas. Then, I paint.”
“Sounds like a lot of steps.”
“I have to be careful for it not to consume me.”
“I know what that means . . . like it eats you up.”
“Yep, it eats me up so much that there are times I actually forget to eat. It’s not healthy.”
By the time we finished the sketch, Bibi had taught me about perspective, which made a lot of sense. And I suppose because she didn’t want to be consumed, she declared it was time for lunch. “I could go for some fish. Does that sound good to you?”
I nodded and we headed to the car.
“Do all artists have to know this stuff about perspective and shading and fifty-nine different blues?”
“Most artists.”
“I don’t want to be an artist. I just want to do it for fun. It’s supposed to be fun, right?”
“For some people it’s a J-O-B, Violet. Remember that.”
The fish place was called Fish Fry City and the neon sign outside said You Buy We Fry.
“What kind of fish would you like?” Bibi asked.
I studied the sign. “Do they have salmon?”
For some reason that made Bibi grin. “I don’t think so,” she replied.
“What are you gonna have?”
“My favorite, the catfish.”
“Is it good?”
She licked her lips. “Delicious.”
We both ordered the catfish, potato salad, and fruit punch. And minutes later, sitting on one of the outdoor tables with our food, I chomped away and thought, Boy, was she right.
• • •
On the way back to Bibi’s house, her cell rang in the car’s Bluetooth. It was a call from my mom.
“Hi, Mom!” I screeched as soon as Bibi pressed the button on the steering wheel. “We just had lunch and we’re heading back to maybe do some painting if we’re satisfied with the sketch. Are you at work?”
Before Mom could answer, Bibi interrupted, “Hi, Justine.”
“Hi, Roxanne. Sounds like the two of you are having lots of fun.”
“We are!” I blurted. “Did you know how to do a dance called the Mashed Potatoes? Because if you don’t, I learned last night, so I can teach you. I’m going to download the song to my iPod.”
“I only have a few minutes to talk,” Mom sort of whispered. “But about Violet staying another week, it’s fine with me.”
I glanced at Bibi. “Another week?”
“I called your mom last night. Thought we might get down to Laguna Beach and also maybe take a day trip to Santa Barbara on the train. That is, if you want to.”
“A real train?” I’d never been on one.
“A real train,” Bibi answered.
I grinned. “Yep, I’m staying.”
That made Bibi smile, too.
“Okay, it’s settled then. I’ll call you later, V. Bye, Roxanne,” Mom said in her I’m-a-busy-doctor voice.
“Bye!”
I wanted to reach for Bibi’s hand to hold it the way I sometimes hold Gam’s when it’s just the two of us and we’re driving and I’m feeling happy. But Bibi had both hands on the wheel, so I didn’t.
By the time we got back to the studio, it was hot inside. Bibi turned on the ceiling fan to cool it off, and she was in the middle of teaching me how to copy the sketch to the canvas when she said she needed a nap.
“You sure are a sleepyhead, Bibi.”
“I sure am,” she replied, rubbing her left arm.
“Does your arm hurt?” I asked as we headed inside.
“Cramps up sometimes when I’m sketching and painting.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have plenty of stuff to do. Okay if I use your lapt
op to send some e-mails and pics to Daisy and Athena?”
“Sure, pickle,” she said as she logged on for me. “You sure it’s okay if I call you pickle?”
“Yep, I like it.”
“Okay then, pickle.”
37
AHMED’S HOOD AND MARINA DEL REY
The next morning, I found out two things. The first thing made me smile. We were going to the marina to have lunch at Cousin Lorna and Laura’s. And even though I knew they saw me as half white and therefore not exactly black like them, they were still very nice. The second thing—Ahmed was coming, too—made me frown.
His house wasn’t too far from Bibi’s.
We were walking up to Ahmed’s door when he opened it, came out on the porch, and said loudly, “Welcome to my hood!”
A teenage girl standing outside next door asked, “Is that your chick, Ahmed?”
“Naw, it’s my cuzzin, nosy.”
“I know that’s right cuz you ain’t never gonna have no chick cute as her.”
That made me laugh.
“Shut up, Jo’Nelle!”
“That’s about enough,” Bibi said, and the nosy girl slinked inside her house.
I glanced over where the girl lived, then at Ahmed in the backseat when we got in the car. “Is that your chick, Ahmed?” I mocked.
“Jo’Nelle? You gotta be kiddin’. She is way too skinny, plus she’s not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
“Not Jo’Nelle. That’s my type.”
“Can you two please not fuss?” Bibi commanded, then turned on the radio.
Ahmed sneered at me. “We’re not fussin’. We’re having a friendly conversation.”
The next thing he almost whispered. “So what’d you come down here for . . . tryin’ to learn to be black?”
“I didn’t know it was something you could learn,” I told him.
“You’re right, it isn’t. It’s something that you are, all the way down to your soul,” he said snidely.
Ahmed Diamond, please disappear.
The twins, Lorna and Laura, lived in a place called the Marina City Club. Their condo was on the seventh floor.
“Hello, hello, hello. C’mon in,” one of the twins said as she hugged each of us tightly, then motioned us inside.