Queen Bee Goes Home Again

by Haywood Smith

  Then I headed for American Government, which turned out to be very different from the whitewashed version of history I’d learned in high school. Though the curriculum was clearly designed to drop a shipload of guilt on every white founding father and current white student, I liked my woman professor a lot. She was down-to-earth and succinct, which I deeply appreciated.

  As for my fellow students, they were so clueless, I felt sorry for them. I mentally checked Government off my worry list. If they wanted political correctness, I could give it to them, even though I silently refused to take the rap for my racist ancestors, Daddy included.

  I mean, really. I’ve never been a racist. My whole life, I’d considered people, people, end of story.

  Then I headed for French.

  Forty-nine

  NOTE: This is my recollection, so the French is probably mangled, but that’s my fault, not my teacher’s.

  “Bonjour mesdemoiselles, mesdames, messieurs,” my tall, elegant French teacher greeted. “Je m’appelle Madame Fouchet. Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît.” She strolled closer, down the single aisle between the tables and chairs that faced the board in rows. “Aujourd’hui, et tout les cours avec moi, nous parlerons seulement français ici.” She paused. “Comprenez-vous?”

  She said it all so fast, my ears couldn’t keep up.

  Okay. Think. Hello, girls, ladies, men. Please sit down. I am Madame Fouchet. Today, and all your lessons with me, we will speak only French here. Understand?

  Non! By the time I’d translated, she was rattling off a bunch more French.

  Oh, heaven help me. I should have taken Spanish. That way, we’d have started off with the basics.

  But I’d aced two years of French in high school, so I’d CLEPed out of Basic French, thinking I’d save time and money by taking Intermediate and Advanced French.

  Can we say, wrong? In English, please.

  The teacher rattled away while I developed flop sweat.

  I copied down the homework on the board, then got out my huge textbook and turned to page 200 in the middle of the book, not because I understood the teacher, but because the cute little brunette beside me told me where they were.

  At least the textbook was in English. Maybe I could manage by doing the assignments.

  I tried to relax and get the gist of what the professor was saying, but the more I attempted to force it, the more nervous, confused, and worried I became.

  Suddenly there was a pregnant pause, and I looked up to see everyone staring at me. “Et vous madame,” (and you, ma’am) the teacher said to me. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” (What’s your name?)

  “Je suis Lin Breedlove,” I shot back, then realized my error.

  My first day, and I couldn’t even get my name right? Or my reply.

  “Pardon, madame,” I hastily corrected. (Sorry.) “Je m’appelle Lin Scott.” (My name is Lin Scott.)

  As it had when I’d gone to Paris with Phil on our twentieth anniversary, my good accent brought on an onslaught of even faster French, so I waited till she stopped for breath, then trotted out my favorite phrase: “Je vous en prie, madame, parlez plus lentement et distinctement. Je suis sourde comme un pot.” (I pray you, ma’am, please speak a little more slowly and distinctly. I’m deaf as a post.)

  At least, that’s what I thought I said.

  The teacher burst out laughing, but nobody else got it.

  “C’est vrai,” I deadpanned. (It’s true.)

  She arched a perfectly shaped brunette brow and pronounced slowly, “C’est à voir.” (We’ll see.)

  Now that, I could understand.

  Then she went right back to talking a mile a minute. The rest of the class was a blur of trying to pick out the instructions hiding in her barrage of French and failing abysmally.

  At the end, she took pity on us and gave out the assignment in English, then explained we’d have to do at least three exercises a week in the language lab.

  Assuming I could find the language lab, I decided to get that over with right after my classes on Tuesdays.

  Boy, did I have a lot of catching up to do, especially with my grammar and irregular verbs.

  After that, I found the classroom for my survey course on world history and was happy to discover that my professor was young, kind, and spoke clearly. Best of all, he said that if we took good notes, we really didn’t need to use the textbook, which had a lot of extraneous material.

  It was so nice to hear someone casually use the word extraneous.

  I loved history, which had changed drastically since I’d studied it in high school thanks to recent finds and DNA analysis, plus the politically correct filter applied to the facts. Still, this professor seemed like a winner, so I checked that class off my worry list and took copious notes about a politically correct (but decidedly unscriptural) interpretation of prehistoric man.

  After that came English, with another kind, flexible young professor, who started off discussing the “magic realism” novel we would all read and analyze, about four contemporary Native American characters who struggle with leaving their reservation for good.

  In all my previous years as an avid reader, I’d never heard of magic realism, but he explained it perfectly.

  I just hoped I could manage to read the book without having my weirdness kick in.

  Then came math.

  Fifty

  College algebra. I shiver now, just thinking about it.

  When Cathy registered my classes in October, I’d told her it didn’t matter that I’d tested out of remedial algebra, because I’d done it by eliminating the two clearly wrong answers, then eeny-meeny-miney-moing the two choices that remained, which turned out to be right in too many cases. I’d insisted that I needed a review class (noncredit) before I tackled college algebra, but she’d insisted right back that I at least give the regular algebra a try. Then she’d reassured me that I could always drop it if I found myself over my head, and take something else.

  It didn’t take me but three minutes in that math classroom to know I was over my head. My female professor began by asking who could define and explain quadratic equations.

  Shoot! Shoot, shoot, shoot.

  Hands went up all over the room.

  I had no clue what the question or the student’s answer meant.

  My brain seized.

  Shoot, shoot, shoot! Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot—

  Oh, quit griping, my practical self scolded, and focus on what she’s saying! You might understand something.

  The teacher activated the white “smartboard” that provided an unending list of equations, which she solved at record speed, rattling off a stream of mathspeak as she did.

  Shades of French!

  My inner child promptly had a hissy fit.

  Mildly hysterical beneath my frozen exterior, I managed to keep from running screaming from the classroom while the instructor continued to race through dozens of equations on the “smartboard.”

  When the teacher dismissed us half an hour early, I waited till almost everyone else had left to approach her. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m afraid this class is way over my head.”

  She faced me squarely, matter-of-fact. “I appreciate your telling me right away. You can register for another class, making room for someone who might want to get into this one.”

  Apparently, gone were the days of “Let’s see how we can help you manage this.”

  Feeling totally inadequate, I nodded, then headed for Cathy’s office. I had forty-five minutes before anthropology, so I hoped she could get me into another Tuesday-Thursday core course in that time slot.

  I had to wait for twenty minutes before she was free, but when Cathy talked it over with me, she checked availability against my required courses, and informed me that human biology had an opening in that time slot.

  Not even thinking there might be a reason the class wasn’t filled, I sagged in relief. “Oh, good. I’m great with body stuff.”

  “The o
nly thing is,” Cathy said, “some people have trouble understanding the professor. She’s from Nigeria. But it’s the only core science class open that fits your current schedule.”

  The comment about not understanding went in one ear and out the other, but not the “it’s the only core science class that fits.” Next she said, “You’ll have to do lab once a week. I’ll see if I can find one that’s open after your last class.”

  As it turned out, there was an opening for lab with the same biology instructor on Thursdays, so I hadn’t missed the first one.

  Again, it didn’t occur to me that there might be a reason why her lab wasn’t full.

  “I’ll notify your new professor,” Cathy said. “Fortunately, you’ve only missed the first lecture.”

  “Thanks so much.” At my age, I couldn’t afford to drag my classes out. I needed to take a full load, and then some. And make at least a C average, preferably a B.

  Whether I could manage it remained to be seen. So far, I was doubtful, since I couldn’t even get my own name right.

  Anthropology was next. Though the windowless classroom was crammed with decaying cardboard boxes of specimens, the professor was a hoot. He assigned each table as a team, which didn’t work out so well for me, because a passive-aggressive girl from my government class ended up on my team.

  But the prof was so excited about what he was teaching that I couldn’t help liking him, even though he refused to admit even the possibility that Homo sapiens might have evolved from its own distinct ancestor. But he didn’t treat me like an idiot for asking, so I liked him.

  Science was always so adamantly sure of its prevailing theories, when, in fact, the entire system was only a series of wrong conclusions working toward the truth.

  I mean, if I’d told him ten years before that I could prove every person on the planet came from a single sub-Saharan African mother, would he have even entertained the possibility?

  I think not. But all in all, I liked the class.

  When it was finished, late in the afternoon, I decided to do my language lab assignments, since I had biology lab on Thursdays.

  As it turned out, there was so much ambient noise in the language lab that my mid-range nerve deafness made it almost impossible for me to hear the voices on the verbal French exercises. I turned the volume up all the way, but it was still so soft and distant that I was stumped. So I finally gave up and resolved to have Cathy work out a way for me to do them in the quiet rooms.

  Fifty-one

  When I turned in at our driveway at seven that evening, Miss Mamie and Carla and Tommy were waiting for me in the light from the dining room by the porte cochere.

  Worn out, I parked under the cover, then joined them on the porch.

  “So, how’d it go?” Tommy asked with a smile when I got out, his breath clouding in the cold.

  Frankly, I was too tired and hollow to talk about it, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I said, “Scary. And hard. I had to switch math for human biology.” Embarrassed—why, I couldn’t tell you—I curled my lips inward, then I admitted, “You were right. I need to study some more before I tackle algebra. Maybe summer quarter. Or next fall.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  The Mame bustled over and pulled my coat closed, then put her arm around my shoulders. “You look exhausted. Come inside, and we’ll all have vegetable soup and cornbread to warm us up. Then you can tell us all about it.”

  Maybe I’d have the energy to go through it all after I’d eaten. “Soup sounds perfect.” Miss Mamie’s “vegetable” soup had shredded white-meat chicken and homemade chicken stock, canned Roma tomatoes, Silver Queen corn that she’d frozen herself, butter peas, fried bacon, and plenty of chopped Vidalias. No okra, no peppers to override the flavors. And her cornbread was moist and buttery, a perfect base for homemade blackberry jam.

  After we’d all eaten and cleaned up, Miss Mamie took off her apron and sat facing me. “Okay, tell us all about it.”

  I couldn’t deny her a blow-by-blow account, since her gold had paid my tuition. So I gave her my day and my new beginning, with plenty of humor salted in. We laughed a lot. Then I headed for bed, dragging my loaded briefcase up the stairs behind me.

  I would study hard the next day, but that night, I wanted to sleep.

  Nodding off in my soft, warm bed, my last conscious thought was that I’d only thought of Connor twice all day. Not counting thinking about thinking about him.

  But then, blast it, I dreamed about him all night.

  Just rats.

  Fifty-two

  The next morning I woke up grumpy from my mind’s refusal to let go of Connor. I brushed my teeth, raked an Afro pick through my curls, then threw on a warm pair of sweats and headed for the big house for some company, picking up my copy of the Gainesville Times on the way.

  Dadgum Connor. I’d been fine on my own for years till he came around. Now, thanks to him, I no longer found myself good company.

  It didn’t help much having Miss Mamie and Carla and Tommy sip their coffee in silence as Mama read her Gainesville Times and he, his Gwinnett paper. Carla entertained herself with a book of sudoku.

  I’d rather take a beating than try to do another sudoku. One was enough for a lifetime with me.

  Feeling anything but energized, I snapped to when the front doorbell rang.

  Connor?

  Tommy jumped to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

  “No.” I was standing, too. “Please let me.”

  Tommy shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Miss Mamie, she don’t say nothin’; just eyed us over her coffee.

  I saw the florist’s van through the front door, and somebody I didn’t recognize holding a huge glass globe overflowing with purple tulips.

  Not Connor. My spirits fell.

  Drat. Drat, drat, drat.

  When I opened the door, the deliveryman asked me where I’d like him to put them.

  I pointed toward the long table behind me. “On the dining room table. Let me get your tip.”

  I went to my purse on the shelf of our Victorian hat rack, coat hanger, and umbrella stand in the foyer, then opened my wallet. No ones, just a single five.

  “Here.” I gave it to him. “Thanks.”

  Pleased by my generosity, he offered a little salute, then left.

  On my way back to the kitchen, I eyed the enclosure card with dread, wishing it wasn’t from Phil, but knowing it was.

  Tulips, this time of year. A needless extravagance. But Phil had always expressed his feelings for me (assuming he’d ever had any) with expensive gifts that felt like bribes.

  Obviously, he had no idea what other flowers I liked (there were plenty) so he’d stuck with the tulips like a needle caught in a scratch on a record, and just as annoying.

  The enclosed note confirmed my fear. “I know you,” he wrote. “What you like. What you love. What you need. Please let me love you the way I should have all along. I’m not the same, selfish man. Your true husband, Phil.”

  I started to soften a bit, then remembered he’d only come back because Bambi had dumped him.

  “Well, I know you, too.” I wadded up the card and threw it into the gas flames in the foyer fireplace. “So the answer is definitely no.”

  All his words were right, except for the conspicuous omission of Christ or Jesus.

  My sensible self told me Phil was nobody’s fool, then asked what he was up to.

  The still, small voice chimed in with he wants something. But it didn’t tell me what.

  I fought the urge to call Connor and ask him if he’d felt the same thing, but didn’t dare. He’d asked for time to pray over our relationship, so I had to respect that.

  That left my family. So I took the flowers into the kitchen and plonked them on the table.

  “Mercy,” Miss Mamie exclaimed. “Please tell me those are from Connor.”

  “I wish,” I said, reclaiming my seat. “Unfortunately, they’re from Phil.”<
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  “Well, shoot,” Miss Mamie spat out, the exclamation as close to cussing as she went.

  Discreet as always, Carla quietly left us, giving Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze as she passed behind him.

  “I need advice,” I told Miss Mamie, then looked to my brother. “From you, too.”

  “Mama, pack our bags for heaven,” Tommy responded in his best televangelist imitation. “The end is nigh. Lin just asked for my advice.”

  I gave him a good-natured shove on the arm, then sobered. “What should I do here? I want to do the right thing, but God’s not telling me what I need to know. Past experience tells me Phil’s up to no good. And as for his conversion, he never once mentioned Jesus.” Then I turned against myself. “But what if he’s really accepted Christ?” This was giving me a headache. “What if he really has changed? Do I owe him another chance?”

  “Do you want to give him another chance?” Miss Mamie asked.

  I shook my head in denial. “What I want is Connor, but maybe that’s just lust talking. Lust, at my age.” I shook my head. “Intellectually, I want to do what’s best for Connor, but humanly … things don’t feel complete without him anymore.”

  Tommy and Miss Mamie exchanged pregnant glances that said, “Uh-oh.”

  Uh-oh was right.

  “We have a slogan in the program,” Tommy said. “When you don’t know what you should do, don’t just do something; stand there.”

  We all knew how terrible I was at waiting.

  Miss Mamie nodded. “I think Tommy’s right, honey. There’s a lot you don’t know about either of those men. What harm could it do to wait and see what happens?” She didn’t leave time for me to answer, just forged on with, “Focus on your own life. Thank God for taking care of this, then study, study, study.” She lifted her chin with pride. “Don’t give either of them power over you. Just put them out of your mind. And every time they come back, put them out again.”

  “Easy to say,” I groaned out. “Hard to do.” Anger rose like bile inside me. “I’m so furious with Phil for messing up everything with Connor. And even more furious with Connor for letting him.”