by Gail Giles
Ms. D. tole Biddy to put her stuff away and get comfortable while she take me to get my clothes. Most foster childs learn to live pretty light; I had me three boxes and a suitcase, anyways. I tole my foster mama good-bye, promised I’d let her know how I was doing. She invite me to have Thanksgiving with them and such like that. She try to give me a hug and a kiss. Shoot-a-goose! I pull away fast-like. These last foster parents was good enough people, but I never felt no mush to any of my foster famblies. Ain’t any use in that. Get move too often.
We get back to the garage-house, and the floor was mop and wax to a shine that made my eyes water. Biddy had all the stuff pull out the bottom cabinets and was washing the insides. Her whole head was in them cabinets, and her big butt just a-waggling out there in the breeze whilst she scrub. Fool singing ’bout the Itsy-Bitsy Spider.
I don’t laugh much. Don’t see much that’s funny. But I sat myself down on that saggy couch and bust a gut.
I don’t know about that Quincy. Here we moved to the prettiest place. It’s all our own. Miss Lizzy is sweet as can be. She treated us like we was somebody real important, but Quincy stayed puffed up. Then she come back with her things. Plop down on the couch. And she’s cackling like a hen on a nest.
I laugh too. Just be friendly.
Ms. Delamino sat us down. Told us we had to get to business. She told me what I was to do for Miss Lizzy. Clean that big pretty house. Help Miss Lizzy do her exercises. Cook her meals. I look down at my shoes on that one. Ms. Delamino said, “What’s wrong, Biddy? Can’t you cook?”
“ ’Course she can cook. Anybody can cook,” Quincy say.
I nod my head fast. I know Quincy’s smart. If she says anybody can cook, maybe it’s that way.
Ms. Delamino told Quincy she got her a job in the bakery part of the Brown Cow grocery store. She started in to talking about paying bills and handling money. My mind got tired.
“Can we get us a TV?”
Ms. Delamino looked at me. Quincy flapped her hand. “Hush, we talking bidness here. Go clean a cabinet or something.”
That sound OK to me.
“Can we get us a TV?” that ole fool say.
Here we be, starting our real lives, and she off woolgathering about Satiddy morning cartoons. What I’m going do with this girl? She white, she fat, she stupid, and she a ho. I gotta say, though, that girl clean like nobody’s bidness. I like a clean place, but I cain’t say I like sweeping and mopping. I knew when I see Biddy look down at her toes, like she waiting for ’em to do tricks, that I be free of scrubbing. After Ms. D. leave, me and Biddy gonna do like I hear in the movies. Gonna have us a power lunch and do us a deal.
Ms. D. and I talk bidness, and some of it I forget ’bout as soon as she say it, but she write it all down for me to study on. We get to live here, and the electricity, phone, and suchlike paid for as part of Biddy’s earnings. All we got to buy is food and clothes. And long-distance calls — like we got friends to call far away. Or close-by ones.
Ms. D. gimme a chart that show what each of us be paying for. She said to divide up the housekeeping chores our ownselfs. We can do our laundry in the ole lady’s house and eat the vegetables from the side-yard garden. My ears perk right up at that. I love fresh vegetables. Ms. D. say she gonna come check on us, and twice a month she’ll help us get our ’spenses straight.
I was sure enough ready to get her out my face when Ms. D. up and leave. She gonna take me to my job tomorrow morning. She axt do we have a ’larm clock. Biddy say the rooster at her house always wake her up.
Ms. D. didn’t much know what to say to that. I shore did.
“Fool, you bring that rooster in your raggedy little sack?”
I ’spect Biddy to get all mad or teared up, but she get her face in a puzzle-knot. “No, Granny wouldn’t let me take nothing but my clothes.”
I had to half feel sorry for the girl then.
“I got a ’larm clock,” I say to Ms. D.
She nod and say she gonna leave us to it. I was glad enough to get shed of her. She lean down and whisper in my ear. “Try to get along. Enough people have been mean to Biddy. She doesn’t need you to start. And it’s as important to you as it is to her that this project work out.”
I felt a little shamed, like I’d step on a new-laid egg. But the next thing I know, I hear Biddy singing “Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” and I look ’round to see that big ole butt waggling out the cabinet again.
Quincy said, “Let’s us go down and see that garden.”
I wanted to finish up scrubbing. But I wanted to be nice to Quincy too. So I follow her downstairs.
It sure was a pretty garden. Vegetables growing in nice straight rows. Things that are tidy and straight make me feel good. That’s why I know how to clean. And I had lots of practice scrubbing up after Granny.
There was scrawny green things growing in a by-itself place.
“I can clear those weeds,” I told Quincy.
“Them ain’t no weeds; them is herbs.”
“What that?” I ask her.
Quincy rolled her eyes. “Make food taste good. Don’t you fret ’bout that. Just don’t go pulling ’em up when you gets a cleaning fit.”
She told me to pick three big tomatoes. She went to plucking some of the herb-weeds. She pulled something she called spring onions and a skinny lettuce plant.
I know what vegetables are. But Granny didn’t never buy any. I guess we was about to eat a few now. I’m starting my brand-new life.
That garden nice as the one Mr. Hallis had. He was one of my foster daddies. Biddy and me got some stuff together and went on upstairs. This was the first part of my plan not be doing no housework.
I pull out a can of chicken. I’d rather use fresh, but this be fine for today. I wash the tomatoes and cut ’em open. I mix the chicken up with a little mayo and my secret weapon — blue cheese dressing. Then I mince some basil up ’long with those green onions. I spoon the chicken into the tomatoes and sprinkle the basil and onion on the top. I put a couple sprigs of parsley into the chicken to purty it up.
Biddy look at those plates. “I never did eat nothing like that.”
That ain’t a surprise. All I ever see Biddy eat at school was potato chips and candy bars. She didn’t get to be no Buffalo Butt from snackin’ on lettuce and carrots.
“Well, this here is Quincy’s Special Chicken Salad. Not many people have eat this before.”
“Why’d you make three plates?”
“You don’t know how to cook nothing at all, do you, Biddy?”
Biddy look shamed and started pondering her toes again. “I didn’t lie,” she say.
“I ain’t saying you a liar. I’m saying you ain’t no cook.”
She shrug and shake her head.
“How you think you gonna cook for that ole lady?”
Her eyes fill up with tears. I sure didn’t want her to go into one of her crying, snot-nose jags.
“I got me an idea,” I say.
That stop them tears.
“What?”
“We split up our chores, just like Ms. D. say. I’m gonna cook and you gonna clean.”
Biddy get all bright and happy for ’bout a minute. “But what about Miss Lizzy?”
“I’m gonna cook for her too — she just ain’t gonna know ’bout it.” I get the plastic wrap and put it over one of the stuff tomatoes and wrap it ’round the plate tight.
Biddy wad her face in a knot again. “But . . .”
“You gonna tell her you like to cook in your own kitchen and you’ll bring food to her.”
“But . . .”
“But what?”
“I can’t do that. It would be a wrong thing. Like a lie.”
“Biddy, it ain’t a lie. It’s more like our secret.”
I give her a hard look until she look down. I’m not going to let this fool girl mess things up for us.
Quincy grabbed that plate with one hand. She grabbed my arm with the other. Tugged me down the steps fast as I could
go. Quincy was squawking about me doing ’zactly what she told me to do. She hushed up when we got to the back porch. Made like she was knocking. I tapped on the door. “Miss Lizzy?”
She answered quick. “Is that you, Biddy?” Quincy poked me in the back.
“Yes, ’um. I got lunch for you.”
She told me to come in. Quincy let go my wrist. She whispered, “Just follow along and let me do most of the talkin’.”
Miss Lizzy set at her kitchen table with a cup of tea. I put the plate in front of her.
“That looks wonderful,” Miss Lizzy said. “I didn’t expect you to start until tomorrow. I wanted you to have time to get settled in.”
“We ready for you to taste Biddy’s good cooking,” Quincy say.
“Well, then, let’s see just how well Biddy cooks,” Miss Lizzy said. She pulled off the wrapping. “It looks delicious, Biddy. How did you ever learn to cook like this?”
“Her granny taught her,” Quincy said quick-like.
My eyes flew open and my mouth jumped open. I knew I looked a fool standing there. I started crying. We wasn’t keeping no secret now. We was telling a bald-face lie. “Miss Lizzy, I got to tell you something.” Quincy made a snort sound. “Miss Lizzy, if I try cooking for you, you die of the tow-mane. I didn’t lie none about cooking. It was a . . .” I didn’t know a right word.
“Misunderstanding?” Miss Lizzy said.
“That’s it.” My stomach feel better, ’cause Miss Lizzy didn’t look mad. “But Quincy here, she can cook. She made this.” I pointed down to her pretty tomato-flower.
“Well, then, let’s see how it tastes,” Miss Lizzy said.
Quincy glare at me, but I don’t care. I’m glad we don’t have to start things off with a lie. “Ain’t nobody gonna eat my food off no bare table,” Quincy said. She had her puff-up-chicken-snake face on. “Where you keep place mats and silverware?”
Miss Lizzy pointed and Quincy went to digging. She got a white square of material with scoopy kind of edges. It had a napkin that matched. Quincy spread it out on the table. She folded the napkin on the side. She set a knife and fork nextside the plate. “Wait just a minute,” she said, then run out the door.
She come back in with a pink flower.
“You got a vase?”
Miss Lizzy smiled. I don’t think I ever saw an old lady smile before. She pointed to a cabinet. I looked over where she pointed. The cabinet had a glass front. A little vase that had designs cut in it was in front.
“That one?” I asked.
Miss Lizzy nodded.
I got it out and wiped it with the dishrag. Filled it up with water, then hand it to Quincy.
Quincy stuck her flower in the glass vase. She put it on the table. “That plate don’t quite go with that place mat, but I’m gonna call it good for now.”
Miss Lizzy said Quincy was a wonder and we should drink tea while she sampled the salad.
We shook our heads no. Quincy chewed on her bottom lip. Like she was worried as me to see if Miss Lizzy liked her food. I tug the buttons on my coat.
Miss Lizzy got her fork and smiled. Then dip it lady-style in the chicken. We watched her nibble. We watched while she put her fork in the tomato. She got her a big forkful. She ate more. We watched when she closed her eyes, like to say “Amen.”
“Quincy, do I taste blue cheese in here?”
Quincy nodded.
I didn’t see nothing blue.
“And basil?” Miss Lizzy asked.
Quincy nodded again.
Miss Lizzy said Quincy was “a find,” and whoever taught her cooking should be “claimed a saint.”
I didn’t understand. I could see Quincy didn’t either.
“This is the best, most original chicken salad I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting.”
That’s ’zactly what Miss Lizzy said.
I thought that fool had done it for sure. Gonna get us flung right out that ’partment by telling she couldn’t cook. But my chicken salad done won the day. Don’t know why I got edgy ’bout it.
“Did someone teach you to cook?”
I nod at the ole lady. “In the foster home before last. My foster father did sumpin’ with computers. He stay home and did housework and cooking. He taught me.” I took a pause. “I’m mixed race, in case you wonderin’, but I live with white peoples before. You ain’t the only one.” I said it like a dare. Like she shouldn’t expect me to be treat her special.
She nod and use her knife to cut up the tomato.
Ole lady didn’t take my dare, and I easy myself down a little. “My foster father taught me all the words in recipes and show me what herbs to use when. He even made up his own recipes. This one of ’em.”
“Tell me more,” she say.
“Not much more,” I said. “My foster mama got a big job in Washington, DC, and they move. I went to another home. Mr. Hallis made me a cookbook of his recipes. I did all the cooking in my last house too. Neither one of them foster parents could cook a lick.”
The ole lady finish her lunch and lay her knife ’crosst the edge of her plate. “If you girls are happy with the arrangement, I’m glad to have Quincy cook instead of Biddy.” She crook up the corners of her mouth. “I think I’d like to avoid ptomaine.” She pet Biddy’s hand, so I guess she was funning with her. “Please feel free to use the garden for yourselves, as I’ve offered before, and, Quincy, please use whatever you need in the kitchen.”
I didn’t like the idea of being in that ole woman’s house, but the idea of cooking in that kitchen sure was fine.
“I ain’t calling you Miss Lizzy,” I say, the dare back on my tongue.
“Ah,” she says. “Makes you feel subservient?”
I don’t know what that mean for nothing.
“Slaves called their owners Miss, did they not?” she say.
That ole lady smart.
“I think you could call me Liz. My friends do.”
I make my eyes slitty.
She smile, almost sad-like. “Oh, I see. Well, then, would Elizabeth do?”
I nod. She nod back. I guess we done us a deal.
I always pondered ’bout Quincy. What color she was. She got real light skin and green eyes. She told Miss Lizzy she was mix-up race.
We get things straight with Lizabeth and tromp on upstairs to eat our lunch. Biddy tuck into that chicken salad stuff tomato like a backhoe. She polish it off in about five bites. I don’t think that girl ever had good food in her life.
She mop her face up with the napkin, then scrunch her eyebrows together like she was studying on sumpin’. “Which one of your folks was mix-up?” she say, staring at me like I was whole tree full of owls. I was ’bout to reach ’crosst that table and snatch her bald-headed when I saw that the fool wasn’t trying to be mean. She just that dumb. I let me out a big ole sigh and tuck my mad down in my pocket.
“My grandma was white and my grandpa black. My mama has pretty light skin. My daddy was white and Mexican and he had green eyes.”
Biddy scrunch her eyebrows up a little tighter. “Don’t that make you mostly white?”
I hee-hawed then. “Girlfriend, in this part of Texas, if you a little bit black, you all black.”
She look like she understand. “I’ll clean up our kitchen. I like it sparkledy.”
I had tole her a little bit of a lie. When you as light skin as me and usually live with at least one white person, blacks don’t want no part of you either. And when you “challenged” and ugly, it pretty much makes no never mind what else you are. You ain’t much of nothing.
Girlfriend. Quincy called me friend.
It be strange. I started making journal tapes for a reading assignment. But here I am, graduated, and I still do it. Some of it because Biddy started doing it and I was wadded-in-a-knot mad — I wanted to make sure mine was better. More tapes and such. But now I like it. It’s like I cain’t go to sleep until I say my words out loud on the tape. It helps me sort out my head, get things in they right place
. I think Biddy feels some such when she clean them cabinets.
I’m feeling strange about Biddy. She ain’t like I thought she’d be. Like I said before, she seem like a new-laid egg, but at school, all the boys say they done her. Say she go with anybody. The girls all call her ho. Everybody know she had a baby. I don’t want men troubles comin’ in our direction. Her and me gonna have a “Come to Jesus” meeting tomorrow.
I can hear Quincy talking into her tape. In her bedroom. I do it too. She don’t know why, though. This little tape is something I tell secrets to. Secrets like, today I’m so happy I could bust. I don’t have to cook, but I’m gonna be eating real good. I get to do for a old lady that’s clean, and she don’t holler and call me names. Sometimes she smiles. I never did know old people was like that.
I got somebody call me a friend. Nobody ever called me friend. All kind of new stuff happened to me in one day. More good than ever happened to me ever. And even more good — I don’t got to go in the world, see other folks. I cross a little yard. The only peoples I see are . . . safe. Ain’t no boys to trick me and say things. Ain’t nobody calling me ho.
I was sleepin’ like a lamb in soft straw when I heard the most gosh-awful screamin’. Sound like sumpin’ bein’ killed in the next room. I haul out my bed and slap on my light.
The screamin’ was comin’ from Biddy’s room.
Had somebody got in our little ’partment?
I grab a big knife in the kitchen and kick open her door.
“I got a knife!”
Biddy was thrashin’ and twistin’ on her bed, but when I yell out, she scream again and sit up.
I turnt on her overhead light and look around. Weren’t nothing in that little bit of a room but a bed and a fat, scared white girl.
“Did you see ’em?” Biddy said.