And Then There Was Me

by Sadeqa Johnson

  “You want some?”

  “Yeah girl, I haven’t had anything but that bird food my mama fed me. When she goes on a diet, that means I’m on a diet.” Bea grabbed the bag and followed Awilda out onto the stoop. They sat smelling the dew of spring while dipping their hands in for fries, biting the burgers, and splitting the apple pie in half.

  That day, it seemed like everyone was out. Bea wasn’t used to being outside of her apartment and the neighborhood seemed more vibrant next to Awilda. The music, the smells, the cars zipping by brought a symphony of noises. A young mama pushed a baby carriage. Two kids dribbled and passed a basketball on their way to the court at the end of the block. Four little girls took turns jumping double-dutch. A group of old men sat at a square table slamming around dominos. It was almost as if there was a block party going on and Bea had finally been invited.

  “Is it always like this?” Awilda looked across the street. Three teenage boys, Jose, Pop, and big Nate, were sitting on the wall with a beat box playing the Beastie Boys. Bea watched as Awilda got up and started to dance.

  “This is my song.” She stuck out her tongue, pushing her hips behind her.

  Jose was the finest Puerto Rican in the neighborhood. Bea’s mother once said that he reminded her of El DeBarge. Jose cocked his head at Awilda and waved for her to come across the street.

  “You going?”

  “Naw.”

  “Everybody likes him.”

  Awilda kept dancing, popping her fingers and laughing with her mouth open. Jose whispered something to Pop and made his way across the street. He led with his shoulder and sort of dragged his left foot.

  In front of them he stuck his hands down in his Guess jeans pockets and leaned back. “What’s up, mami?”

  “Taxes.”

  “Oh, you one of those smart ones? What’s your name?”

  She sucked her teeth. “Awilda.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to wine and dine but not waste my time.”

  “She must not be from around here,” Jose said to Bea. It was the first time in her life that he had talked to her and the slight attention made her blush. Then he was back to Awilda.

  “Where you been all my life?”

  “North Plainfield.”

  “Oh, you one of them?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Chill, little mami.” He pushed his dimple in their faces. “If I give you my number, you gonna call me?”

  “I don’t know.” Awilda rolled her eyes like he was boring her.

  Jose shook his head and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, conveniently from his back pocket. Her scribbled something down and then handed the paper to Awilda.

  “I’ll be waiting.” He jogged back across the street.

  Awilda sat down on the step next to Bea.

  “Dag.”

  “Take lessons, Bea. That’s how you do it. You can’t act all Joe. You got to play hardball. Come on, let’s go back upstairs.”

  * * *

  The girls were fast friends. They were both only children and were like two opposite magnets attracting each other. The start of their weekend together began with Awilda combing out and bumping Bea’s hair. She brought over clothes to mix and match with what Bea had. Awilda and Irma got along well, keeping a casual rhythm between them, like big cousin/little cousin. When Bea was in ninth grade and Awilda in tenth grade, she had finally convinced Irma to let them go to Skate 22 on the bus. Irma made Awilda promise to never tell her mother.

  “Wilde, don’t tell your mother or I will lose my job,” she said, making the sign of the cross.

  Bea admired Awilda’s quick wit and the ease with which she moved in her skin. She even started imitating her accent so that she could pretend to be Awilda on the phone with the boys that they met at the rink and on their walks around downtown Elizabeth.

  Needing a change of scenery, Awilda started setting up dates for herself at the Jersey Gardens mall. They caught the #40 bus out there to meet her latest guy, who always tagged along a friend for Bea. The girls would have lunch, ditch the boys, window shop, and then prowl for new dudes to exchange numbers with. Since Irma was so concerned with Bea’s father on Saturdays, she was none the wiser. Awilda became a relief and a blessing to both of them.

  THIRTEEN

  Life After

  Bea was in the eleventh grade when her mother knocked on her bedroom door with the news that would change her young life. She was hunched over her physics textbook, suffering through the chapters on the quantum world of superposition, like they were written in Greek instead of English.

  “Mija.”

  Bea looked up, bothered by the interruption until she noticed her mother’s dishevelment. Irma’s face was puffy and her lipstick smeared.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s your papi. He … passed away.”

  “Like died?”

  Irma nodded her head.

  Bea didn’t feel anything at first. The words just sat on her skin, like excess lotion that needed smearing.

  “Oh, mija. What are we going to do?” Her mother sat on the edge of Bea’s bed and crushed her to her breasts. She smelled like talcum powder and her coconut drink concoction. Bea didn’t have any tears and instead soothed her mother by pulling her close and running her fingers through her soft hair. Bea often wondered why she had not inherited her mother’s silky tresses that did what she wanted without much of a fight.

  “I have to see him.”

  Bea released her. “Where is he?”

  “Uncle Bobo is going to come by tonight and pick us up so that we can view the body at the funeral home. I have to say my good-byes.”

  Bobo was her father’s longtime friend and the only person Bea had ever met connected to him. Once when her father had been sick with the flu, Bobo came by and dropped some money off to get them through the week. Bea only met him a few times and never called him by name; she didn’t know why her mother was referring to him as uncle anything.

  A few hours later, her mother was dressed in a navy dress cinched at the waist with a faux snakeskin belt. Her hair was pulled back in a high bun and she clutched the Coach bag that Chip had given her last Christmas Eve. He came on Christmas Eve, never Christmas Day.

  Bea hadn’t changed out of her faded jeans, worn T-shirt, and distressed cardigan sweater, and to her surprise her mother was so busy worrying about herself that she didn’t notice.

  “Navy blue was your father’s favorite color.” She clipped on a pair of gold earrings and then touched her lips with a bright red tube.

  Bobo waited in the car in front of their building but got out when he saw them to open the door for her mother.

  “Thanks, dear.” Her mother slid with grace into the front seat. The grown-ups made small talk on the way to the viewing but Bea stayed quiet. Nothing felt right. Breathing hurt.

  When they arrived, Bobo parked and whispered something to her mother before getting out of the car. Bea opened the car door to follow him but her mother stopped her.

  “Hang on, mija.”

  “Aren’t we going in?” Bea’s foot dangled over the concrete.

  “He’s just going to confirm that the coast is clear.”

  “Clear from what?”

  “Say a prayer for your father, sweetie. May God rest his beautiful soul.” She clutched her rosary and made the sign of the cross. Bea pulled herself back in and looked out of the window. Minutes later Bobo came back and ushered them from the car. Her mother walked with her shoulders back but her head slightly bent into the funeral home. Their shoes traveled softly over the beige carpet. Irma put her hand over her heart and had to stop once to gather herself. There were three rooms with viewings and her father’s was on the left. When they finally reached the body, Bobo said, “I’ll wait out here to give ya’ll some privacy.”

  Irma trembled so badly that Bea kept her hand on her elbow to make sure she didn’t topple over. They were st
anding over the body. It was her father.

  “You look well, mi amor. Oh, my love, my sweetheart. How could you leave me?” Irma bent over the body and kissed his cheek and then stood, clutching the side of the coffin with tears collected on her face. Bea stood next to her but didn’t cry. She didn’t know how to feel, except knowing that she didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want this to be happening. Irma was too busy murmuring to the body in Spanish and touching his thick head of hair to notice Bea. Then a woman’s voice slapped them like a gust of strong wind just outside the door.

  “What do you mean I can’t go in, Bobo? You mean to tell me you brought that hussy down here to see my husband?”

  Bea’s neck snapped in that direction. She couldn’t hear what Bobo said back.

  “She ought to be ashamed to show her face down here. Harlot!”

  “Who’s that?” Bea turned to her mother.

  “We should go.” Irma gathered herself. As she dabbed the tears away from her cheeks, in walked a woman, also dressed in navy.

  “You have no right to be here. Haven’t you done enough?” The woman was shorter and plumper than Irma. Pie-shaped face, wearing a wig that made her look older than she probably was.

  “I meant no harm.”

  “You meant no harm.” The woman mocked Irma’s accent. “You’ve been creeping ’round with my husband for years and you meant no harm?”

  Her mother stiffened and reached for Bea’s hand. “It was Chip’s decision.”

  The woman looked like she wanted to spit. “If I wasn’t a Christian woman, I swear ’fore God I would—”

  “Out of respect for Chip, we’ll leave.”

  “Jezebel.” The woman spat. “You ruined my life.”

  “Not my fault you couldn’t keep your man at home.” Irma cocked her head like it was a gun.

  “Excuse me?”

  Irma glared at the woman and then pulled Bea from the room. Bobo was at the door.

  “Sorry, Irma, I tried.”

  “It’s fine.”

  From the room they heard the woman cry, “Lord, why have you forsaken me? What have I done to deserve to be disgraced by my husband’s mistress, even in death?”

  Her voice pierced into Bea, setting a chill in a place that never seemed to warm properly again.

  * * *

  When they got home and her mother changed into her house clothes and removed her lashes, she informed Bea: “Your father was a good man. He left you an insurance policy.”

  Bea didn’t care about the money.

  “Was that woman his wife?”

  “Enough to get you through high school and something toward college. You’re a lucky girl. Your father was a good man.”

  “Ma, Dad had a wife?”

  “Stay out of grown folks’ affairs.”

  “I’m sixteen.” She put her hands on her hips. “Tell me.”

  Her mother shook her head, looked without seeing anything. “I never wanted you to find out like this. I was going to tell you when the time was right.”

  “Tell me now.” Bea took a step closer.

  “You’re just like him. You know that?” Her mother wiped the corner of her eye. “Let’s sit down.”

  “Ma, please.”

  “Yes, Beatrice, that woman was your father’s wife.”

  Bea chewed on the sleeve of her sweater where the threading had already come loose. She had always thought of herself as a love child since her parents were not married but now she felt like bastard was a better term. She was illegitimate. Unwanted. Did his family even know she existed?

  “Do they have kids?”

  “Three girls.”

  “I have sisters?” Bea said, shocked.

  “Half-sisters.”

  “I can’t believe you.” She slapped her thighs. “How could you do this to me?”

  “I’m sorry, mija.”

  “That’s why he never took me anywhere? He was ashamed of me. He probably didn’t want me to be born. Why didn’t you just have an abortion?”

  “Don’t say that!” Her mother stood. “He wanted you.”

  “What married man wants a child with another woman?”

  “Stop it.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I can’t take this from you. Not today. Sweet Jesus.” She made the sign of the cross and then ran down the hall to her bedroom where she slammed her door.

  Bea went into her own room and took down the one photo that she had of her father clipped to her vanity mirror.

  “Asshole,” she shouted at the picture and then let it drop to the floor.

  * * *

  The funeral was held the next day. When her mother came into her bedroom to select Bea’s clothes, she picked the picture up off the floor and pinned it back between the mirror and wooden frame. Bea was in her bed, writing in her diary. She noticed her mother but said nothing.

  “Start getting ready. Don’t want to be late.”

  Bea waited for her mother to close the door behind her and then hid her diary in the back of her closet in between her school gym uniform and a hoody. The dress was navy with three buttons and a plaid skirt. It wasn’t what Bea would have picked but she put it on to keep the peace. She kept thinking about what would happen when she arrived at the church. Her father’s wife was scary. Bea didn’t want to be anywhere near her. She did hope to be introduced to her sisters. How weird would that be? Did they know about her? Did their mother tell them about the run-in at the funeral home? She had so many scenarios playing in her head that it wasn’t until she slipped into her wedged heels that she realized her mother wasn’t dressed.

  “You have every right to be there.” Her mother sat at the table in her bathrobe.

  “You’re not going with me?” Alarm rose in Bea’s throat.

  “Mija, I can’t go. It would cause too much commotion. You saw what happened at the funeral parlor. I can’t do that to Chip’s memory.” She made the sign of the cross. “May he rest eternally in peace.”

  “Then I’m not going either.”

  “Yes, you are. He’d want you there.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  Her mother sighed.

  “And by myself? Without you?” Her breathing grew shallow.

  The doorbell rang and when her mother opened the door in walked Awilda. Dressed in all black with a yellow purse. Bea had never been more excited to see her in her life.

  “Wilde! You’re going with me?”

  “Beasley.” Awilda threw her arms around Bea. “I couldn’t sleep last night after you told me what happened. Of course I’m going to support you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Bea and Awilda to the end.” They slapped hands and then went through their secret handshake that ended with two snaps.

  “Take care of her, Wilde. Don’t let my Bea out of your sight.” Irma shoved some money for carfare into Bea’s hand and went back to her bedroom.

  Bea looked down the hall after her mother.

  “Oh, here.” Awilda reached into her bag and fished out an oversized pair of sunglasses that she shoved onto Bea’s face. “Let’s rock.”

  They walked in silence to the bus stop. Bobo had slipped Bea the information for the service when he dropped them off the night before. Awilda knew how to get everywhere on public transportation, probably because she played hooky from school. They arrived ten minutes early so the family processional had not begun. The limo was parked at the curb but the family had not gotten out. Bea wondered if they could see her through the dark windows. Did they even know who she was? Awilda pulled Bea through the crowd of mourners, marched them in, and found a seat on the left, opposite the section marked off for immediate family.

  The cathedral was grand, with stained-glass windows, wooden pews, and royal-blue carpet. Her father’s casket was open. Wreaths and standing spray flowers crowded the pulpit. The organ played a slow tune. Everything was beautiful. She would report to her mother that his home-going was fitting.

  “Are you
going to go up to the family?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The organ began and the family proceeded in. Bea picked out the three daughters right away. Two were at their mother’s elbow and the other led them down the aisle. The four seemed to be in synch, moving and grieving as one. Her father’s wife walked with a netted veil over her face, but Bea could still see her. She was matronly; every thread, piece of jewelry, bulge of fat, was tucked into their proper place. She wore no makeup and on top of her head sat another unstylish wig. Between her fingers she clutched her Bible. The wife was nothing like her mother, who wouldn’t greet her father without red lips, tight curls, and skin soaked in perfume.

  After a selection from the choir, the microphone was open for those who wanted to say something about Chip Campbell. Bea listened to the people who knew him, amazed at the man he was away from her apartment. She didn’t know that he liked to go fishing after church on Sunday and could clean a catfish in fifteen seconds, that he had been a Big Brother to two motherless boys from Camden for the past two decades and helped them through college. Chip was originally from Waycross, Georgia, loved to hunt, and worked for the city of Roselle for thirty-five years. He had been a deacon at his church, a master chess player, and a Mason. For Bea, he had been more her mother’s man than her father. All that they’d shared was a pat on the head, McDonald’s Happy Meals, and five-dollar bills. She had missed out on a real relationship with him.

  Then the eldest daughter, who looked to be fresh out of college, went up to speak. Her two sisters—one was college-aged and the other high school—walked with her. They stood before the congregation. Bea could tell they were close to each other and close to him. The middle sister looked the most like Bea, same complexion and that nose. It was something about her body language that had Bea longing to know her better. Wanting to move in their sisterly circle. But there was no place in their lives for her. They had the same mother and same father. She was the unwanted.

  “On behalf of the Campbell family we’d like to thank you all for coming out. My father was an amazing man. He was faithful to his family and his church and he had a sense of humor that often had my sisters and me rolling around on the carpet. We will miss him dearly.” Her voice cracked and then she stepped away from the microphone. The preacher stepped in and began with his closing remarks.