Blanche Passes Go

by Barbara Neely

  Blanche introduced herself and explained how she’d gotten Mary’s number. “I was wondering if I could maybe come by and talk to you for a couple minutes. Something I need to know. About the bank.”

  “Well, I’m just senior clerk, you know. I don’t handle mortgages, or loans for…”

  “Yeah, I understand that, but if you’ve got the time, I’d really appreciate it.” Blanche tried to think what to say to convince Mary to see her. Something told her money wouldn’t work. Maybe the same thing that would work on her would work on Mary. “It’s very important and personal, or else I’d just ask you on the phone.”

  Mary didn’t hesitate a second. “Okay. Can you come by in about half an hour? I need to go by the church later on and…”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Blanche did a little dance when she got off the phone, grateful that she wasn’t the only curious soul on the planet. She just hoped Mary’s curiosity didn’t come up with questions for her that she wasn’t ready to answer.

  Mary Lee turned out to be a long-faced, slender, light-brown-skinned young woman with Dacron braids and beautifully manicured hands of the clear-polish variety. They settled themselves on Mary’s blue denim living-room sofa in a house not much larger than the Miz Alice. It felt steamy, as though someone had just taken a shower.

  Blanche looked at Mary and considered buttering her up—congratulating her on her job and how hard she must have worked to have gotten it in a town where few black people had front-of-the-house positions. But there was something about Mary’s straightforward gaze and calm manner that made Blanche sure Mary wouldn’t appreciate it. Blanche also had a feeling that what she was going to ask Mary Lee to do needed a better reason than somebody-wants-to-know. But first she had to find out if Mary could help her.

  “Mary, I need to ask you to do something. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” Mary crossed her arms. Blanche went on. “I’m trying to get as much information as I can on a man I’m sure’s got an account, probably more than one account, at your bank. I’d just like to know how money comes in and out of his accounts and if anything looks unusual. I thought maybe you could help me.”

  “You mean you want me to look at his bank records!?”

  “You can do that, can’t you?”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “Well, the information is there, Miz Blanche, but I can’t just be going in people’s files like that! It’s not legal.”

  Blanche backed up. “It’s not particular information I’m looking for. I’m just trying to find out if he’s having any kind of money troubles, anything that might show that…cashing in his stamp collection, or…I don’t know, honey. You’d know better than me.”

  Mary was silent—her unwillingness a high, wide wall between them. Blanche hoped she was right about how to put them on the same side of that wall. She took a deep breath, and looked directly at Mary: “This man has caused at least one poor black woman in this town a lot of very personal grief and pain.”

  “You mean rape?”

  Blanche nodded.

  Mary Lee looked off in the distance, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “I don’t want you to do it if there’s any chance you could get caught. But if you can do it safely…”

  Mary still didn’t speak. Blanche’s hopes diminished even further. Then:

  “My little cousin was raped a couple years back. She’s not the same. Probably won’t ever be. Give me your phone number, Miz Blanche. I’ll call you in a few days. But you got to promise me you won’t…”

  “Mary Lee, I don’t even know you, let alone know what you’re talking about.”

  Mary nodded again.

  Blanche blinked back tears and reached out to squeeze Mary’s hand. It was moments like this that made her believe wholeheartedly in the connection between all the black women in the world. She knew the feeling would fade, smudged by a run-in with some sister whose circumstances forced her to focus solely on the need to do whatever was necessary to survive and who was rightly angry about it. But when she looked at Mary Lee, that sister thing was so strong Blanche could almost touch it.

  At the same time, she knew there was a way in which she’d gotten Mary to trust her by telling, if not a lie, not the full truth. She promised herself not to mention to anyone else what Palmer had done until she was ready to say he’d done it to her. She wasn’t sure why this was important, but she knew it was.

  Instead of going home, she decided to take Curtis Martin up on his invitation to come by anytime on Saturday.

  He lived in a squat brown house on First Street. Its small patch of front yard was a mini-playland of tricycles, blocks, sandbox, roller skates, and a portable playpen with a beat-up, one-eyed stuffed rabbit propped against its side. An echo of whoops of laughter, screams of pain, and shrieks for the sake of sound seeped from every toy. Blanche’s nerves were glad the little owners didn’t appear to be at home. Curtis came out when she knocked.

  “Hey, Blanche. How you doin, girl?”

  “Nothin’ to it, Curtis. How you been?”

  They sat on the low front stoop. Curtis yawned and rubbed his head, covered with hair so short it looked like chin stubble.

  “Just trying to keep body and soul together.” He stretched his thick legs out in front of him. Through his tee shirt Blanche could see the muscles rippling down his front, washboard-style. His arms reminded her of young tree trunks.

  “You moving back down here?”

  “Don’t know yet. Thinking about it.”

  “I’d leave tomorrow, if it wasn’t for Geraldine and the kids.” Curtis yawned again. “So—what can I do you for?”

  Blanche silently thanked him for getting right to the point. “It’s about David Palmer. I’m trying to find out who he hangs out with, who his friends are, what they talk about, things like that.”

  Curtis gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Why you so interested in him?”

  “I’m helping out somebody who wants to know what the boy and his people’re up to. He figures folks like me and you know more about the people we work around than they know about themselves. ’Course, I won’t be saying where I got my information.” She slid a folded twenty-dollar bill across the stoop to get things moving.

  Curtis picked up the money, winked, and started talking.

  “Friends, hunh? Well, I guess you could call ’em friends. They come to the gym together, work out together, and hang out together from what they say, so I guess that makes them friends.”

  “Why you say it like that, like they ain’t real friends?”

  “None of that bunch of cream-filled, looking-down-they-noses chumps got no real friends. Least not far’s I can see. Whichever one of ’em ain’t there is the one they all dis. Every one of ’em’s got somethin’ nasty to say about every other one of ’em and right in front of me, too. Like I’m too stupid to hear.”

  “Yeah, that’s why we know all their business. What they got to say about David Palmer when he ain’t around?”

  “They laugh about some girl who walked out on him. Says he ain’t been able to keep a woman since. Too nice, they say, whatever that means.”

  Blanche nearly screamed at the idea of David Palmer as too nice.

  “Let’s see, what else? They talk about how his daddy’s on his ass.”

  Blanche liked the image. “Why’s that? His daddy some kind of iron butt, or…?”

  “I ain’t sure. Seems like his old man’s uptight ’cause of something Palmer did a while back.”

  “Oh yeah?” Blanche leaned toward him.

  “I heard Jason Morris say something about how whatever it was that Palmer did was a long time ago and his old man needs to get over it.”

  “He didn’t say what it was?”

  Curtis shook his head.

  “Anybody else ever mention anything about this?”

&n
bsp; Curtis rubbed his head again. “I ain’t sure. Sometimes they signify about Palmer’s days at L.U.”

  “What’s that mean? Louisiana University, maybe?”

  “Naw, all them suckers went to Tobacco U.”

  Which was a nickname for Duke University that Blanche had seen scrawled on walls, along with “Duke Is Puke” and “Nuke Duke.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  Curtis shrugged. “Maybe it’s about what his old man’s got against him, maybe it’s something else.”

  “So which one of those suckers he hangs with is Palmer tight with? That Seth Morris?”

  “Unh-unh. The other one. The brother, Jason. He just don’t hang out as much. He’s another one under Daddy’s thumb, but for different reasons. Maybe that’s why him and Palmer hangs together. I tell you, the way Palmer looks at Jason sometimes makes me wonder.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah, not really. It sounds like the two of them been friends since they was kids. You know how it is sometimes.”

  Blanche thought about her relationship with Ardell and was offended that a shit like David Palmer should have the privilege of friendship.

  “They may not be doing that thang, but if Jason’s around, Palmer’s in his face. The other brother, Seth, he’s just a hanger-on, him and guys like that Houston, the one they call Reds, and the Morley brothers.”

  “So it sounds like Palmer’s got at least one good friend.”

  “Well, I’d say Jason’s got a friend in Palmer. Jason ain’t got nobody’s back but his own.”

  Blanche remembered the scene in the kitchen with Jason, Seth, and Clarice. “I’d have thought Seth was the shaky one.”

  “Oh, he is. But Seth’s just a big, ignorant, rich good old boy. His brother is something else. There’s always somebody on duty in there.”

  “Palmer ever talk about money troubles, or debts, or…”

  “All them rich boys poor-mouth. To hear them tell it, they ain’t got a pot nor a window. Nothin’ but bullshit. They may have to wait for their old people to die before they get the real big bucks, but every single one of ’em got a high-payin’ job and stocks and shit worth a thousand times what you and me’ll ever make. That’s why, when I git ’em on the massage table, sometimes”—Curtis made a gesture with his hands as if burrowing deep into taut muscles with the knuckles of his bent forefingers—“I like to give ’em a real deep massage, real deep. So for once they know what pain is.”

  “Ooh, I like that!” Blanche appreciated the image for a few moments before she spoke. “He gamble?”

  “Nah. Not to speak of. Football pool, poker game, but not the real stuff you talking about where you need it like a wino needs wine.”

  Blanche nodded. “So what about Palmer and women?” she made herself ask as casually as she could.

  “Well, ain’t a whole bunch of women use the gym. Only been lettin’ ’em in a couple years. Lotta the men still don’t like it. If a woman shows when Palmer’s there, he’s always the one who makes sure nobody bugs her, even if she act like she come in there to be bugged!”

  “Is he going out with anybody?”

  “Just taking women in his crowd to parties and shit. Lotta this bicentennial stuff. I don’t hear him talk about nobody special. Mostly they talk about making money and whores. They all into whores. Go down Greensboro to do their thang.”

  Blanche felt a rush of sympathy for women who needed money bad enough to have sex with Palmer to get it.

  “So what do you think of him, Curtis?”

  “Cheap. Ain’t never tipped more than ten percent and don’t give out no holiday tips like the other regulars either. Other than that, he ain’t no worse nor better than any of the rest of them white boys who use the gym.”

  Blanche remembered Mr. Bennie making the same complaint against Palmer. “What else?” she asked, feeling something unsaid.

  Curtis hesitated. “I don’t know. Something funny about him.”

  “Funny ha-ha?”

  Curtis shook his head. “Nah, funny strange. It’s like, even when he’s laughing with his boys, I don’t know, something about him…like his dog just died or…you know, like they say, he’s all by hisself in the crowd.”

  “What about the rest of his family, ever hear anything about them?”

  “Well, let’s see. His sister’s ’bout to get married. You probably heard that.”

  Blanche acknowledged that she had. “They talk about that at the gym?”

  Curtis rubbed his belly and laughed. “Yeah, one of ’em said he hoped the Palmer girl’s fiancé likes used goods. ‘Very used,’ somebody else said. All of ’em cracked up. ’Course, they wouldn’t have said no shit like that if Palmer was around. He dotes on that girl. Talks about her like she’s the last virgin and his mama the first saint.”

  “Anything else?”

  Curtis shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

  “Well, I really appreciate it, Curtis. You been a big help.” Blanche slid him another twenty before she stood up.

  “Thanks.” Curtis pocketed the money and squinted up at her. “You know, I sure was surprised when Leo and Luella hitched up,” he said, bringing them back to where he’d started when she phoned him. “I thought for sure you and Leo…”

  “Yeah, well, people change same as times, Curtis. You know how it is.” She dusted the back of her skirt. “Thanks for helping me out. If you hear anything interesting from Palmer or about him, there’s more of them twenties where those came from.”

  “You got it, Blanche. You take care now, girl. And tell Leo I asked about him.” Curtis chuckled and turned to go inside before Blanche could respond. Blanche shook her head. Some things never changed. In some folks’ minds she’d be linked to Leo until they both dropped dead and beyond. She hoped she wasn’t fooling herself about not being one of those people.

  The pieces of information she’d just gotten from Curtis batted against her brain. She’d gone to Curtis expecting not only to find out who Palmer hung with, but also to have the fact that he was a low-down skanky dog verified by somebody who had a chance to watch him. But the man Curtis talked about didn’t sound like the knife-wielding rapist she knew. It had been nearly eight years since he’d raped her, and she expected that he, like everyone else, had changed. But had he become a totally different person? She gave a hard shove to what the answer to this question might mean.

  Blanche had to hustle to be ready for the picnic Carolina Catering was working that afternoon. The picnic was being held near the Eno River, in a large public park—a section of which had been roped off for their private party. A stream burbled not too far from where they’d set up the outdoor tables. Closer still was a large, round, low stone building called the Teahouse because it was supposed to be shaped like some teahouse in Japan. Its rough stone walls were only about waist-high, leaving the building open to the out-of-doors and the green light of the nearby woods. The floor was of some kind of slate with built-in openings for plants of various types and sizes. A large ficus grew up through an opening in the center of the roof. A wooden bench circled the tree. Nestled among the plants were statues of Japanese figures made of what looked to Blanche like bronze and some marble ones as well—all with the feeling of knowingness that seemed to radiate from every Oriental statue she’d ever been near. A tall white shoji screen hid the water pipes and plant equipment. Blanche took charge of covering the wooden picnic tables with tablecloths and setting up a few small tables and chairs in the shady cool of the Teahouse’s overhanging roof.

  The picnic was an hour away from starting when Clarice arrived, huffing and waving to them before she got close enough to speak. “Guess what, y’all? Guess what?” She didn’t wait for anyone to answer. “Sheriff caught that Bobby Larsen. The one Sheriff say killed Maybelle Jenkins.”

  Tears sprang to Blanche’s eyes so quickly t
hey were on her cheeks before she knew they were coming. She excused herself and found an empty bathroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. She let her tears fall freely. Sweet Ancestors, thank you! It was as if Maybelle’s killer’s arrest was a sign that she would be able to bring her own attacker to something that at least passed for payback, if not justice.

  She was expecting the knock on the door when it came.

  “Blanche?”

  She let Ardell in.

  “You all right, baby-girl?” Ardell stroked Blanche’s arm.

  Blanche nodded. “It’s just…”

  “I know. Maybelle, Palmer, all that is mixed up in your head. You got some heavy shit going on right now, but you don’t have to go through it by yourself.”

  Blanche put her arms around Ardell and held on. “What would I do without you?”

  “Humm. You’ll never know, I can tell you that.”

  Another tap at the door. Blanche and Ardell looked at each other.

  “What y’all doin in there?”

  Blanche and Ardell grinned at each other. “Just a second, Clarice, we’re having sex right now,” Ardell said, then quickly opened the door so they could see the look of shock and interest on Clarice’s face.

  “Y’all ought to be ’shamed of yourselves, sayin’ somethin’ like that. Anybody coulda heard you!”

  Ardell steered the still-complaining Clarice back to work.

  Blanche blew her nose, washed and dried her face and hands, and looked at herself in the mirror over the washbowl. Her face seemed blurred, as though her features were resettling, as though there was some new part of herself growing up and out. She hoped it was full of spunk and fire.

  Clarice started talking the minute she saw Blanche approaching: “Mr. Henry say Bobby say he didn’t do it. He was huntin’s what Bobby say. With some big-shot hunter from up North, ’cept big shot ain’t come to say Bobby’s tellin’ the truth or not. That’s what Mr. Henry say.”

  Blanche sucked her teeth. “Lotta so-called boyfriends out here think they own a woman’s life and can end it when they want to.”