Blanche Passes Go

by Barbara Neely

  Blanche sighed. Miz Cora’s you-never-call-your-poor-old-mama riff was usually the finale of her talkathon. In a few minutes, Blanche would be able to get a word in.

  “…sorry when I’m dead and gone.” Miz Cora took a deep breath. Blanche spoke up:

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mama, but I just called to see how you gettin’ along. You all right?”

  The shocked silence that followed her words made Blanche grin, but Miz Cora was not about to be outdone.

  “You just seen me t’other day, Blanche,” she said. “You sure you all right? How’s my grandbabies? You tell ’em to call their poor old granny. I still don’t think it’s right, you way down here and them children up there, in two different places where they ain’t got no family to look out for ’em, working for…”

  When her mother finally released her, Blanche sat staring into space for a bit, amazed, as always, by her mother’s ability to work her nerves, press her guilt button, and release a flood of affection for her all at the same time. She made herself a cup of recovery tea: fresh sliced ginger steeped in simmering water with a lemon slice and a lot of honey added to the cup.

  FIFTEEN

  ONE OUT OF THE CAN AND ONE ON It

  There was a moment’s lull in the kitchen activity while the canapés and finger sandwiches were being served. Blanche washed her hands, untied her apron, and followed the sound of music through the house to a room that opened onto a patio overlooking a terraced lawn. The French doors were wide open, allowing people to flow in and out. The small combo, complete with a white Bobby Short imitator, was doing snappy versions of show tunes and what white folks called standards. “Strange Fruit” was a standard to her, but she doubted this lot would agree. She watched people dancing on the terrace, more than half of them moving as though they were working to hold an apple between their knees. There were three black couples on the dance floor trying hard to disprove the myth that all black people can dance.

  Blanche recognized one of the dancing black men as a member of what she called the Andy Young Fools Club: civil-rights and other leaders and celebrities she read about who were foolish enough to go on those fact-finding trips for outfits like Nike and Kathy Whatshername. They always came back grinning about how happy those Asian workers were, and how much they loved being underpaid. Did those so-called fact-finders really believe that what they saw in those factories was what went on when they weren’t around? Everybody cleans house when company’s coming. Anybody who didn’t know that didn’t know a fact from a fart. The one she was looking at now was a Fayetteville boy who used to play football for the Panthers. Now he was spokesman for a chicken-processing company that ran plants where workers had been maimed for years. This good brother’s job was to explain to the public that he’d talked to the workers and they were healthy, happy, and singing doo-dah all the day long. Just the kind of black man that would be invited in to celebrate the bicentennial of the rip-off of the land by slavers.

  As she turned to go back to the kitchen, Blanche felt a flash of pain in the corner of her left eye, as though someone had shot off a flashbulb. Before her head was fully turned, she knew: David Palmer was standing with Seth and Jason Morris to the left of the French doors. She bit her lip and forced her eyes to stay open, ignoring her urge to run. Miz Minnie said it was her time to step up for herself, and Ardell said she had to get over it. No better time to start. Blanche took a deep breath, and looked him over.

  Jason Morris had his arm around Palmer’s shoulders as they talked for each other’s ears only, their blond heads together—Palmer’s bone-straight, and Jason’s a curly cloud that made him look like Cupid.

  David Palmer had been a young man when he’d raped her—not a boy, but young. She raised her hand and touched the place where he’d pressed the knife, just to the left side of her jugular vein. He’d nicked her while he’d thrashed through his ejaculation, his face twisted, acid sweat dropping from his forehead to her face. She pulled her mind back from what he’d done to her and looked at the man he’d become. She couldn’t tell from here, but probably some of his blond hair had gone gray. It had receded from his face, which looked almost ball-round, with jowls he hadn’t had back then. He had a slight, slack pouch and rounded his shoulders to hide it, like a young girl with too much bust. He didn’t appear as wide as she remembered him from when he was filling her entire vision, back when he’d been in control of her life. In her mind she replayed the message he’d left on her answering machine. No, you shit, I ain’t leaving, she thought. Not till I’m done with you, anyway.

  Palmer waved at someone Blanche couldn’t see and was suddenly gone from view. Tension leeched from her body with such force she had to steady herself. She stepped into the hall and leaned against the wall, panting as though she’d just been running for her life. Great Ancestors, mothers of mothers, I thank you for your strength, she whispered. For, though she’d been rocked by the sight of David Palmer, she had not buckled. She had not run.

  She stepped back into the terraced room and watched Seth Morris at the bar. He ordered a drink from Zeke without looking at him. Zeke made a Bloody Mary and handed it to Seth, who took it without a word of thanks or even an acknowledging nod. Blanche’s eyes lit up. Maybe she couldn’t yet get her revenge on Palmer but this was the perfect time to give Seth that little surprise she and Clarice had talked about. Blanche hurried to the kitchen. Clarice was loading glasses into the dishwasher.

  “Your boy’s here and drinking Bloody Marys.” They grinned in unison. Clarice got her handbag and took out the small plastic bag Blanche had told her to prepare and keep at the ready. There were about three tablespoons of grainy brown powder in it.

  “I took ten of Mr. Henry’s laxative pills and crushed ’em real fine.” Clarice put the granules in a small glass pitcher. Blanche instructed her in the right proportions of vodka, tomato juice, lemon juice, Worcestershire, and pepper sauce for the Bloody Mary.

  Twenty minutes later, Blanche poured the drink into a glass and carried it on a tray to the front of the house. She searched the crowd for Seth. The three of them—Palmer, Seth, and Jason—were back together again, like three magnets pulled toward each other. Palmer said something that made Jason laugh. Seth stood nearby looking like the third wheel on a date. He was holding a nearly empty glass.

  Blanche beckoned one of the waitresses to her and exchanged the tray of champagne the girl was offering guests for the smaller tray with the Bloody Mary on it. She pointed Seth out to the young woman and directed her to collect his nearly empty glass and give him, and only him, the fresh drink. Blanche watched: without a break in his conversation or a glance at the person serving him, Seth set his old drink on the tray and lifted the new one, accustomed to having somebody anticipate his every need. Before the night was over, he was going to need somebody to anticipate his need for a couple extra rolls of toilet paper and a soothing salve for his very sore behind.

  SIXTEEN

  VISITING, SEARCHING,AND DREAMING

  First thing in the morning, Blanche got busy on the vegetable bouquets—carrot tulips, radish roses, cauliflower and broccoli florets, and cherry tomatoes. The vegetables would be stuck on bamboo skewers slipped inside of green-onion stalks. She’d put half a cabbage in the bottom of each of the wicker baskets and arrange the skewered vegetables in them like flowers in a bouquet. The vegetable baskets would sit next to trays of dip at the affair that night. Ardell was picking her up in about an hour, time enough to make a dent in the vegetables. She hummed to herself while she worked and thought about how different catering was from what she usually did. She thought about her kids, too, where they were and what they were up to; she also wondered if she’d hear from Thelvin today. She dropped the last radish into the pan of ice water with the others and reached for the phone on the third ring.

  “I’m sorry, Miz Blanche. I couldn’t find a thing in David Palmer’s accounts that’s worth mentioning. Regul
ar deposits to his checking account. His paycheck, maybe? Checks written to cash or on his debit card—maybe a thousand dollars every couple weeks. I guess he pays his other bills with a credit card. Regular deposits to a money market account and that’s about it.”

  Blanche’s mouth flooded with the sour taste of disappointment. “You couldn’t have overlooked anything? He couldn’t have some other kind of…”

  “I’ll check a little further, just in case, but I don’t…”

  “Thanks, honey,” Blanche said, eager to hang on to one last bit of hope.

  Ardell gave her a quick, sharp look when she picked Blanche up an hour later. She watched while Blanche double-checked to make sure her front door was locked and slipped a small piece of paper between the jamb and the door so she’d know if anyone had opened it while she was out.

  “I’m glad to see you being careful,” Ardell said. “You feeling okay?”

  “I’d be fine if I wasn’t being threatened and life was fair.”

  “You didn’t get another phone call, did you?”

  “Not the kind you mean. At least not yet. But that don’t mean my other call was good news.” Blanche told her what Mary had to say.

  “Well, who knows? Mary might still turn up some dirt on that sucker that you can use against him.”

  Ardell turned off the highway onto a rutted one-lane road with trees lining it like watchers at a parade. Blanche tried to slow her racing mind. There was nothing she could do about Palmer at the moment. She looked out at the blue and gold summer day, felt the warmth of the sun on the back of her neck and her shoulders, then closed her eyes. A couple months ago, she’d found a book on Buddhism on the bus in Boston. She began reading it right away, sure that the book had somehow been left for her to find. Though she didn’t understand a lot of it yet, she did understand about trying to live in the right now. Her way of practicing this was not as the Buddhist book said, by sitting and listening to yourself breathe, but by closing her eyes and simply listening to the sounds around her. She closed her eyes now. When she opened them, as usual, she was amazed by how absolutely perfect everything was when you didn’t try to put labels and reasons on things. It gave her a kind of floaty feeling that always made her smile. In the moment, she understood and agreed with the idea that every moment, in and of itself, is perfect. She laid her head back against the seat and let herself become a part of the passing world until they pulled into Mr. Broadnax’s yard.

  Mr. Broadnax was sitting on his front porch, which was a weathered version of Mr. Broadnax himself: tall, lean, and watchful. He sat in a straight-backed armless wooden chair with his right leg crossed over his left, arms lying loosely across his raised leg. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from his right hand. His spine went straight up from the seat of the chair, never touching the back of it. Mr. Broadnax the sphinx, Blanche thought. The only movement came from the smoke curling up from his cigarette in a slow spiral. Little round, dark sunglasses covered his eyes. His ever-present bow tie was dead-center. There wasn’t a wrinkle in his short-sleeved white shirt, and the creases in his shiny black trousers were sharp as good cheddar.

  “Hey, now, Mr. B.,” Ardell called before she was fully out of the car.

  Mr. Broadnax took a slow drag from his cigarette and released the smoke as though he hated to let it go. “Afternoon, afternoon.” His voice was a whispery rasp.

  Had he always sounded like Miles Davis? Cigarettes, probably.

  “This my friend, Blanche. You remember her?”

  Mr. Broadnax looked over the top of his dark glasses. “She a Farleigh girl?”

  “Yes, sir. She Miz Cora White’s daughter.”

  Blanche made herself relax and not jump down Ardell’s and Mr. Broadnax’s throats for talking about her as though she were a block of wood.

  Mr. Broadnax turned toward Blanche. “Cora White’s daughter, eh?” He took another drag on his cigarette and let the smoke leak slowly from his nostrils. “Now, ain’t that something?”

  Blanche waited for him to tell them what was so special about her being Miz Cora’s daughter, but Mr. Broadnax was once again silent and still.

  Ardell cleared her throat. “Well, now, Mr. Broadnax, about them ducks.”

  “Inside,” he said, but didn’t move.

  “Humm. Well, I’ll just go on in and get them?”

  Mr. Broadnax nodded.

  Blanche turned to follow Ardell. The scent of the house—tobacco, hickory smoke, and something else familiar and slightly sweet—came to the door to meet them.

  “How is that Cora?” Mr. Broadnax asked.

  Blanche was stopped by that nose-twitching feeling that meant there was something interesting going on here even if she didn’t yet know what it was.

  “Mama’s doing just fine.” She stepped back outside. “Takes pretty good care of herself. Stays busy. Gets around.”

  Ardell gave them a curious look as she carried the first load of ducks out to the big cooler in the back of the van.

  Mr. Broadnax made a noise that could have been a chuckle or a cough. Ash fell from his cigarette, just missing the cuff of his black trousers. A bit of white sock showed above his shiny black pointy-toed shoe.

  “Cora always did know how to look out for herself.”

  A sharpness in Mr. Broadnax’s tone gave Blanche the impression that, to his mind, being able to take care of herself was not one of Mama’s better points.

  “Woman who can’t take care of herself is a woman looking to be treated like a child,” Blanche told him.

  Mr. Broadnax looked at her over the top of his dark granny glasses. His eyes were bloodshot. “There’s the kind of taking care of yourself that’s about keeping yourself together, and there’s the kind that’s about keeping other people away from yourself. It ain’t so smart to get them confused.”

  Blanche felt herself blushing as though Mr. Broadnax were talking about her, not Mama.

  Ardell came out of the house with the last three ducks, each in a plastic bag. “I left your envelope on the table, Mr. Broadnax. I’ll stop by in a day or so and bring you the ribs I’m gonna need for that job next Saturday.”

  Mr. Broadnax nodded.

  “I’ll tell Mama you asked about her,” Blanche said.

  Mr. Broadnax chuckle-coughed again and took another puff on his cigarette.

  “Y’all take care, now,” Ardell told him and gave Blanche a let’s-get-going look. “What was that all about? ” she asked when they were in the van.

  “Beats me.” Blanche told Ardell what Mr. Broadnax had to say. “You know I’m gonna ask Mama about it, for all the good it’ll probably do.”

  Blanche, Ardell, and Clarice spent the next two hours wrapping prosciutto around spears of gingered pear. While they worked, Blanche told them about her meeting with Daisy.

  “Sounds like she got a crush on that boy,” Clarice said. “Mr. Henry say he nice enough, that Bobby.”

  “You really think he’s got a alibi?” Ardell handed Blanche another tray of pear spears. Blanche arranged the finished ones on glass trays.

  “Mr. Henry say he do, so I believe him,” Clarice chimed in before Blanche could answer.

  “Humm, well, time will tell, I guess, but I seriously doubt…”

  The phone rang. Ardell wiped her hands and went to answer it.

  Clarice turned to Blanche and spoke in a low voice. “I bet when she was a child she was the one who tole the little kids there ain’t no Santa Claus.” Blanche hooted at the memory of Ardell doing just that.

  Blanche began pumping herself up as soon as she left Ardell’s for home: Everything will be fine at the Miz Alice, she told herself. Palmer hasn’t broken in. It was just a call to scare me off, and I ain’t going to let him stop me. To prove it, she was going to make some more calls about him.

  Before she opened her front door, she checked for the
paper between the jamb and the door. It was still there. She walked around the Miz Alice to make sure all the windows were still intact, then unlocked the door, went inside, and went right to the phone.

  She hoped that already knowing the folks she had to call might make them more willing to talk to her. She’d gone to grade school with Miz Letitia’s daughter, Marylyn, whose clothes—made by Miz Letitia—all the girls had coveted. Not only did they want Marylyn’s outfits, they wanted their mothers to look like Miz Letitia: tall, thin, with beautiful red-brown skin, and always elegantly dressed.

  “Hey, Miz Letitia, I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Blanche White, I went to school with…”

  “ ’Course I remember you. Cora’s girl. How are you, child?” Blanche brought Miz Letitia pretty much up-to-date with her life and asked about Marylyn.

  “Big as a house, and no more taste in clothes than a jackrabbit,” Miz Letitia sadly reported.

  “Miz Letitia, the reason I’m calling is about the Palmer family,” Blanche began after they’d talked about Blanche’s mother’s health, Miz Letitia’s failing eyesight, and her ailing husband’s bad back. “I was wondering if I could come over and…” Blanche could almost hear the woman squirming by the time she’d explained what she wanted.

  “Well, child, you know you always welcome in my house, but I don’t want to get involved in no white folks’ business. I keep my ears closed when I’m in those places,” she said, as if Blanche didn’t know that all the service people who kept their ears closed had long since been out of a job.

  “I understand, Miz Letitia,” she said. And she did: only the rich were in a position to eat without working. Hadn’t she done the same thing when she chose not to report David Palmer for raping her?