Blanche Passes Go

by Barbara Neely

  “Hawaii, Archibald said.”

  “I hope a big wave washes her ass to West Hell!” She sighed and looked at Blanche. “Well, ain’t nothing I can do about her, no sense going on about it now, but I swear, Blanche, if you ever…if anything had happened to you…”

  “I won’t hold out on you again,” Blanche told her. “I promise.”

  Ardell didn’t look like she necessarily believed her.

  Blanche was eager to get on to her other news. “I got something else to tell you. Daisy says that piece of thing I found in Palmer’s place in Durham is from a barrette she bought for Maybelle Jenkins!”

  “Humm. How does she know it’s the same barrette?”

  “Well, she doesn’t know know, but she’s sure. And you saw the thing. It ain’t likely it belonged to somebody in Palmer’s social set, is it?”

  “So you think Maybelle’s the woman Palmer was buying flowers for and…”

  “Sure looks like it. Woman across the street from the place even described Maybelle, only I didn’t make the connection at the time. But that ain’t all! Daisy says Bobby’s got proof that somebody else was with Maybelle the night she died, and guess what that proof is?”

  Ardell looked blank.

  “Daisy said it was something from a key chain!”

  Ardell still looked blank.

  Blanche realized she hadn’t told Ardell about David Palmer’s missing Sons of Farleigh key.

  “And you just now telling me about this, too?” Ardell looked disgusted. And hurt. “What else you hiding from me, Blanche? How long’s this been going on? I thought we…”

  “I’m sorry, Ardell, but there was so much happening with the catering business, and I wasn’t really sure the key thing was important, even though I had a feeling…”

  “But how do you know that’s what Bobby found?”

  “Well, what else could it be? I mean, Bobby finds something from a key chain when he finds Maybelle’s body, and the man Maybelle’s screwing around with is missing something from his key chain. What else can it be? There ain’t that much coincidence in the world!”

  “Oh yes there is!” Ardell said. “But if you’re right about what Bobby’s got, you’re home free! All you got to do is wait and watch Palmer go down, the no-good bastard! The whole damned family sucks!”

  “Yeah. I’m just sorry somebody had to die for David Palmer to get his.”

  “Humm, well, I’m just glad you didn’t get hurt.” Ardell gave Blanche a look full of the affection that went with that gratitude. “You were real lucky, Thelvin showing up like that, I mean.”

  The muscles in Blanche’s shoulders tightened. “Yeah, lucky. But, like everything else, it’s got its down side.”

  “So you weren’t expecting him,” Ardell said, as if she’d guessed as much.

  “I’d already told him I didn’t want to see him. He admitted he was coming over because he thought Leo might be here.”

  “Uh-oh. I know that stressed you out!”

  “I told him about Irma.”

  “Humm, did he get it?”

  “Time will tell, but I ain’t putting no money on it.”

  “Humm, well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I talked to my cousin Nadine,” Ardell said instead of answering Blanche’s question directly. “She lives over Durham and is in everybody’s business.”

  “And?”

  “I asked her did she know Thelvin.”

  Blanche leaned forward. “What’d she say?”

  “Humm, well, she knows a woman, I think Sheila’s her name. Anyway, this woman went out with Thelvin for a while. It didn’t last long.”

  “What happened?”

  “He didn’t want to get married, for one thing, and she didn’t like his work schedule either.”

  Blanche waited for her to go on.

  “Well, she did say his jealousy thing seriously got on her nerves. Nothing violent,” Ardell hurriedly added. “But a whole lot of questions and checking up on—kinda stuff that makes you think he thinks you’re some kinda slut or liar, is what she said.”

  “See? See? That’s just what I’m talking about! Maybe it’s time for me to back off.”

  “Humm, yeah, but Nadine also said Sheila wishes she had him back. She’s still talking about all the flowers he sent her and the dinners and dancing and whatnot. Don’t find a lot of men his age up for that kinda thing.”

  “Oh, you his mouthpiece now?”

  “You know better. I just don’t want you to make your move too soon, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to hold on to him just because somebody else thinks he’s a prize!”

  Ardell pushed up her spectacles, leaned in close, and gave Blanche’s eyes a thorough search. “Something else happened. What?”

  “He asked me if leaning on…” Blanche hesitated. Just talking about it made her want to squirm. “He wanted to know if needing somebody ain’t as important as being independent,” she said all in a rush, as though the words might burn her tongue.

  “Damn! He’s serious, Blanche. Black man singing ‘Lean on Me’ is sho nuff…”

  “Unless he’s a joker just waiting for me to have a lean so he can jump out the way and let me land on my ass!” There was a rawness in her own words and voice that startled Blanche.

  “Maybe,” Ardell said. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

  Blanche turned away from Ardell’s steady gaze. “I don’t know, Ardell, I don’t know.” But she did know that, despite his jealousy and his asking questions that made her want to run, she liked him, really liked him.

  Ardell was gone when Blanche became aware that her mother was at the door.

  “Come on in, Mama,” Blanche called before her mother could knock or open the door.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Blanche. Knowing people are coming before they get here is the work of the devil and not the Lord.”

  “It ain’t really work at all, Mama. It just happens. You know that.”

  Miz Cora rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth with a loud “Tsk.”

  Blanche was sure her mother was sorry for the day Blanche had heard her admitting that Blanche had inherited the ability to sense the nearness of loved ones from Miz Cora herself. It was one piece of their shared history that was out of Miz Cora’s control.

  “You lookin’ kinda peaked. You gittin’ enough sleep? You ain’t comin down with nothin’, is you?”

  Damn! The woman didn’t miss a thing. Never had. She might not know exactly what was up, but she always knew when something was going on. “No, Mama. I’m fine. I fell last night, is all. Got a couple bruises.” Blanche held her breath and hoped her mother wouldn’t ask for details that would force Blanche to be creative in avoiding telling either the truth or a lie.

  Miz Cora shook her head and began removing covered dishes from her bag. “You always was clumsy as a newborn calf. Never understood it. Don’t take after me! Why, when I was a girl, I was just as sure-footed as a mountain goat; why, I remember one time…”

  “How’s Sauda doing, Mama?” Blanche had already heard the story so many times she could lip-sync it.

  “She’s fine. Settlin’ right in. Good company, too, but eats like a sick bird. That’s how come I got all these here leftovers. I know you ain’t eatin’ right, and I don’t want this food to go to waste. I brought you some potato salad, some of my meatloaf, and these here greens cooked with smoked turkey, just like you like ’em.”

  Blanche was pleased and surprised that her mother had taken her advice about not using fatty pork in her greens.

  “I been cooking greens like this ever since Doc Pinkney told me I needed to watch my diet if I wanted to keep my pressure from going up. I cut out some salt, too, even though I ain�
�t worried about no high blood pressure. I’m too old to be lettin’ things get on my nerves till I break out in a sweat. Even when I find out my own child is runnin’ around this here town gittin’ in some rich white man’s business like she forgot who she is and what world she live in, I don’t allow myself to git all upset. No, I don’t. I git down on my knees and ask the Lord, who is known for protectin’ fools and sinners, to take my child under his wing and keep her from doin somethin’ that will get her hurt, thrown in jail, or make me any more worried than I already am, and her a grown woman who shouldn’t be causin’ her poor old mother so much grief!” Miz Cora pried off another lid.

  Blanche had wanted to set her mother straight on a couple of points, but as Miz Cora continued to talk, Blanche was more mesmerized by her mother’s ability to talk nonstop than she was interested in interrupting. Please, please, sweet Ancestors, let this moment stay in my mind when Taifa or Malik gives me the blues. Let me turn into a floor lamp before I drive them screaming out of the house to block out my voice. She took a deep breath.

  “Somebody’s paying me,” she told her mother. She knew her mother would be impressed, or at least surprised, whether she admitted it or not.

  “What!?”

  “That’s right, Mama. Somebody’s paying me!” Blanche said again, even though David wasn’t the Palmer she’d been paid to check on and her stint snooping on Karen was officially over.

  “Payin’ you!? Payin’ you!? There’s a fool out there payin’ you to sneak around askin’ people questions like you own a sheriff’s uniform? Well, whoever it is needs somebody to look after his money, and you”—she pointed a bony finger at Blanche—“need somebody to look after your life!” Miz Cora looked at Blanche as though she thought her daughter had finally lost the last of her mother wit.

  Blanche pulled herself up to her full seated height. “I got somebody to manage my life, Mama. Me! It is my life, remember?”

  Blanche could tell from Miz Cora’s expression that she was as surprised by Blanche’s tone as Blanche was herself. There was no anger in Blanche’s voice, none of the whininess that crept in when she felt reduced to little girlhood by her mother. Instead there was certainty, and just a hint of “I’m sick of this shit,” in her tone. Miz Cora was looking at Blanche as though it had been a long time since she’d seen her.

  “Well,” her mother said in a way that was as much a sigh as a word, “you is a grown woman. You s’posed to know what you doing. I hope you do, ’cause I sure don’t, and I…”

  “Thank you, Mama, for your good wishes. Now, how about some of them greens?” Blanche gave herself a mental pat on the back.

  Miz Cora looked like she had more to say, but she just pursed her lips and turned to the cabinet. She opened doors until she found the plates, took one down from the shelf, and dished out some greens. She put a slice of meatloaf and two spoonfuls of potato salad on the plate as well. “Need to keep up your strength,” she said. “All that snoopin’ around you got to do.” She handed the plate to Blanche.

  Blanche laughed. “Mama, you a mess!” She took the plate from her mother. It was possible to get a foothold in an argument with her mother, as she’d done a moment ago, but there was only room for one of them to have the upper hand, and Mama had that solidly covered. Still, Blanche was pleased with how their conversation had gone—something almost as rare as free money.

  “How’s my grandbabies?” Miz Cora put the kettle on and found the tin of teabags.

  “They’re all right.” Blanche told her mother some of what she’d heard from the children—one topic of conversation that kept her mother all ears and no mouth. Talk of children moved Blanche’s mind in another direction.

  “There’s some kids who live across the street,” Blanche began. “Three little girls, just as cute and bright as they can be.” Blanche went on to tell her mother the story of the two visits from the girls and what was going on in their house. “I don’t understand a woman like that, let her girls see some man using her to polish the floors.” She looked at her mother. Miz Cora was standing at the sink, her back to Blanche.

  “Ardell gave me all kinds of grief for not going over there and trying to help that woman,” Blanche said. “I told her I thought it was the kids who needed help.” Her words sounded cold and mean dropped in the room just drylongso. “I mean, I know she’s the one who’s getting beat up, but the kids don’t have nobody on their side if both their parents are…” She wasn’t sure if her words sounded lame because they were or because of the loudness of her mother’s silence, a silence Blanche couldn’t read.

  “After all,” Blanche said, “she’s a grown woman. All she’s got to do is leave!”

  Miz Cora drew herself up well beyond her normal height and turned to face Blanche. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout it! Not a blessed thing!” Each word was as sharp as a well-honed blade. Blanche was all attention.

  “You ain’t never even lived with no man! You don’t know how…and you ain’t had no kids either! Not your own kids. You don’t know what…”

  Blanche opened her mouth to protest.

  “No!” Miz Cora shouted before Blanche could speak. “I know you love them two you raisin, but you didn’t birth ’em. You didn’t have ’em with some man who turned on you like…” Tears shimmered in Miz Cora’s eyes but seemed unwilling to fall.

  “Mama?” Blanche rose and went to stand in front of her mother. “Mama?” Blanche put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. Miz Cora’s body jerked. She made a sound, more like a strangled scream than a sob, as those reluctant tears finally tumbled down her face. Blanche put her arms around her mother and held her close while Miz Cora sobbed in a way Blanche had not seen since Rosalie, Blanche’s sister, had died.

  “I never wanted you to know,” Miz Cora said when her tears subsided. “But when you started talkin’ all stupid ’bout that poor woman across the street…” Miz Cora wiped her eyes and nose. “You were too young to remember him much. He never struck me in front of you. Especially you. He loved you both, but you were his favorite. So I…”

  Pain pricked Blanche’s entire body, as though all of her circulation had been cut off. Her mother’s words ricocheted around her brain, bouncing off Blanche’s attempts to make them mean something other than what her mother was saying. Her mother. Her father.

  “Did Rosalie know?”

  Miz Cora took another tissue from the box on the bureau.

  “Did Rosalie know?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” Miz Cora said again. “He loved y’all like you was made of gold, especially you. You look so much like him he coulda spit you outa his mouth.”

  Blanche recalled pictures of her father and wondered why she’d never noticed their likeness. Too busy wanting to find Mama in me, she thought.

  “He said he loved me, too,” her mother went on, “but when he was mad about somethin’ on the job, or foolin’ around with that alcohol, he acted like I was the most hateful, ugly black thing in the world. Just like he said I was. That’s what he always called me when he was mad. A ugly black thing.”

  Something in the way Miz Cora said “thing” nearly stopped Blanche’s heart.

  “Oh, Mama! I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

  Miz Cora sat down while Blanche made her a cup of tea. “Is he still living” she asked.

  “Nah. I heard he died a year or two before Rosalie. Up in Cleveland. Heart attack.”

  Blanche poured tea for both of them. She added extra sugar to their cups, as though they were shock victims in need of a boost. They drank in silence. Blanche had plenty she wanted to ask, but her mother looked worn out from what had already been said. “You all right, Mama?”

  Miz Cora sighed and nodded. “Got myself all worked up. Wears a body out.”

  Blanche reached across the table and patted her mother’s hand. “I know it was hard for you, Mama, I…”

/>   Miz Cora pulled her hand away and rose. Her eyes reminded Blanche of locked gates, as though Miz Cora had barricaded herself inside and wanted no visitors. “I got to be goin.”

  Blanche nodded. Of course. Mama was still the same person. Before the night was over, she’d probably be kicking herself for having talked at all. Blanche offered to walk her home, or call Ardell and get her a ride, but her mother insisted on leaving the same way she came. Blanche watched her walk away, her head high, her back as straight as a plumb line.

  “Thanks for telling me, Mama!” It didn’t make her happy to know her father was a wife-beater, but there was no part of her own history she didn’t want to know.

  If Miz Cora heard Blanche, she didn’t act like it.

  When she shut the front door, all that Blanche had been feeling and had held back from her mother was waiting for her. She closed her eyes and laid her head against the door. Her chest was so tight she could hardly breathe. All her adult life she had been asking and searching for a glimpse of the person who was Cora, not Mama. Today, she’d gotten her wish. She now had a picture of Miz Cora the woman, a picture that sent Blanche rushing across the room to fling herself on the bed. She pulled the pillow over her head, but it didn’t stop her from seeing her mother being slapped and called a thing in her own house by a man who claimed to love her. Here was independent, take-no-prisoners, stronger-than-truth Mama wailing and cowering in a corner of her own kitchen.

  She added her mother to the circle of bruised women that included Blanche herself, her neighbor across the street, poor dead Maybelle, Daisy, even Ardell, back in the day. She wondered if there were women in the world who hadn’t been slapped, or probed, or punched, or shouted out or down, or at least scared for half a second when some man—on purpose or by accident—let her see, in the way he stood over her, or punched his fist into his open palm, or inflated his chest and moved a step closer, just how their argument or difference of opinion could easily be solved and who would win and how.

  Blanche threw the pillow across the room so hard the case made a popping sound when it hit the wall. She jumped up to pace the floor as if her feet were trying to keep time with her flying thoughts. What was she going to do with this knowledge, and what was it going to do with her? Was it possible both to want to know and not to want to know something at the same time? She wanted to scream, to, yes, scream at Mama, until she…what? Was no longer a woman who stayed with a man who beat her? No longer a woman who married such a man? No longer a woman who had caused Blanche to lose her father? Unfair, unfair. She knew that, but what if Mama had left after the first time he’d hit her? What if, after that first time, Daddy had decided to change his ways to keep his family? But he could have decided that at any time. Just like he decided to beat the woman he claimed to love. Mama didn’t create him.