Blanche Passes Go

by Barbara Neely

Oh shit! Whose idea was this, anyway? “Hey, you two! You ain’t the only ones saw the movie. I thought it was real good. And it wasn’t really about his running around so much as…Well, he was a good doctor and tried to be a good father and loved his wife in his way, but couldn’t keep his…It shows how all people got a weakness.” Blanche knew she sounded like Miz Movie Critic, but she couldn’t stop for fear the two of them would start nipping at each other again. “You know, kinda like a beautiful bronze statue but when you turn it around it’s got a scratch on it. It’s like…”

  Thelvin and Ardell stared at her as though she were drooling.

  “His womanizing was just one kinda scratch, sorta.” She looked from one to the other.

  “Beautiful bronze statue? You talkin’ about the movie or the man?” Thelvin asked.

  Ardell looked amused. “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Didn’t you see how they darkened Samuel Jackson up for the part? Blanche likes her juice on the supersweet side. Don’t you, Blanche?”

  Blanche glared at Ardell.

  Thelvin frowned.

  “What I liked about the movie,” Blanche went on as though the movie was all they were talking about, “was that they seemed like real black people. Most of the time when you see what’s supposed to be black middle-class people in the movies, they’re just white people with deep tans. All well-off black people ain’t like that. In this movie, folks acted like black people, believed like black people. They were as much black as they was well-off.”

  “Yeah, and they didn’t go for the totally happy ending,” Ardell said. “I like the way it ended, with both daughters knowing they did things they wished they hadn’t.”

  “What you got against happy endings?” Thelvin wanted to know.

  “Not a thing.” Ardell turned so that she was looking right at him. “Long’s it’s real and not some Hollywood-type phony happiness that looks good on the outside and is full of shit on the inside.”

  Blanche choked on her coffee. Damn! What did Ardell think she was doing?

  “Oh, I thought maybe you didn’t like to see other people happy because you’re afraid it might rub off on you.” Thelvin rose, stacked and carried his plate and cup to the sink.

  Blanche turned her head to look at him so quickly her neck hurt.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Ardell asked.

  Thelvin crossed his arms. “Well, you know, Ardell, some people seem to like…”

  Blanche stood up and stared at him, her hands on her hips.

  “Sorry, Ardell. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Thelvin said, then turned to Blanche. “What say we make tracks? I got a early morning.”

  “You go ahead,” Blanche told him. “When Ardell takes a break from her unhappiness, she can give me a ride.”

  For half a second Thelvin’s face squinched together like he had a quick-passing pain. “Look, I’m sorry. I apologize. To both of you.” His eyes pleaded with Blanche to come with him as surely as if they spoke.

  Ardell was studying the kitchen table as though the answers to all life’s questions were written there. Blanche looked from Ardell to Thelvin.

  “Both of y’all just as simple as you can be. You know that? Act like two little kids fighting like…”

  “Sorry, Blanche,” Ardell said, squeezing Blanche’s arm.

  “Me, too,” Thelvin said. “Just tired and a little evil, I guess.”

  “Sure, both of us,” Ardell added. Blanche appreciated it, but she didn’t believe it. She’d been concerned that Ardell wouldn’t like Thelvin and, as it turned out, for good reason. It hadn’t occurred to her that the feeling would be mutual. After all, who could not like Ardell?

  Blanche was quiet on the way home. Thelvin seemed to be holding his breath. When they reached her house, he switched off the engine and turned toward her. She already had the car door open.

  “Don’t get out,” she told him.

  “Blanche, please, I’m real sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “I do,” Blanche said, one foot reaching for the ground. “It don’t take much to see that, for whatever reason, you just didn’t like her.”

  Thelvin gave her a sour look. “She didn’t give me much reason to, did she?”

  Blanche had to admit that Ardell hadn’t exactly been the gracious hostess. “But it was more than that,” she said.

  “It wasn’t about you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Thelvin said. “I’m not jealous of…”

  Blanche thought of the feeling she’d gotten when Thelvin and Ardell first met. “No. I don’t think you’re jealous of her exactly, but…”

  Thelvin interrupted her. “Maybe next time me and Ardell’ll both act like…I don’t know what got into me, Blanche. There’s just something about her. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  Blanche took his hand, pulled him toward her, and kissed him.

  Thelvin grinned. “What was that for?”

  “For owning your shit and being just who you are.”

  They both got out of the car. He walked with her toward her stoop.

  “I’ll be gone all week,” he said. “So…”

  “Well, I’ll be here when you get back,” she said, and watched disappointment pull down the corners of Thelvin’s mouth. She might have changed her mind and invited him in, but it felt too much like choosing sides.

  She waved to him as he drove away.

  As she took off her shoes, she wondered how long it was going to take Ardell to call her, so she was ready when the phone rang.

  “You really showed out, girl. I know Thelvin was out of line, but you…”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. He’s probably a nice person. I don’t know what it was, but the minute I met him…”

  Blanche once again remembered that flash of friction she’d sensed when Thelvin and Ardell first shook hands.

  “I don’t know, but something about him just got my back up.”

  Their mutual dislike was so balanced they talked about each other in the same way. But there might be something more to Ardell’s dislike of Thelvin.

  “Maybe because there’s not enough wrong with him. Maybe that’s what bothers both of us,” Ardell added.

  Blanche gasped. “You sounded just like me when you were talking to him, like you were just waiting for him to step wrong and prove you right!” The realization both startled and depressed her.

  They were silent for a few moments before Ardell spoke.

  “Damn! You think we’re that…that…?!” Ardell couldn’t seem to find the right word.

  Blanche didn’t help her. “I’m gonna leave you to think about that one, honey. I’m going to bed.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A PRESSED FLOWER

  Daisy looked squashed when Blanche saw her the next day, as though some large weight had descended from the sky and leveled her. Her face looked spongy, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She scattered crystals across the table as she tried to put sugar in her tea. “I couldn’t tell anybody,” she said. “He was Maybelle’s boyfriend and she was my best friend. I woulda died before I let on that…”

  Poor Daisy. Any chance she’d thought she had of winning her heartthrob had, according to Clarice and the morning radio newscast, ended with a steep embankment, a hairpin curve, and a snoutful of liquor.

  Blanche resisted the urge to lean across the table and take Daisy’s hand. Enough eyes were already on the two of them having tea together across the color line. Blanche also didn’t want to give Daisy so much comfort she no longer needed to talk out her pain and do something about it.

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Blanche said, “but it seems a double shame that Bobby should die now that Maybelle’s gone and you and him might have…”

  Daisy leaned forward and looked intently at Blanche from watery blue eyes. “Don’t
say that, don’t say it, Miz Blanche, it’s an evil, evil thought!”

  One you been thinking a lot, Blanche added to herself. “Exactly what happened? I mean, if you’re up to talking about it.”

  Pain overcame propriety, and Daisy grabbed Blanche’s hand. “It happened out on Sumter Road. Bobby was drinking!” Daisy released Blanche’s hand. She took a soggy tissue from her pocket and blew her nose in it. Blanche quickly moved her own hands to her lap and sat back in her seat.

  “I bet Bobby’s been driving around that curve on Sumter Road, drunk or sober, all his life. Maybe this one last time he had some help.”

  “What you mean, Miz Blanche?”

  “Daisy, honey, don’t you get it? Bobby was going to hurt Maybelle’s killer, either by going to the Sheriff or trying to do something else to him for killing Maybelle. Now, all of a sudden, Bobby’s dead.”

  “That curve’s real nasty, Miz Blanche, and Bobby always did drive like a hellion, and…”

  “I don’t know much about trucks and cars,” Blanche told her, “but anyone who reads the papers or watches TV knows you can do things to a truck that can cause accidents and that it ain’t always easy to tell when that happens.” She went quiet, letting what she’d said sit with Daisy for a moment or two.

  “It ain’t fair!” Daisy groaned. “Bobby shouldn’t be dead because of her.”

  Daisy made “her” sound more like an enemy than a friend. She gave Blanche a look full of so many emotions that Blanche couldn’t read them—except that they included something other than love and mourning for Maybelle.

  Blanche flung a little kerosene on the fire. “The news reports all said Maybelle was real sweet.” She said it like she believed it.

  A wash of crimson rose up Daisy’s face and neck like an Easter egg dipped in red food-coloring. Beads of sweat peppered her forehead. “Well, Maybelle wasn’t exactly what everybody thought she was, you know.” Daisy spoke in a loud whisper. “I knew her better than anybody. Better than Bobby. She told me everything. And I mean everything!” Daisy’s eyes were slitted; her mouth set in a firm line.

  Blanche fanned the spreading flames again: “Well, I’m sure Bobby knew her better than you, honey. After all, he was her man.”

  Daisy shook her head almost wildly from side to side. “No! No, he didn’t! Bobby was too sweet for his own good. He didn’t even know she was messing around on him until…She told me all about it, though, all about the rich man who…” Daisy clamped her mouth shut as though it were set on a timer that had just gone off. She closed her eyes.

  Blanche felt a change in the air, something not yet well enough formed to be fully felt. She looked more deeply at Daisy, searching for something in the girl’s face, replaying Daisy’s words. There was nothing there—except the feeling that Daisy was probably the one who’d told Bobby that Maybelle was cheating on him.

  Daisy opened her eyes. “I just got to put all this behind me. Forget all about it, all about it.” She gave Blanche a watery smile.

  Blanche slapped the table lightly with her open hand. “Forget about it! Forget that some rotten dog killed the man you loved?” Blanche took a deep breath. She knew from the startled way Daisy was looking at her that she needed to take some of the heat out of her voice. She sat back a little.

  “Listen, Daisy, honey, don’t you want this man punished for what he did?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but there ain’t nothing I…”

  “Just because David Palmer killed Maybelle and Bobby don’t mean he’s got whatever Bobby found.”

  Daisy blinked rapidly, an uncertain look on her face, when Blanche mentioned Palmer’s name.

  Blanche went on. “Maybe Palmer thought he didn’t need it as long as Bobby wasn’t around to use it against him.” She watched Daisy’s face closely—willing her to pay attention, to agree. “It might still be in Bobby’s things.” Daisy was paying attention but beginning to frown. Blanche hurried on: “Maybe you could get a look at Bobby’s things. See if…Or maybe you could tell the Sheriff what Bobby…”

  Daisy looked stricken. “Miz Blanche, I don’t want to get in no trouble with rich folks in this town. You know how they is, all sticking together. I could lose my job if…They need my paycheck at home. I can’t take no chance on…” Daisy held her hands out to Blanche in a pleading way. They were shaking.

  “All right, Daisy, all right. You don’t have to make up your mind right now.”

  Blanche knew she’d lost her when she’d mentioned the Sheriff. But it was too important for Blanche just to give up.

  “At least think about it, Daisy. You don’t want Palmer to get away with killing Bobby, do you?”

  Daisy shifted her eyes around the room as if the walls knew what she should say. Blanche admitted to herself that Daisy wasn’t about to go rummaging through dead Bobby’s things. Even if she did, what good was the key without Bobby to say where and when he’d found it? But she wasn’t finished yet. She’d found the barrette, noticed Palmer’s missing Sons of Farleigh key, and tied him to Maybelle. There might be something else out there that would confirm the connection between Palmer and the dead girl.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A FOND GOOD-BYE AND A NEW VIEW

  There was a message from Taifa when Blanche came home from doing a little grocery shopping—not a call-me message, but a don’t-worry-I’m-okay kind of message. It reminded Blanche that, even though Taifa might be changing in ways Blanche didn’t necessarily like, the girl continued to be more sensitive to Blanche’s feelings than Blanche often gave her credit for. The phone rang while she was rewinding the tape.

  “Hello, Blanche, this is Mumsfield. How are you, Blanche?”

  “Hey, Mumsfield. This is a surprise. I’m okay, all things considered. How about you?”

  “I am well, Blanche. I am calling from Hawaii. From my honeymoon.”

  “Yes, Archibald told me.” She couldn’t bring herself to congratulate him on his marriage to Karen.

  “Karen told me the bad things she did to you, Blanche.”

  “Did she, Mumsfield?” Blanche wondered exactly what and how much Karen had told him.

  “I am very sorry Karen did those things, Blanche. Karen is very sorry also.”

  “Um-hum.” Blanche kicked off her shoes and sat down by the phone. “Did Archibald call you?”

  “Yes, Blanche.”

  “Did he tell you to call me, Mumsfield?”

  “Yes, Blanche. He said you had important things to tell me.”

  She’d charge Archibald extra for making her the bad-news messenger. “Um-hum. And when did Karen tell you about what she did to me, Mumsfield, honey?”

  “Last night, Blanche.”

  After a night of screwing your brains out, I’m sure, she thought. “Does Karen know you’re calling me, Mumsfield?”

  “No, Blanche.”

  “Did she tell you why she did those things to me?”

  “I understand, Blanche. Karen was afraid you would not like her, that you would make me not like her.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “She said she did some things that she did not want you to find out about.”

  “But you told her that I was asking around, didn’t you, Mumsfield?”

  He was silent a moment. “Yes, Blanche, I did.”

  Blanche didn’t say anything. If he didn’t understand that he had set Karen in motion against her, Blanche wasn’t going to explain it.

  “Blanche, have you found out very bad things about Karen? Did you, Blanche? Did you learn very bad things about Karen?”

  Blanche grimaced and shook her head. The word “very” told her how much Mumsfield really wanted to know, but she wasn’t about to cover for Karen Palmer.

  “Well, you weren’t her first and only lover, but you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Blanche.”
/>   “She was seeing somebody else while you were engaged. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes, Blanche. Karen explained. She told me it is over now, Blanche.”

  There was no sense asking him if he believed Karen. That was obvious. “Well, I didn’t hear anything worse about her than what you know now, Mumsfield. What else did Archibald tell you?”

  “He said I did the wrong thing to marry Karen without a pre…He said Karen…he said Karen maybe married me for my…for not good reasons. What do you think, Blanche?”

  “I don’t know, Mumsfield. She wasn’t poor before. Maybe she does just want her own household, her own husband. Maybe…”

  “Archibald is making an agreement. He will take care of everything. Then I won’t have to worry about…”

  And if she doesn’t sign, Blanche thought, Archibald will somehow manage to unhook her from Mumsfield. Blanche was sure of that.

  Mumsfield was silent for a few moments, in which Blanche fought the urge to hang up. What the hell was she doing sitting here trying to explain why his racist-bitch wife might not want to steal his money? There was no way Blanche could move Mumsfield from the someone-I-know-and-like to the friend category. Karen made that impossible. How could he ever be her friend and not understand this very basic part of who she was? Would he have a friend who chose to marry someone who hated people with Down’s syndrome? But, of course, white folks in this country are trained to believe they can have it both ways, like stealing the Indian’s land while claiming to admire the Noble Savage.

  “Listen, Mumsfield, honey, I’m kinda in the middle of something right now, so…”

  “All right, Blanche. I understand, Blanche. Remember, you promised to have dinner with me. Just the two of us.”

  “Sure, honey, we’ll make a date soon’s things slow down with the catering business.” She wondered if Mumsfield realized she was lying. She supposed she could tell him the truth, but there were limits on how much energy she could put into race relations without getting stressed.

  “Good-bye, Blanche. Don’t forget me,” he said, as if answering her question.