by Pearl Cleage
She gave me a big smile. Jade did, too, with her little Mini-me ass. Was this her ridiculous idea, or did Beth come up with this on her own?
“That's probably a plus,” Beth said. “People don't trust politicians anymore. You know that.”
I turned to Jade. “Is this your idea?”
She shrank back a little, but she didn't take low. “There's a groundswell of support. Everywhere we go, people are asking her to run. They're practically begging her to just consider a draft.”
“You've never even run for office,” I said, incredulous. “Your work has always been outside of those channels, remember?”
“Times change,” Beth said coolly.
“You can't have thought I'd think this was a good idea.”
“I had hoped you could get behind it,” she said. “It was always Son's dream.”
That made me mad. “Son's dream was never for you to let your ego get you into a race for a position you're not qualified for even if you win.”
“But you do concede that I could win?”
This is not why you came down here, I reminded myself. Don't take the bait.
“I don't concede anything,” I said calmly. “This hasn't got anything to do with me.”
“It does if we announce my candidacy at the dedication ceremony,” Beth said, watching my face for a reaction.
She got one. “What?”
The waiter who was headed our way heard my shriek, reconsidered, and turned around.
“Calm down, Gina. Nothing is settled yet. I haven't committed anything to anybody.”
That was probably true, but at this point I didn't care. This was only my problem if I let it be. Take a breath, I said to myself. Let it go!
“Well, keep me posted,” I said. “You'll probably need a different kind of speech if you decide to do this.”
I could have added “and a different kind of person to write it,” but that speech was still part of my contract, money already promised to the weasel, so I focused on the reason I was here in the first place, conjured up a mental picture of his handing me a piece of paper that read paid in full, and waved at the waiter to let him know it was safe to return.
“Exactly,” said Beth, nodding to her clone who nodded back. “Exactly.”
18
EVERYTHING WENT GREAT AT Morehouse this morning. The dedication committee was so happy that I actually know what I'm doing, they're practically beside themselves. When I showed them the rough draft of the script for the video biography I'm putting together, Mr. Freeney looked like he couldn't decide whether to kiss me or run around the room three times fast. In fact, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat during the whole meeting. It wasn't until we were winding things up that he let the rest of us in on why.
“As most of you know,” he said, still smiling broadly, “the president of the college recently extended an invitation to state senator Precious Hargrove to serve on our host committee. I am happy to report that she has accepted our invitation and agreed to serve as one of our cochairs.”
He turned to me, practically beaming. “As you are aware, I'm sure, the senator and Mr. Davis worked together on many projects that positively impacted the neighborhood around the college, as well as the college itself.”
The other members of the committee nodded as one head to affirm Freeney's assessment, and I nodded, too, but inwardly, what he said made me cringe. Precious Hargrove had no idea she had just agreed to serve on a committee to honor the son of a woman who was getting ready to stab her in the back.
“That's wonderful,” I said. “I'm sure Beth will be pleased to hear it.”
For the last few days, I couldn't seem to get away from the honorable Ms. Hargrove. She'd been topic A at lunch with me and Beth on Tuesday. Here she was on Thursday claiming her place on the committee. Plus, they were going to be raising money for her at the party on Saturday night. If anybody could match my landlord for proactive presence in the neighborhood, Precious Hargrove seems to be the one. I hope Beth's ego doesn't push her into a race against this woman. She might get more than she bargained for.
Mr. Freeney dismissed the meeting on that upbeat note. I stayed around long enough to answer a few questions about who was responsible for what between now and our next session and then headed home. I had made a dent in all those boxes, but there was a lot more still to do, and I had just started searching for the rest of the shots I'd need for the video.
So far, Beth's fears had been unfounded. If Son had a secret life, he also had enough sense to cover his tracks. Sometimes I almost wished I could find something scandalous. Something that would set Beth back on her heels for a minute. Something that would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that she hadn't been in absolute control of her greatest creation. Something to indicate that he finally had found a woman strong enough to get him away from his mama. But so far, nothing.
My task for the afternoon was to start sorting a huge box that held a jumble of photographs, most of them unlabeled and undated. The people standing with Son and Beth are always smiling broadly. Son and Beth are usually smiling, too, but their expressions are always more controlled. Not unpleasant, but with none of the giddy pleasure that shows so clearly on the faces of their fans.
I liked looking at those photographs. They help me remember why I started working for Beth in the first place. These pictures remind me that her gift is making the possibility of female freedom, of female choices, of honor among women, seem as real and as vital as water. It's valuable and necessary work, but it won't help her get a health care bill through the Georgia state legislature or attach a child care amendment to a public education initiative. Those good ol' boys aren't impressed with charisma. They're impressed with power, and outside of the power to illuminate and motivate, Beth doesn't have any. An alliance with Precious Hargrove would be a step in the right direction, for both of them, but that can't happen if Beth insists on running herself.
The smell of Jamaican jerk chicken wafted out of the West Indian restaurant up ahead, but I wasn't tempted. It was too early in the morning for food that spicy. I know some people put Tabasco sauce on eggs, but I'm not one of them. I also resisted a sudden craving for Krispy Kreme, even though the hot doughnuts sign was flashing its ass off and the smell of all that icing will make you weak at the knees if you're not careful. Doughnuts I don't need. Not until after Saturday night, anyway. If it was going to be my coming-out party, I was going to come out looking good or what was the point?
When I turned down my street, the cars parked in front of the building reminded me that Flora had convened a meeting ofthe Growers Association executive committee at her place this morning. She was concerned about DooDoo and his boys harassing some of her gardeners. They needed a plan before the problem got out of hand. Flora had also invited Precious Hargrove as the state senator from this district, and she was pulling up just as I headed for my blue front door. Since I can't seem to get away from the woman, I decided I might as well reintroduce myself.
“Senator Hargrove?” I said, surprised to see her arrive alone.
“Yes?” She hit the auto lock on her gray Accord and came around the car toward me with the beginning of a smile that could adjust itself up or down depending on who I was or what I wanted. Precious Hargrove was a small woman whose political fearlessness and wellcrafted campaign ads made her seem to be much taller. Even in chunky three-inch heels, she wasn't much taller than I was. She was carrying ten to fifteen extra pounds, probably the result of all those fried chicken dinners she was obliged to consume with her constituents, but with her smooth brown skin and intelligent eyes, she was a handsome woman who could have been pretty if she ever decided to lean into her looks.
At forty, she had been in politics for almost one-third of her life and she was either comfortable in, or resigned to, the dark, boxy suits and crisp white blouses that seemed to be her professional uniform. She allowed herself a pair of small pearl earrings, but otherwise her style was stripped ofadornment. Senator Ha
rgrove was all about business.
I stuck out my hand to show her I was, too. “I'm Regina Burns. I met you a few years ago with Son Davis.”
Her mental memory bank did a quick scan and came up with what she needed.
“Of course,” she said. “We were trying to get some people registered to vote, as I recall.”
I was impressed. “That's right.”
“Are you still working with Son Shine?”
“No. I live in Washington now, but I'm here pulling together the Son Davis Legacy Project over at Morehouse.”
Her face clouded. “Son Davis was a great loss. He had a bigger vision than most people realize.”
“Yes, he did. That's why I came back to do the project.”
The cloud passed. “I've agreed to be one of the cochairs for the ceremony on …” She hesitated.
“May fifth.”
She smiled. “So does this mean we'll be working together?”
“I guess it does.” I smiled back.
“I'll look forward to it,” she said, reaching into her pocket and handing me her card. “Here's my numbers. I'd love to talk with you about how the voter registration is going.”
“Even better than Son expected,” I said, wondering how much I could share with her without betraying Beth's confidence.
Before I could decide, I heard a sharp rapping on glass and turned to see two old women standing in Flora's front window. The taller of the two was gesturing at us to come inside. The growers were ready to greet their guest of honor, and I was holding up progress.
“I've got a meeting,” she said, a phrase she had probably said as often as her own name. “Perhaps we can talk again soon.”
“Actually,” I said, “I live here. Flora invited me to the meeting you're on your way to.”
She laughed, the small lines around her eyes testament to the fact that she did it often. “Well, we better get going before Bea Thomas comes out here to find out what's keeping us.”
We started up the walk together, still under the watchful eyes of the two ladies in the window. I hadn't really intended to go, but I liked Precious Hargrove, and this would give me a chance to see her in action.
“Is this your first growers meeting?”
I nodded and held the blue door open for her. She grinned and stepped inside.
“Well, get ready. These folks do not play!”
19
FLORA'S APARTMENT WAS JAMMED. She spotted Precious and me immediately and waved us inside. In addition to her couch, the two living room chairs, and the four from around the dining table, she had set up six or eight folding chairs wherever she could squeeze them in.
“I thought you were gonna stand out there all morning,” grumbled a tall, lean, gray-haired woman who I recognized as the one who had been tapping on Flora's window.
“I'm sorry, Bea,” Precious said, squeezing the woman's hand warmly.
“You not the only one with a schedule, you know.”
“I know, I know!”
“She's here now, ain't she?” said one of the two men present. “You gonna waste your time fussin' or let the woman get in the door good?”
He shook Precious's hand. “Welcome back, Senator.”
“Thanks, Mr. Charles,” Precious said with a conspiratorial wink in his direction.
Bea gave up grudgingly. “I'm just sayin' …”
She was clearly the designated fusser. Every meeting seems to need one. Someone who cannot be pleased or pacified, who is a constant thorn in the side ofanyone even vaguely resembling an authority figure. That was Bea.
Every chair was occupied, but Flora detached herself from a circle of three gray-haired women and one baldheaded man, all talking simultaneously, dashed into Lu's room, and came back with a three-legged stool and a small rocker. Precious waded right in, apologizing for being a few minutes late, asking after new grandbabies and ailing spouses with equal specificity. She was well known to the people in this room and, from their greetings, well liked.
I gave Flora a quick hug and claimed a space for the stool in the back so I could watch the West End Growers Association in action.
Flora got everybody settled and smiled a welcome to a roomful of her friends. There were about fifteen women ranging in age from fifty to eighty, and two men who looked to be somewhere in their mid-seventies. They all looked healthy; even the oldest ladies were surprisingly agile. If this was what gardening does for you, I ought to start working a plot of my own!
“Everybody got somewhere to sit?” Flora asked. These folks were in good shape, but none of them wanted to stand up for an hour. “Okay. We've got some serious business to discuss today, so let's dispense with reading the minutes and do that next time.”
“So moved!” a little woman perched on the edge of Flora's wine-colored wing-back chair said quickly.
“All in favor?”
Every hand went up except mine since I wasn't really a member and didn't have voting privileges.
“All right,” Flora said, moving right along. “Then let's have our minute of silence and get started.”
The room was immediately quiet. Some of the people closed their eyes as Flora did, and simply sat still, breathing in and out in unison so that the whole room seemed to be sighing. The unexpected pause had what I imagined was the desired effect. We went from being a gaggle of excited individuals to being a group of thoughtful human beings. A moment of silence seems so much more civilized than banging a gavel.
Flora opened her eyes. “Good. Did I say welcome?”
“You too busy makin' us be quiet,” said Bea.
Flora ignored her. “We have two guests with us today. The first one is my new neighbor upstairs, Regina Burns.”
She pointed in my direction, and I raised my hand in a general wave.
“And the other one is an old friend of the Growers Association and of West End, Senator Precious Hargrove.”
The assembled growers broke into enthusiastic applause as Precious joined Flora in front of the room.
“As you know, we've been having some problems just across Stewart Avenue. We want to report those as succinctly as we can to Senator Hargrove, in the hope that she can offer us some assistance. Miss Mattie, do you want to start?”
Miss Mattie looked to be about sixty. Her high cheekbones and straight black hair were testament to the Native Americans in her family tree. When she stood up to speak, she squared her shoulders like it was going to take more than some young hoodlums to scare her.
“I'm Mattie Jenkins,” she said. “You all know me. I been part ofthis group since the beginning, longer than some of you, even, so I think I deserve some consideration.”
“We all think so, Mattie,” Flora said quickly. “That's why we're here.”
Miss Mattie took a deep breath. She knew she was among friends, but she was still mad. “I know it. It's just that they been by my house three times in two weeks.”
Precious frowned. “Three times?”
Mattie nodded. “They come and ring the bell just as bold as you please. Start asking me if I don't want to let them help me with my garden.”
“Some help!” said another of the women.
“I know that's right!” Of course, that was Bea.
“I never let them in, of course,” Mattie said, “but it's nerve-wracking to have them hanging around all the time. I told them I don't know nothin' about growing that wacky weed and to get the hell off my porch before I get my shotgun.”
The woman next to me leaned over and whispered, “She would, too. Mattie always been wild!”
“Tell them what happened last week,” a woman seated next to Mattie on the couch said.
“This is Jerry Tulane,” Flora said for those who didn't know her. “She's down the street from Mattie.”
Jerry waved a hand. “They been comin' to my house, too.”
“Last week, we were outside in my backyard, just talking, and two of these guys opened the gate and walked in like they had a right to.”
“Did they threaten you?” Precious was making notes in a small blue spiral notebook.
Mattie and Jerry shook their heads.
“Not yet,” Jerry said, “but they'll be back. It's only a matter of time.”
“We need some help over there,” Mattie said. “The police keep sayin' they can't do anything unless they actually do something to us.”
“It'll be too late then,” Bea said loudly. “What good is it gonna do calling 911 after they already hit some poor woman in the head?”
The others began murmuring among themselves. Bea had put their fears on the table. Now what was Precious going to do to address them?
“I know you're concerned,” Precious said. “You should be concerned. Some of our young brothers have gotten so desperate, they'll do things we never thought our children would be capable of doing.”
“'Scuse me for cutting you off,” Miss Mattie broke in. “But these little hoodlums ain't nobody's brother, and they sure ain't nobody's child.”
“You got that right!” Bea added her amen from the rear, and there was a little murmuring, a little shushing.
Precious waited for quiet. “That's where you're wrong. These little hoodlums are what our babies have become, but they are still our children. Even when they act a fool, even when they scare us, we can't deny their humanity. We can't—”
“I beg your pardon, Madam Senator,” Mr. Charles said, holding up his hand, “but I don't think we got time to argue about whether or not they're human.”
“Can we vote on it?” said a voice from the back, and a nervous titter rippled through the room.
Mr. Charles pressed on. “I think what we want to know is what can we do to keep them from trying to grow marijuana in our gardens.”
Murmurs of assent. Precious took a deep breath. I felt sorry for her. The police were right. There was probably nothing to be done until the intimidation went one step further, and, as Bea pointed out, that would be too late.
“All right,” Precious said. “Here's what I can do right away. I'll talk to the zone commander and ask him to increase the police presence on your block. I'll also ask him to talk to these guys and give them a warning about harassment. I'll also start the paperwork for issuing peace warrants that will require them to stay one hundred feet away from your houses. Do you know their names?”