Shifting Through Neutral

by Bridgett M. Davis

  “But, what if Daddy asks for it?” I said, feeling like this was definitely wrong, not quite sure how or why.

  “Just tell him you can’t find it, and before you know it, I’ll be sending it back to you.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

  Kimmie smiled. “Start over, like the cards predicted.”

  I gave her the money, regretting it immediately.

  “Remember,” she said as she put her fingers to her lips. I watched as she folded the crisp one-hundred-dollar bills into small squares, sticking them one after the other into her hippie bra.

  Kimmie was right about the party. It was still going strong by eleven o’clock that night. Everyone drank and talked and ate as Mama played a new favorite song, the soundtrack for her own drama, on the hi-fi record player. Me and Mrs. Jones. Cards flew across the folding table. Mama devoured her whiskey sour in big sips. We got a thing going on. I was hostess, Daddy stayed in the den, and Ernesto again sat alone on the couch. We both know that it’s wrong but it’s much too strong to let it go now. Paper plates of half-eaten barbecue and baked beans and potato salad sat abandoned around the room. We got to be extra careful that we don’t build our hopes up too highhh…

  Lyla and Mama were card partners this time, playing against Johnnie Mae and Romey. Mama and Lyla were winning—they had the most books in front of them—but this seemed to be a critical juncture in the game because everyone was holding on to their last two cards, waiting. You go to your place, I’ll go to mine…. tomorrow, we’ll meet same placesame time.

  “I believe you women are about to be set,” said Romey. “The moment of reckoning has arrived after all that wanton tossing away of trumps.”

  Johnnie Mae laughed. “Uh huh, ’cause I know what I ain’t seen played yet, and if it ain’t been played by now then I know who ain’t got it.”

  “Shhhh, we are trying to concentrate here,” said Lyla.

  “Well, how long you need? It’s on you,” said Johnnie Mae. “Just play your hand, Honey. That’s all you can do. You can’t make something be there that ain’t there.”

  Lyla played a card, a king of spades, and Mama moaned. “Damn, wrong suit, Lyla. Wrong suit.”

  Romey slammed a joker on top of Lyla’s king, and everyone tossed their remaining cards into the center of the table.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Mama. “We almost got ’em.”

  Lyla let go of her breath. “Yeah….” Meeeeee aaaaaand Mrs. Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones Mrs. Jones Mrs. Jonesssss. The song ended in a crescendo.

  Romey stood and shook Johnnie Mae’s hand. She had on even more rings than before. “Well done, Madame, well done.”

  “Oh, sit your sweet ass down. I done told you I been playing this game since before you could wear long pants. You gon’ believe me one of these days.”

  “Hey!” said Lyla. “We need Kimmie here to liven up the music. Play some more of her Funkadelic. I’m sorry, Vy, but I can’t take no more of that Billy Paul. Song is depressing after a while. Whew.” She gulped her drink.

  “Amen,” said Romey. “I miss your daughter’s musical selections too.”

  At the last party, Kimmie had pulled the Funkadelic album out of its cover with flourish, each of us stunned by the picture of a woman’s head sporting a huge Afro rising out of the ground, mouth open in a silent scream. She slipped the record onto the turntable, and suddenly we heard acoustic guitar strumming against heavy bass beats. Kimmie sang the first words of “Can You Get to That” as she threw her elbows out to the side, snapped her fingers. She sang in a melodic, mellow voice. And then she eased into a slow dance, winding her hips around as though there was a Hula Hoop we couldn’t see. “This is how we do it down the way,” she said.

  “Well, all right now!” yelled Romey.

  “That dance is a little matoor for you, don’t you think?” said Johnnie Mae. She looked Kimmie up and down. “And that skirt is mighty short, mighty see-through.”

  Kimmie kept dancing.

  “You just old-fashioned, Johnnie Mae,” said Lyla. “Kimmie’s outfit is too sharp!”

  “Seem like something those fast girls up on Woodward Avenue be wearing, you ask me,” hissed Johnnie Mae.

  “Leave her alone,” said Mama. “Kimmie’s outfit is just fine.”

  “Maybe you just need another drink, Miss Johnnie,” said Kimmie.

  Johnnie Mae looked over at Kimmie, rolled her eyes a little. “Well, I just wanna know who’s the mama here?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Mama. Johnnie Mae had known not to respond.

  But this moment was different. “Where is that gal?” she asked. “Ain’t she supposed to be leaving first thing in the morning?”

  Mama nodded. “Her papa’s on the road now. He should be getting in around nine a.m. or so. We’ll be there by this time tomorrow night.”

  “Chile, can’t nobody get me back down to Louisiana,” said Johnnie Mae. “Too many goddamn snakes in them bayous for me!”

  “The bayou is beautiful,” said Mama. “Especially at dawn.”

  “I don’t need to be near no swamps, myself,” continued Johnnie Mae. “I always wanted to live somewhere with pretty sunrises and beaches and wide, open spaces. Even as a little girl in Alabama, before I knew such a place existed, I wanted that. Somewhere I could just stretch out. That’s why I’m gonna go on ahead and move to L.A. come the first of the year. Shit, what I got to keep me here?” Johnnie Mae sighed, sipped her bourbon. “I’m telling you, things just seem to go right when I’m in California.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Mama. “I feel that way about Louisiana.” She looked up at the huge clock hanging like art in the middle of our living room wall—it was just after eleven o’clock—then took a big sip of her whiskey sour. “It’s where I belong. Not here.”

  “Here is your home,” said Romey.

  “So what?” said Lyla. “A woman’s got to go where her heart feels welcome.” She nodded slowly, turned down her mouth. “Wherever that is, you just got to go. That’s what I believe.”

  “There are many places your heart may feel welcome in this country but you won’t be,” said Romey. “About ninety-five percent of it, to be exact.”

  “You just an old stuck-in-the-mud,” said Lyla. “Don’t like no kinda change whatsoever, do you?”

  “I believe the term is stick-in-the-mud, and I like change just fine, thank you. That’s my point. Enough hasn’t changed around here for me to be venturing to little hamlets and villages in west Podunk, thinking my neighbors are going to call out the welcoming committee.”

  “Well, now, that depends, don’t it?” said Johnnie Mae.

  “On what?” asked Romey.

  “On whether you show up with Ernesto on your arm, or you slip his fairy ass in through the back door.”

  Laughter filled the room as Ernesto smiled from the couch. Even Romey chuckled lightly, relaxing the air. “You are a mess, Madame,” said Ernesto. “A total mess.”

  After one final round of bid whist they threw their cards into the center of the table, and Romey gathered them all, returned them to their little cardboard box. Ice melted in drinks, and Mama glanced repeatedly at the wall clock, peeping out the front window whenever a car rumbled down our block. I noticed too that she was smoking her cigarettes for a couple puffs and then squishing them out—long stubs tipped with bloody lipstick lying abandoned in the ashtray.

  “It’s getting late, Vy, Honey,” said Johnnie Mae. “We was trying to wait to say bye-bye to Kimmie, but I for one am feeling a little lowly right about now.”

  “Ernesto and I can wait here with you, Baby, till she gets back,” offered Romey.

  Mama nodded. “I don’t know where she is. That girl…I’ve tried to tell her how dangerous this city is at night, but she doesn’t take me seriously. I can’t wait for her to be out of here. It’s no place for a teenager, really.”

  “She’s all right, just defying your wishes.” Johnnie Mae pa
tted Mama’s hand. “That’s how young folks are, never listening to you, thinking they know way more than you do even though you the one done lived the longest.” Johnnie Mae sat back in her seat. “And this ain’t her first time doing this. You remember how she ran off once before. A few years back.”

  “What are you trying to say, Johnnie Mae?” Mama snapped. “That she ran away again?”

  “No, Honey. I’m just saying she’s a wild spirit. We all know that about her. The truth is the truth.”

  “Don’t worry, Vy, she’s just out having fun,” said Lyla. “Shoot, I hate to come home whenever I’m out in the street with my friends.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because you-know-who is at home, waiting for your ass,” said Johnnie Mae.

  Romey chuckled. “Really, Lyla, isn’t it time for you to leave you-know-who?”

  “I can’t. And you know why,” snapped Lyla.

  “Why?” Romey looked over the top of his eyeglasses at Lyla. “You said yourself that the factory pays you quite well. ‘Making money hand over fist’ is how you expressed it. Surely you’re not staying around for somebody to pay the MichCon bill every month? You’re worth a bit more than that, I suspect.” Romey paused. “Certainly on your good days.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but there are things that keep you around that have nothing to do with money!” said Lyla.

  “What? Love? Loyalty?” Romey looked over at me as I picked up empty paper plates; then he turned back to Lyla, called himself whispering, “Or are we talking about you-know-what?”

  “I’m talking about things!”

  “Get outta her business, Romey,” said Johnnie Mae as she rummaged through her purse. I tossed the paper plates into a big trash bag in the corner, perched myself on the steps.

  Romey shrugged his shoulders in exaggerated befuddlement. “I’m just trying to understand why it is she feels she can’t leave. He drinks like a fish. He’s flagrantly jealous. The poor girl never wants to go home…”

  “I’m planning to leave him, okay?” Lyla seemed not so young to me now, the way her blond wig sat too high on her head and her lipstick had all but disappeared, eye shadow creased. “You can’t just pick up and go. You got to plan things out right.”

  “That’s true,” said Mama. “Planning is key.”

  “Now where the hell are my pills?” Johnnie Mae had dumped the contents of her purse onto the card table, revealing Kleenex, a crumbling red rubber makeup sponge, a stuffed wallet, and lots of little scraps of paper, ink pens, pennies.

  “The inside of your purse looks like mine,” said Lyla. “I thought you’d have expensive-looking little gold things down in there or something like that.”

  “Hush up!” said Johnnie Mae. “I’m looking for my pills.”

  “You got a headache?” asked Mama.

  “I got me a couple pains. Arthur is showing his ass loud and clear tonight.”

  “Arthur?” said Lyla.

  “My arthritis, Honey.” Johnnie Mae looked over at Mama, anxious. “You got anything I can take? Just a piece of something would help.”

  Mama nodded. “I’ll be back.” She stood and headed upstairs to her room. I moved out of her way as she passed me on the landing.

  “Why is it that everyone feels compelled to take a pill at the first sign of a little pain?” said Romey. “Really, don’t you think that’s not so good?”

  “Negro, please. I’m not gonna be in no pain if there’s a pill out there that can stop it. Not as long as I got me some money.” Johnnie Mae grabbed the crumbling sponge, looked into the tiny oval mirror of her compact, patted at her shiny skin. “I learned that from all those wealthy white folks living in the canyons in L.A. You know what they taught me? Taught me that suffering is easier if you rich.” She powdered her broad nose. “Hell, even dying is easier when you got yourself some money.”

  Mama returned, handed two pills to Johnnie Mae.

  “You sure you can spare both of ’em?”

  “I don’t need them anymore.”

  Johnnie Mae nodded, took the pills with her bourbon, draining her glass. “Wet this for me again, will you, Lyla Honey?”

  “I wish she’d get here,” said Mama.

  I pulled the curtain back from the window on the landing, where I had a view of the side street. I crossed my fingers, hoping for Rhonda’s car to pass, trying not to think about those one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “So much is going on out there these days,” added Mama, more to herself than anybody in particular. The clock said five to twelve. Just the week before, a little girl had been kidnapped and murdered. And the week before that, STRESS (Stop The Robbers, Enjoy Safe Streets) police officers had killed a boy they thought was breaking into his own house.

  “You take those every day?” Lyla handed Johnnie Mae a fresh bourbon and Coke on ice.

  “I take something every day that I’m in pain.”

  “I’m kinda scared of that stuff lately,” said Lyla. “Last Friday, my girlfriend Lucretia lost her baby brother to dope. He was only sixteen. He OD’d.”

  “That was from heroin, Lyla. Not pills. And look who’s talking. I wanna see you go a week without your precious speed. What do you call them little capsules? Black Beauties…”

  “Those are diet pills!”

  “Since when you able to buy diet pills off the street?”

  “Well, that’s what I use ’em for.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Should I call the police?” asked Mama.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” said Lyla, her voice a pout.

  “Should I call?” Mama asked again.

  Suddenly, the den door swung open, and I saw him first from my spot on the landing as Daddy stepped out into the living room. Everyone turned to stare at him. His hair was slicked down and wavy, and he was wearing a crisp, white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, had on his good trousers, bare feet. I was excited and nervous. I wanted him to shine before Mama’s friends, and yet I worried that his timing was off.

  “How’s everybody doing?” he said as he leaned across the den’s doorway, his arm stretched out to support himself.

  “Why we are doing just fine, JD!” said Johnnie Mae. “Ain’t seen you in a many, many month of Sundays!”

  “Yeah, has been a while,” said Daddy. “I see life been treating you all right.”

  “Oh, fair to middling,” said Johnnie Mae.

  “From what I hear, you doing better than that Johnnie Mae. Hell of a lot better.”

  “I get by.”

  “Look to me like you’ve lost some weight,” he said.

  “You think so?” asked Johnnie Mae.

  “Your eyebrows look thinner.”

  Everyone laughed. Even Mama smiled a little. Daddy chuckled ever so softly and made his way around, nodding a hello to Romey and Ernesto. “You two still make a cute couple.” He turned to Lyla. “See you looking good enough to drive that husband of yours crazy.”

  Lyla blushed a little. “You ought to quit, JD,” she said, flattered.

  It was a scene from the past, from the days when Daddy and Mama were new and he took her to these card parties regularly, holding court as he kept folks in stitches, kept his cool.

  “Well y’all excuse me, I’m just passing through.” He made his way across the living room toward the powder room in the hall. Romey swished the ice in his glass. I could hear my own breathing.

  “I’m calling the police.” Mama stood, headed for the red princess telephone sitting on its marble stand in the hallway. I jumped up and stood beside her as she dialed.

  “Now, Honey, don’t do that. Not just yet,” said Johnnie Mae.

  “Kimmie probably just let the time get away from her,” said Lyla.

  “It’s late,” said Romey. “She should be worried.”

  “Think we ought to go out and look for her?” asked Ernesto-on-the-couch. Romey shook his head no, and Ernesto sat back, silent again.

  “Yes, operator, get me the pol
ice, please.” She paused. I put my hand to my pounding chest, to muffle the sound. “I want to report a missing person. My daughter. Well, she should have been home an hour ago and…Are you sure?”

  Daddy walked back through the room, heading for the den. “Daddy!” I called out. He turned, looked my way.

  “You ready to go to bed, Brown Eyes?”

  I shook my head no, but Mama’s voice filled the space before I could find the words to answer him. “Twenty-four hours? But if something has happened to her, by that time it might be too late!!”

  “Who’s she talking to?” asked Daddy, his voice carrying across the room. I moved in closer, stood beside the card table.

  “JD, Kimmie’s not home yet,” said Johnnie Mae. “And Vy here is a nervous wreck.”

  “Where’d she go?” asked Daddy.

  Mama slammed down the phone. “Out with Rhonda.”

  “She say where they were going?”

  “To Metro Beach. She promised she’d be back by eleven.” Mama squeezed her hands. “I feel like something’s wrong.”

  Daddy rubbed his chin. “Let me put my shoes on. I’ll see if I can find her. Maybe they broke down on the highway or something. You can spot that light blue car a mile away.” When he said this, I wanted to crawl into his lap and confess about the money.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Mama, heading upstairs. “Let me get my pocketbook.”

  “I’m going too!” I yelled out. Johnnie Mae leaned across the card table, caught my arm. “C’mere,” she said, pulling my ear to her lips. “The best place for you is bed. It’s late,” she whispered, her bourbon breath hot on my neck.

  I wiggled out of her grip. “I’m not sleepy!”

  Romey stood. “It is late. And we should all leave, let these dear people deal with their crisis in private.”

  Lyla and Johnnie Mae and Ernesto stood, Daddy came out from the den with his shoes on, keys in hand, Mama ran back down the stairs with her purse, and I walked into the vestibule just as the front door swung open.

  “Hey, Rae Rae,” said Kimmie, nearly bumping into me as she checked herself in the closet door mirror. She then casually stepped into the living room, all eyes on her. As she passed by me, I breathed in heavy musk oil and beneath it the sick-sweet smell of marijuana.