“Rose!” Pete comes running in, his face white. Pete’s face is always white. He gets a little sun and turns bright pink and then it goes right back to white, never gets a bit of tan. Rose is glad that Petie Rose got her complexion and hopes that this new child will, too. “Have you seen the living room wall?”
“No, what on earth is wrong?” Rose hangs her Lamaze bag back on the door.
“Look, just look.” Pete pulls her by the arm. “We just got everything fixed up to have your parents and my parents over, and look.” There is red and purple crayon all over the wall from one corner to another. There’s a road, a house, a car, a cat, a dead cat, and then lots of scribbling in black.
Pete heads back down the hall to Petie’s room and Rose catches up with him. “Honey, don’t be too hard. She was already upset about the b-a-b-y and this morning Tom got run over.”
“Granner was trying to tell me something when I was coming in, going on and on about the horrible thing, the worst thing on earth, and I figured she was talking about the Iranian she made up.”
“Well, if you had heard it from her, she would have had it all stretched out of shape. It was a real sweet little girl and she was so upset about it.” Rose sometimes loses all patience with Granner and her tall tales. Granner is the one that started going all over town voicing suspicions about Petie’s red hair when hers is dirty blonde and Pete’s is blonde. Granner said that that suspicion took people’s minds off the fact that she and Pete had to get married, which makes no sense at all, especially when that isn’t true.
“Tom got hit by a killing machine!” Petie throws her Caspar book to the floor and stomps both feet. “A fat ugly woman killed Tom.”
“Petie, don’t be like Granner and make up stories.” Rose walks over. “That was a pretty young woman and it was an accident.”
“POOT!” Petie Rose screams and runs around in a circle. She learned that from Harold or one of his children, Rose is certain.
“Petie,” Pete says, and makes her stop running. He picks her up and Petie calms down immediately. She does that for Pete every time, but does she do it for Rose? No, never! “I’m sorry about old Tom but you shouldn’t have crayoned the wall. We’ve told you about that, haven’t we?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Petie sobs and her entire little face puckers up for a second. “I’m sorry,” she wails.
“I know, baby,” Pete says and rubs her head. Petie has pulled one of her pigtails until the rubber band is way down at the bottom and her hair is all knotted up in it. “And that was an ugly word that you just said.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy!”
“Where did you hear that?” Rose goes over and stands near Pete when he asks this.
“Uncle Harold.” Petie sniffs and squirms so that Pete will put her down. Lord, surely this new baby won’t have a temper like Petie. Rose cannot even bear to think about it. Pete Tyner has no idea what goes on all day long.
“That wasn’t nice of Uncle Harold,” Pete says, and looks at Rose as if she has something to do with it. If it’s not Granner it’s Harold, and if it’s not those two, Pete has had a bad day with Ernie, or Pete is tired of Kate’s opinions on where they should live. She cannot take responsibility for her relatives when she already has so much on her, and Pete just doesn’t understand, blames her for everything.
“But he said it,” Petie says and gets her Farmer Says off the floor. She sets it on pig and pulls the string—oink-oink-oink! “He said a fat puppy poots.”
“Okay, okay, Petie,” Rose says and twists to one side. All of a sudden, she had a little pain. Now it’s gone, and thank God, Pete hadn’t noticed. He is so nervous and edgy these days. “You’ve told us where you heard it, now just don’t use it any more.” Now Rose is burning slam up. If she doesn’t get over one of those vents, she will die.
“But Tom is dead!” Petie starts crying again.
“That reminds me, Rose, you know that old guy that worked at the Quik Pik?” Pete follows her to their room just across the hall.
“Fat one that used to eat all the time?”
“Yes, the one that always asked us about Harold.” Pete whispers. “He was murdered last night. I heard that Harold saw the guy that did it.”
“Where did you hear all of that?”
“Stopped for a pack of cigarettes there this morning.”
“How awful.” Rose stands over the vent and it feels so good. “Honey, you need to cut down on your smoking.”
“I will when the baby comes,” he says. “Think I’ll take a shower before going to Granner’s. Bet Harold will have some wild tale about the old man at the Quik Pik.”
“Oh Jesus, you know he will.” Rose flaps her dress around and feels a little queasy all of a sudden. “By the way, maybe you could go back to the store and get Petie a Slurpee when you get out.” Rose has to yell now because Pete is in the bathroom. “She loves those things, and I’d sort of like one myself.”
Sam Swett is faced with a difficult dilemma. He has showered and lathered his entire body, including his prickled head. He is clean, smells like soap, and his entire body is tingling while he stands naked in the middle of his hotel room, trying to decide what to do. He is clean, but his clothes are filthy, even his one pair of spare underwear has that big footprint on the crotch. He remembers now, remembers that big hairy Mason stepping on the crotch of his underwear. Somewhere way back, it seems that he learned that one should never put filthy clothes on a clean body, or was it the other way, that one should never put a filthy body into clean clothes, a filthy body onto clean sheets? He remembers; it is all of those things. For some reason, this concerns him. It concerns him mostly because he is afraid to break a rule, the law; he is afraid to be different, and he knows this because of the way that he gorged himself on pancakes, the way that this girl, this Corky has stayed on his mind. He is weakening, weak and helpless.
He has an idea, a real idea. He can wash his clothes out in the shower and hang them outside the window to dry. He can just walk around the room naked until they are dry enough to put back on, until one o’clock, which doesn’t leave a great deal of time, and it does feel good this way, clean and naked like a newborn and just as helpless. He bundles up his clothes and takes them to the bathtub, rubs the bar of soap all over them and then holds them under the water and watches them suds up. He even washes his tennis shoes. For some reason he cannot keep himself from singing; for some reason he wants to sing “when the red, red, robin comes bob, bob, bobbin along.” And he is aware of the quiet on the street below, aware of the fact that he is no longer in the city. He is in his home state, in a small town, in an old hotel. He still has not decided where he’s going to go and what he’s going to do, but somehow that doesn’t seem to worry him as much as what he saw last night, a real body, somebody’s husband, somebody’s father, somebody that Corky liked, and the thought of her cool hand, her small tilted nose, makes even that seem less horrible and frightening. The thought of her, those full lips, makes him scrub harder. Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head …
Mrs. Foster is still running around like she’s crazy even though Fannie has got everything under control. That house is spick-and-span and now all they’re waiting for is the florist to come and set up the flowers. That long table is all set with one of those lacy cloths and Mrs. Foster’s very best set of china. It’s hard for Fannie to tell the difference between those three sets cause they all look like china, you can hold up every piece and see the light coming through. The best ain’t even the prettiest, plain white. If Fannie had been asked to pick the best, she would have picked that set with the pretty light pink and blue border. Her Mama gave her a set way back that looked almost just like that, except hers was what they called crockery and you couldn’t see through it. Her children and M. L. have just about done away with that set, except for the creamer and sugar bowl that Fannie keeps on the table. That’s why Fannie herself wouldn’t have nothing but crockery, so that she didn’t have to tell her children to watch out, don’t
tap your fork, don’t stack those plates, like Mrs. Foster has to do all the time. Come to find out, that pretty set is the cheapest of all three of those sets and you’d never know it.
That’s one problem about being in a house like this, cause you can’t tell what’s valuable and what ain’t, just like those vases that Mrs. Foster had her wash just a little bit earlier. “Be very careful, Fannie,” Mrs. Foster had said. “I could never replace these vases.” That makes Fannie nervous as a cat when Mrs. Foster does that to her, said those vases was Waterford crystal and cost a fortune. Fannie wouldn’t have known if Mrs. Foster hadn’t told her. They looked like any other old crystal, thump the edge and they ring like a handbell. Still, if you backed way off and looked at them, they looked like some you could find at the dime store. Lord knows what they did cost though, cause even pretty cut glass is high these days. Mrs. Foster had this real pretty cut-glass pitcher and tumbler set that Fannie thought was so pretty, she took it upon herself to put it in the china cabinet with the rest of that stuff. Everyday she’d put it there, and when she’d come back it would be boxed up and back under the sink. One day it wasn’t there any more and Fannie got the point, she didn’t have to be hit with a ton of bricks to see that Mrs. Foster didn’t agree with her. Mrs. Foster didn’t even ask her if she wanted that set, and she would have loved to get it; it probably went to some rummage sale or such. It aggravated the devil out of Fannie sometimes, and she is feeling aggravated when the phone rings.
“Foster residence,” she says and stretches with the cord so that she can see the clock. Her story is going to be starting soon and she intends to watch it if Mrs. Foster can calm herself down.
“Mama, is that you?” Fannie goes over and sits down at the table. She hasn’t heard Thomas’ voice in months, not since he came to borrow some money from her to get himself set up in a trailer. He has yet to pay her back.
“Thomas? Is that you?” She doesn’t like to admit it, but it is good to hear his voice. A woman just doesn’t stop loving her children even if they have caused heartache and headaches. “Lord, I had just about forgot that I had a son named Thomas.”
“Mama, you’ve got to help me.” Fannie has to press the phone closer, cause there’s lots of noise behind Thomas. Ain’t that like him, though, act like the big black man, or worse, act like the big black man that wants to be white, belittles her and her work, and then calls like a spoiled white child for his Mama when he needs something. Fannie doesn’t say a word, just waits to hear him through. “I’m in jail.”
“Lord boy, what have you done?” He doesn’t even correct her for calling him “boy,” so she knows he’s in trouble bad.
“That’s the thing, Mama, I haven’t done anything at all.” Thomas is breathing heavy. “They got me down here because they say I fit the description of a man who killed a man.”
“Did you?” It is like Fannie’s heart has stuck right up in her throat.
“No! I don’t know what’s going on. This cop came by where I was working and the next thing, he was carting me off, just because I’m black, too. That’s the only reason is because I’m black and I can’t prove that I was at home and asleep last night.” Fannie has heard similar stories from Thomas before, all that “just because I’m black.”
“Son, they don’t take somebody in for no reason. Now, you tell me what happened or I’ll hang up on you.” Fannie’s voice gets louder and now Mrs. Foster is standing there in the kitchen. Mrs. Foster can’t stand it when somebody calls Fannie on the telephone.
“I swear, Mama, that’s all.” She can hear Thomas sniffling a little, and she hasn’t heard that in years. “They made me take off all my clothes and searched me and they’ve fingerprinted me, and now they’re going to put me in a lineup.”
“Thomas, I don’t know what I can do.” Fannie keeps watching the way that Mrs. Foster is picking up things and replacing them in a heavy-handed way. “I’m at work.”
“Please, I thought there wasn’t going to be any problem, and now I’m getting scared.” Fannie has not heard this kind of talk coming out of Thomas’ mouth since he was a small child and scared of the dark, just like M. L. is. “Mama, I know you’ve been mad at me but if you’ve ever loved me, you’ll come get me, come tell them that I ain’t a murderer.” It’s been years since Thomas said “ain’t,” too. He’s worked so hard on his English. Fannie can’t help but feel herself getting a little upset.
“I don’t know what good I’ll be, baby, but I’ll come down there.”
“Thank you, Mama, and I swear that things will be different when I get out of this, I swear it!” Fannie hangs up the phone while he’s still there making all of his promises, prayers in the dark as she always says when somebody suddenly gets on their knees and begs. Don’t matter even if he don’t keep those promises; he is her son.
“What on earth was that all about?” Mrs. Foster has stopped her fiddling, now that Fannie is off the phone.
“My son’s in jail and I gotta go down there.”
“But, Fannie, what about my party?” Mrs. Foster comes and stands right by Fannie’s chair. “I mean, I’m sorry that your son is in jail, but what can you do? I mean, why is he there?”
“Looks like a murderer.” Fannie shakes her head from side to side.
“Murder?” Mrs. Foster backs away now and stares at Fannie. “Did he do it?”
“Says not, and I believe him.” Fannie turns to the yellow pages for the number of the taxi service. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster, but he wants me there and I aim to go.”
“I know, I know.” Mrs. Foster is twisting her hands now. “I think I can probably get the rest done. But what about tonight? Will you be able to come back at six?”
“You plan on it, and if I see that I can’t, I’ll let you know in plenty of time to get somebody else.” Fannie dials the taxi number and then waits. “Yes, I need a cab. I’m at the Fosters’ house on,” Fannie holds the receiver away and looks up at Mrs. Foster. “What street is this?”
“Primrose.” Lord, she should have remembered that, being led down the primrose path.
“Primrose Street out here in that new neighborhood that used to be Piney Swamp.” Mrs. Foster is shaking her head, mouthing that it’s boulevard and not street, mouthing that name of this place, don’t matter, that old taxi driver knows exactly what she’s talking about. “As soon as you can get here, thank you.”
“Fannie, I would offer to take you but you know, the florist is coming, and to tell you the truth, I don’t even know where the jail is.”
“Don’t matter.” Now Fannie looks up the number of the Coffee Shop to ask Corky if she can sit with M. L. a while tonight. That Corky is a sweet girl and Fannie doesn’t even tell her what’s going on, cause she knows it would worry her. Corky doesn’t even ask where Fannie is going tonight, just says, “sure thing.”
“Well, M. L. is taken care of,” Fannie says, and goes to get her purse so that she can wait by the front door for the taxi. “Now I gotta take care of Thomas.”
“Oh, that’s so good that you found a sitter. I tell you Fannie, I’ll pay the sitter for you, too.” Mrs. Foster follows her into the living room, and Fannie looks out the glass storm door so that she won’t have to look at that pitiful child hanging on the wall.
“No need for that. Corky don’t charge me. We do favors back and forth for one another.”
“Hey, Ma.” Billy Foster comes into the room and slumps down on one of those fine pieces of furniture that is, in Fannie’s opinion, made for looking and not sitting. “I need some money. Think I’ll go to Burger King.”
“Okay, Billy, just a second.” Mrs. Foster suddenly looks upset. “Oh I knew that there was something that I forgot, Billy and Parker’s rooms. Oh, I guess I can close their doors. No one will go upstairs anyway.” Fannie doesn’t make any comment. She ain’t about to run up those stairs and make up behind those lazy children, when her own child is in trouble.
“Oh God, is tonight that party?” Billy slings his
dirty blue-jeaned legs over that fine cherrywood arm that Fannie just dusted to a red shine.
“Yes, and I’m going to need your help, too. You’ll need to pick Fannie up at six and take her back home after dinner.”
“Oh great! There goes the whole night.” He makes a face that Fannie feels needs to be slapped, but Mrs. Foster doesn’t do it and Fannie doesn’t offer to use the taxi service tonight, either. He gets up and slumps back toward the kitchen; she hears him open the refrigerator, pop a top. Fannie knows that every soda in that refrigerator is in a bottle and that Billy Foster has gone in there and gotten out one of his Daddy’s beers, just like that. Mrs. Foster knows it, too.
“Dave lets him have one every now and then, you know he’ll be eighteen soon.” Mrs. Foster smiles at her, that same smile that she gives women like Mrs. Stubbs.
“I see,” Fannie says, and thank the Lord, here comes her taxicab up that long drive. “I’ll let you know if I can’t make it, but until then you can count on my coming.”
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