Shirley puts her orange crayon down. “Now?” she asks.
“They need to be done before Ollie Mae gets back.”
“Okay,” she says. And just like that I’ve found a way to get what I want and make Ollie Mae happy. She didn’t say I have to wash the dishes myself. She just said they need to get washed.
“I’m going to Suesetta’s,” I tell Shirley. “I’m going to stop by the candy store on my way back. I’ll bring you back some Sugar Daddies, okay?”
Shirley smiles real big when I say this, and I think I could probably get her to do anything now.
* * *
I stay at Suesetta’s for a few hours. We do homework, listen to records, experiment with Kay’s makeup, and then go to the candy store so I can get Shirley her Sugar Daddies like I promised. When I get home it only takes one minute for me to know something is wrong. Shirley is sitting on the sofa with red eyes. When I look at her and ask, “What happened?” she shifts her eyes to the kitchen, where Ollie Mae is cooking. Arthur is still sitting at the radio listening to Amos ’n’ Andy, not even paying attention to Sonny and Henry, who are tearing apart Jimmie’s dolly.
I snatch it from them on my way to the kitchen, tell them to go play in their room. I step into the kitchen. “I’m home,” I announce.
Ollie Mae is at the stove stirring a pot. She turns around, says, “Where’d you learn to be so dishonest?”
She wipes her hands on her apron and walks toward me.
“What did I do?”
“Didn’t I ask you to wash the dishes?”
“No,” I tell Ollie Mae. “You said the dishes needed to get washed, so I asked Shirley to do them.”
“Don’t sass me, child. You think you’re smarter than me? You know I intended for you to wash those dishes. And you made your sister do your work.” Ollie Mae is yelling now. “You think you don’t have to listen to my rules in my house?”
“No, ma’am, I—”
“Don’t you talk back to me, child.” She grabs the switch she had waiting and starts whipping me with it. I lean back against the wall. I hold my arms up to protect myself.
Now, my sisters and even Arthur are in the kitchen. Arthur says, “Ollie Mae, that’s enough. Leave that child alone.”
Ollie Mae seems to come out of a trance when she hears Arthur’s voice. She turns and walks away.
I slide down the wall, sit on the floor taking in deep breaths. My sisters and my brothers gather around me, telling me not to cry and that I’ll be okay. Ollie Mae orders them to the table. And I think I know who left that bruise on me when I was just a baby learning how to say Momma.
* * *
I go to my room, stay in there while everyone else eats dinner. Ollie Mae probably thinks I’m in here crying, that I am feeling bad for talking back to her.
But she’s wrong. I am not letting any tears fall. I am not feeling bad at all.
I am packing.
I pack enough clothes to last for two days and leave for Suesetta’s house. Arthur tries to stop me but Ollie Mae says, “Let her go.”
I hug Shirley, Jimmie, and Juanita and when they squeeze me, I realize how sore I am. I push out a smile, say bye to Sonny and Henry, and I leave.
I’ve walked this route to Suesetta’s so many times, but this evening it feels longer. It’s colder now that night is coming. Once I get to Suesetta’s doorstep, I drop the bag at my feet and let my arm rest. I knock. Twice. No one answers. I look next door at the Malloys’ house, but the lights are all off and their car is not in the driveway. I sit on Suesetta’s porch and wait.
The moon hovers over me, keeping me company. I see headlights down the block and then, out of the night fog, I see the Malloys driving onto the street. Their headlights wash over me as Mr. Malloy parks in front of his house. He doesn’t even have the car turned off before Mrs. Malloy is out of the car and running over. She doesn’t ask me any questions, she just picks up my bag, says, “Come on, baby.” As we walk over to her house, all the tears I’ve been holding in fall. Mrs. Malloy takes my hand. Holds it tight like my Aunt Fannie Mae did, like she’s never going to let me go.
Right after I step inside Mrs. Malloy’s house, she takes off my coat and we sit on the sofa in her living room. She looks at the welts on my arms and the first thing she says to me is, “Now, let’s see what we can do about these tears.” She pulls a tissue from a fancy tissue box and dabs my eyes, but the more she wipes, the more tears flow. And I feel like some kind of fool crying and not being able to say anything. I think, She’ll never have me back in her home. But not even that thought can keep me from becoming a puddle in Mrs. Malloy’s arms. She rocks me from side to side, holding me tight. I couldn’t get out of her embrace even if I wanted to. “It’s okay, baby. Go ahead and let it all out. Let it all out,” she says. And when she says all, I realize I am not crying just about what happened tonight, but about everything that’s ever happened in my whole entire life.
At first the tears come out heavy like a blizzard. But the more she holds and rocks me, my chest stops heaving up and down and I settle into her arms. Then the tears fall gentle like tiny snowflakes. The kind that don’t stick to the ground.
Mrs. Malloy tips my chin up and looks me in my eyes. “You’re a strong girl, Betty. You know that?”
I nod, even though I have never thought of myself as strong. Most times I only hear the word strong when Arthur is talking to Sonny or Henry about the heavyweight champion of the world, Joe Louis, or some other boxer he loves. He boxes with them in the living room, and every single time he lets them win. And when they are done, he holds up their arms, one by one, and feels for their muscles. “I’ve got some strong sons,” he always says. And they flex their pint-size muscles around the house for the rest of the afternoon.
And then there are the times when one of the deacons makes an announcement at the end of service: “We need a few strong men to help carry the chairs.”
But never, ever have I heard the word strong applied to me.
Mrs. Malloy shows me around the house, to a room that has a bed covered with the most beautiful quilt I’ve ever seen. Every square has its own unique design. The outer border is purple, and there are lavender pillows propped up against the headboard. Mr. Malloy has already brought my bag in. “This is your room,” she tells me, and she says it like what she means is this is my room forever. “Make yourself at home.”
“Have you eaten yet?” Mrs. Malloy asks me a moment later. “Let’s get you some supper.”
“I’m not hungry, ma’am.” I think of the feast in the oven that Ollie Mae was baking. The pot roast, collard greens, sweet potatoes, and baked apple pie. Think of Shirley, Jimmie, and Juanita all sitting at the table eating and talking and making faces at Henry and Sonny when Ollie Mae isn’t looking. I wonder if they’ve asked where I am.
Mrs. Malloy goes into the kitchen, motioning for me to follow her. “You can’t go to bed on an empty stomach,” she says. She opens a cupboard and takes out Velvet Peanut Butter and spreads it on a slice of bread. Mr. Malloy warms a small pot of milk and honey, then pours it into a glass for me. I eat just half of the sandwich and sip the entire glass of sweet milk.
When I am finished, we pray together. Mr. Malloy prays for Ollie Mae. Asks God to touch her heart. I open my eyes. Look at him and Mrs. Malloy and wonder if their prayer will help Ollie Mae want me as much as I want her. Then Mr. Malloy prays, “And heal her, Lord, from whatever is hurting her.” And I wonder what Ollie Mae could be hurting from.
After prayer, we say good night to each other and go to our rooms. At first when I get in the bed, I stay to the right side, bundling and tucking my aching arms and legs in a cocoon like I always do to make room for Shirley. But then I remember that it’s just me sleeping in this bed, and so I stretch my whole body out, make an X with my aching limbs open wide and centered in the middle of the mattress like a snow angel all alone.
It doesn’t take me long to fall asleep, but then I wake up in the middle of the
night. I sit straight up, my heart thumping and thumping. Who’s going to take Juanita to the bathroom when she wakes up?
I don’t sleep for the rest of the night.
Detroit, Michigan
1946
When I sing, trouble can sit right on my shoulder and I don’t even notice.
—Sarah Vaughan
Ten
I’ve been staying with Mrs. Malloy for almost a month now. One night turned into another night, and then a week went by, and another, and another. Mrs. Malloy went over to Ollie Mae’s to pick up more clothes for me. She even brought back a few things from my bedroom to help make the guest room feel more familiar.
I am not used to having this much space in a bed. Having my own room means I get to spread out and the cover is all mine. I get to decorate and put things where I like them. I have privacy to try on a new dress and twirl in the mirror to see if I like it. I can even do my homework without distractions, play records, dance, and sing along to my favorite songs.
But it also means that I don’t have my sisters with me at night to talk to and laugh with. They are not there when a noise frightens me. I don’t have someone’s hand to hold as I tiptoe to the window, only to realize the scary noise is just a branch scraping the glass, just the wind.
It is Saturday morning and I wake to the sound of Ollie Mae’s voice. For a moment, I am confused about where I am. I have not heard her voice in the morning for twenty-six days. We see each other at church, but all she does is look at me with those eyes that tell me she doesn’t love me like I want her to.
I wonder why she is here. Maybe she misses me after all. Maybe she is sorry and wants me to come back home.
I sit up in my bed when I hear Mrs. Malloy saying, “Let me take her off your hands, Ollie Mae. I don’t mind at all. She can live here with us.”
I tiptoe to the door, don’t open it. Just press my ear against the frame.
Ollie Mae asks, “And what are you going to do when you get tired of her?”
“I won’t get tired of her, dear.”
“Are you sure? If she doesn’t come home with me now, she never will.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Malloy says. “I want her.”
Ollie Mae’s voice has no emotion. “Well, you can have her. She’s yours.”
Just like that.
“I’ll have the rest of her belongings packed by noon,” Ollie Mae says.
“I’ll have my husband pick them up,” Mrs. Malloy says.
The front door creaks open and then closes.
I step out of the bedroom and join Mrs. Malloy, who is in the kitchen filling a teakettle with water.
I don’t know what to say. I want to cry, I want to say thank you. I want to run out the door, yell at Ollie Mae, ask her, What have I done for you to just give me away—twice? Why don’t you love me? But instead, I sit at the kitchen table and breathe. I control every breath of air I take. In and out, in and out.
As I exhale, Mrs. Malloy sets the kettle on the stove. She takes two teacups from the cabinet and puts one cube of sugar in each.
“I wish I could hate her,” I whisper. If I hated Ollie Mae, maybe I wouldn’t care so much that she can’t love me like I want her to. Maybe I should be happy that someone else can, but instead I am sitting here feeling like my heart has a million welts on it, stinging and burning.
The kettle whistles and Mrs. Malloy pours our tea.
“I really wish I could hate her,” I say again.
Mrs. Malloy sits across from me, says, “Betty, there are a lot of reasons for you to be upset and confused. But, sweetheart, the easy thing to do is to hold on to disappointment and pain. The hard thing to do is to let it go and forgive. The Lord has a plan for you that’s bigger than you can ever imagine. Right now you just have to have faith in the Lord and find the good and praise it. Count your blessings, young lady. Name them one by one—even the small things. Doing that will comfort your heart, it will comfort your soul.”
I listen to Mrs. Malloy’s words as I breathe in and out, in and out. I nod to let her know I understand what she is saying. I know I have a lot to be grateful for, I do. But right now I can’t think about anything except my mother, who left me. She didn’t even ask to see me.
I bite the inside of my lip, try to keep these tears from falling because I don’t like to cry in front of people. I don’t want Mrs. Malloy to think I don’t appreciate all she is doing for me. I don’t want her to give me away, too. I can’t sit here and count blessings, can’t stop the sadness from rising in my chest.
Mrs. Malloy drinks more of her tea, but my cup is still full. I clear my throat, say, “Can the counting of my blessings start tomorrow?”
“Yes, Betty. It can.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
Eleven
By the end of the day, all of my clothes, my books, and my sewing machine are here at the Malloys’. I also have two framed photographs. One of me with Shirley, Jimmie, and Juanita, and the other with the entire family. Mr. Malloy got me a record player, so now Suesetta and Phyllis can come over and listen to music at my house.
This room is mine now, all mine.
Mrs. Malloy was right. Focusing on the good makes my heart hurt less. Tonight I am lying in my bed counting blessings, finding the good, and praising it.
A roof over my head.
Plenty of food to eat.
Pretty dresses, a warm coat.
And new shoes on my feet.
Books and magazines.
All the records of Billy Eckstine.
Shirley’s kindness.
Jimmie’s laugh.
Juanita’s little hugs.
Suesetta and Phyllis and all the fun we have together.
Mrs. and Mr. Malloy’s promise to keep me forever.
God, for always bringing someone into my life to love me when Ollie Mae’s love isn’t enough.
Twelve
The next day we go to church, and afterwards I spend time at Suesetta’s. I’ve been here for an hour, and her baby cousin has been crying the whole time. Bernice and Kay are with me and Suesetta in her room. Kay is braiding Bernice’s hair, and Bernice is flinching, saying “ouch” every five seconds.
When I tell Suesetta that I am living with Mrs. Malloy permanently, she is so excited about being neighbors that I don’t think she even realizes that what I am saying is that my mother doesn’t want me. “You mean, forever?” she asks.
“Yes. I live with them now.”
“So we can keep walking home together after school?” Suesetta asks without stopping for an answer. “And once we’re in high school, we can take the trolley by ourselves and meet Phyllis on the way. And then we can go to college together, the three of us.”
We have a whole nother year until high school, but Suesetta is always thinking about the next thing. Her mind is always peeking into the future.
Kay takes the comb and parts Bernice’s hair so she can make a new ponytail. “Hold still, now,” Kay says.
I flip through the latest issue of Ebony magazine, looking for a hairstyle. It takes me a while to find something that I think will look good on me. I bend the magazine back and show Suesetta a picture. “You think you can fix my bangs like this?” I ask.
“Yeah, that’s pretty.” She studies the picture, then touches my hair, squeezing it as if she’s testing out the softness of a pillow. “I think so,” she says.
Kay sticks the comb in Bernice’s hair. She reaches for the magazine. “Let me see.” She looks at the picture, then at my hair, then back at the picture, then back at my hair. “Yeah, your hair can do this. That will look good on you because you have high cheekbones. All we have to do is roll your hair real tight.” She looks back at the magazine. “But to be sure, I think we should cut your hair in the front.”
“Cut my hair?”
“Just the front. Your bangs are too long. That’s why they won’t stay curled.”
“Ollie Mae doesn’t want me cutting my hair,” I tell Kay.
Kay says, “You don’t live with her anymore, right?”
When she says this, I don’t feel tears swelling or sadness in my heart. “Right,” I say. “Go ahead.”
Kay gets up from doing Bernice’s hair, grabs scissors out of Suesetta’s desk drawer, and stands in front of me, scissors in hand. She cups the front of my hair in her left hand. She puts the scissors down and picks up a comb to run through my hair.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Just picks the scissors back up, holds a section of my hair between two of her fingers and starts cutting. I close my eyes, hearing the snip snip snip of the scissors and feeling the thick clumps of long hair hit my nose, tickling me and making me sneeze.
“Be still!” Kay shouts.
“Can’t help it.”
Kay finishes cutting and she won’t even let me look in the mirror. “It’s not going to look good until I roll it,” she says. She takes her small canister of Royal Crown Hair Dressing, dips her fingers into the pomade, and dabs it on my hair. Then she takes a thick pink sponge roller and twirls my hair onto the roller real slow, real tight, until it’s rolled to my scalp. “There,” she says. “Leave the roller in till tomorrow and it’ll be curled tight.” Kay places my cut hairs in the trash can. Then she goes back to braiding Bernice’s hair.
I look in the mirror. I can’t wait to take the roller out in the morning and see what having bangs will look like. Then I have another thought—that getting bangs is not the only new thing I’m going to do today.
I turn around to Suesetta and ask, “Are you ready to join the Housewives’ League?”
Thirteen
Suesetta and I have been members of the junior Housewives’ League for a month now. So far, we’ve mostly helped with organizing packets that Mrs. Malloy mailed out, and we’ve started our young scholars class. Today is Saturday and the Housewives’ League is passing out coupons and canvassing to sign up new members in Paradise Valley and Black Bottom. February’s sky is gray and cloudy, but at least there’s no snow. We’re layered in coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, and Mrs. Malloy promises that when we’re finished she’s taking me and Suesetta to meet up with the other teams to get hot tea and sandwiches. The junior members of the Housewives’ League are mentored and taught how to canvass and sign up new members. Suesetta and I are lucky. We have been paired with Mrs. Peck and Mrs. Malloy.
Betty Before X Page 5