Betty Before X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. You think those white teachers are going to teach all children the truth about what the Negro has contributed to this country?” Mr. Malloy asks. “I’m not saying something shouldn’t be done, I’m just not sure desegregation is a thought-out answer. You see what Mrs. Peck and my wife are doing? That’s a thought-out response. Getting colored people to realize just how much spending power we have, fighting for the advancement of the economic status of colored people—now, that’s where real change for the Negro man will happen. We have to show everybody the power of our dollar because that’s what matters to the white man the most. This dollar.”

  Deacon Boyd laughs. “This coming from a Negro who runs his own business. Of course you want us to be your patrons.”

  “Look here now, I may have graduated from Tuskegee, but I’m an ole country man from Arkansas. I grew up in the very same circumstances of every other colored man in this country, and I refused to let anything stop me from exercising my rights as a man, a husband, a father, and a businessman.”

  “Hmm. If it could only be that easy—”

  “What are you talking about, easy? I’m here by the grace of God. Nothing about starting a business as a Negro man during the Depression, mass lynchings, and the Jim Crow laws was easy,” Mr. Malloy says. “Not to mention keeping this business thriving for my wife and my daughter.”

  I can’t help but smile when he calls me his daughter. The word echoes in my ears, sounding better than my favorite song. I want to run out and hug him, tell him how grateful I am, tell him how much I love being his daughter. But instead, I just keep unloading boxes, keep doing my job, keep listening to Mr. Malloy talk and talk. He likes to debate with his customers. They must like it, too. Sometimes, men come in here and they don’t even want their shoes fixed, they don’t even buy anything. They just stop by on their lunch break or after work to talk with Mr. Malloy. Lots of times they debate about the Detroit Tigers—who’s the best player and whatnot. But when they really get going, really start talking about things that matter, Mr. Malloy sends me to the storeroom. Guess he doesn’t realize that I hear them anyway.

  They keep on going until Deacon Boyd says, “Well, I think that’s about all the sparring I have in me for today, Lorenzo, sir.” He is laughing and Mr. Malloy is laughing, too. “We’ll have to continue next time.”

  “Yes sir, until the next time,” Mr. Malloy says.

  I hear the bell clink when Deacon Boyd leaves, so I know it’s safe for me to come back out. I go back to dusting and arranging the shoe polish on the shelf.

  The bell announces that another customer has entered. It’s Mrs. Malloy. She comes in carrying a box of flyers in her arms. “Hot off the press,” she says. “We’re going to hand these out at grocery stores that are still refusing to hire us.” She sets them on the counter. Mr. Malloy kisses her on her cheek. She kisses me on mine.

  Mr. Malloy holds up one of the flyers. The top says SELECTIVE BUYING CAMPAIGN and there are two lists. On the left is a list of businesses that trade with and hire Negroes, and on the right is a list of stores to boycott. “Oh, I see you added lists of stores. That’s good. Yes, that’s good.”

  “Mrs. Peck’s idea,” Mrs. Malloy says. She takes the flyer and puts it back in the box. “How much longer will you be?” she asks.

  “Not long at all,” Mr. Malloy says.

  He closes up the store and we ride home. On the way, it starts to rain. Not a storm, but enough to have the wipers on. They slide from side to side, erasing raindrops. We drive past Bethel and I can’t even believe how many people are standing outside waiting to get in. The line twists and turns around the corner. People are sharing umbrellas and a few people are standing under wet newspapers.

  “That Thurgood Marshall sure does draw a crowd,” Mr. Malloy says.

  “Oh, yes, he does. And we need to get every single body that’s out there right now to come volunteer at the Dunbar Community Center,” Mrs. Malloy says. “Help is needed in the baby clinic, and they could also use some tutors. Betty, can you remind me to include it in the announcements at our next Housewives’ meeting?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I lean forward in my seat, making sure they can hear me. “But he isn’t just going to speak, is he? This is a prayer meeting, too, right?”

  I really want to see Thurgood Marshall—in real life, not just newspapers—but Mr. Malloy keeps driving, right past the church and toward our house.

  Mrs. Malloy turns to me and says, “Yes, there will be praying, Betty. But hard work is equally important. Bible says, ‘Faith without works is dead.’”

  Sixteen

  The weekend goes by fast and is mostly full of homework and volunteer work with Mrs. Malloy. It is Monday and the walk home from school was lonely because Suesetta is sick and Phyllis’s mom picked her up. Even though I just saw Shirley, Jimmie, and Juanita yesterday at church, they are taking turns on the phone telling me how much they miss me. I talk with Shirley last. She barely says hello before asking, “When are you coming back home, Betty?”

  “I live here with the Malloys now.”

  “But why? Why can’t you just visit the Malloys and live here with us?”

  I think Shirley is crying but I’m not sure. I don’t know how to answer her question. I could just tell her the truth—tell her I’m not coming home because Ollie Mae doesn’t love me the way she loves them. But instead, I say, “I’m not sure when I’m coming back,” as if I plan on returning. I tell her, “We’ll see each other at church next Sunday.” And that part is true, so I don’t feel too much like a fibber.

  “But Sunday is a long ways away,” Shirley says.

  “Maybe the week will go by fast,” I tell Shirley.

  I hear Ollie Mae calling Shirley, then Shirley says into the phone, “Betty, Momma wants to talk with you.”

  Ollie Mae gets on the line. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ollie Mae.”

  “Is everything okay? Sounds like you have a cold,” she says.

  “Everything is fine,” I say even though my throat is hurting just a little. How did she know?

  It is quiet for a while and I think I hear Arthur listening to the radio and the boys’ footsteps as they’re running around.

  Ollie Mae clears her throat. “You know, you might want to tell Mrs. Malloy to put some honey, lemon, and eucalyptus oil in a jar. That will help your achy throat.”

  “Okay, Ollie Mae, I will tell her.”

  “And tell her to keep some Vernor’s Ginger Soda in the house. Tell her to warm it and put a little lemon in it if you get a bellyache, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Silence.

  “And tea. Make sure you drink plenty of dandelion root tea,” she says.

  “I will.”

  “Good, good. Well, okay. I guess I should get going.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  When I hang up the phone, all I can think about is how much I miss my sisters, how much I miss sitting around the dining room table together. I wish they could come spend the night here with me every now and then.

  The doorbell rings. I look out the window and see Kay standing on the porch. I let her in. “Hi, Betty. I hope I didn’t interrupt dinner,” she says.

  “It’s okay. I’m just here doing homework. Mr. Malloy is still at work and Mrs. Malloy is at a meeting.”

  “My mother sent me over to ask Mrs. Malloy if she has any butter.”

  I’m sure Mrs. Malloy wouldn’t mind, so I tell Kay to have a seat while I get it for her.

  She follows me to the kitchen and sits at the table. I go to the icebox. Kay says, “So, um, what are you all doing for Easter?”

  “I—hmm, I don’t know. Dinner, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well, we’ll go to church, of course, but I don’t know what we’ll do afterward. Arthur always took us to church for the Easter egg hunt every year. Maybe I’ll still
go, maybe I’ve outgrown it. Not sure,” I say.

  The butter is cut but we keep talking. Kay asks me, “So, how does it feel to have two mothers?”

  I have never thought about it this way—that I have two mothers. I shrug. “Ollie Mae has never been a real mother to me.”

  “Well, at least you know her. You get to hear her voice. You’re able to look at her and see what parts of you come from her,” Kay says.

  “What do you mean? You see your mom everyday.”

  “Yes, but my mom and dad aren’t my birth parents. They adopted me when I was a baby.”

  “Really? So, Aunt Nina and Uncle Clyde aren’t your real parents?”

  “They are my real parents—their love is real, everything about our relationship is real,” Kay says. “My biological father was never in the picture. My biological mother died during labor. But the truth is, Nina is my real mom and Clyde is my real dad. Doesn’t matter that I was born to someone else. They don’t really make a big deal about it.”

  Even though it’s just the two of us in this big house, I lower my voice, lean forward, and say, “But it is a big deal, don’t you think?”

  “I guess.” Kay nods. “Love is always a big deal.”

  Seventeen

  May’s blessings:

  I am counting my blessings tonight and thinking about Kay and how she never got to hear her mother’s voice. I am counting my blessings tonight and thinking about all the ways love is a big deal, how it is the honey, lemon, and eucalyptus oil that Ollie Mae makes for a scratchy throat. The extra dollar Mr. Malloy gives me, telling me how hardworking I am. Love is talking to your sister on the telephone and running out of words to say but staying on the line anyway. Love is not letting a friend stop being your friend for no good reason at all. Love is family being who you choose and who chooses you.

  Eighteen

  I can’t wait for Suesetta to come over. She’s going to help me set up for the biscuits-and-tea gathering Mrs. Malloy is hosting for the leaders of the Housewives’ League. Once the tea is over, Suesetta will spend the night and we’ll celebrate my birthday. Phyllis’s mom said she couldn’t come over, but Suesetta and I will call her later so she can be a part of at least some of my birthday.

  Just as I am slicing the lemon cake Mrs. Malloy baked, the phone rings. “Betty, it’s for you,” Mrs. Malloy says.

  I take the phone hoping it’s Phyllis saying that her mother changed her mind, but as I say hello, I hear a choir of voices singing, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Betty, happy birthday to you!”

  Shirley, Jimmie, Juanita, Sonny, and Henry are singing to me. Arthur and Ollie Mae, too. At the end of the song all the girls start talking at once. “Okay, okay,” Ollie Mae says. “One at a time.”

  Shirley goes first. “Betty, did you have your cake and ice cream yet?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmie blurts out. “Did you get to have as much as you wanted, like we do for our birthdays?”

  “Not yet,” I tell them. I don’t even know if Mrs. Malloy would let me have all the ice cream I could eat. It’s not something most adults let kids do, but Ollie Mae always said that when it’s your birthday, you should get to have as much ice cream as you want, and she’d let us pick our own flavor. Mine is always butter pecan. “I’ll definitely have some later,” I say.

  “Well, what are you doing for your birthday?” Shirley asks.

  “Suesetta’s spending the night.”

  “Oh.” Shirley sighs and it sounds like a wind of sadness just rushed through the phone.

  I hear Ollie Mae say, “All right girls, let Betty get back to what she was doing.” Then her voice sounds much closer. “Betty?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We’re going to go now, but the girls, uh, really wanted to call. We … we all wanted to call,” she says. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  When I hang up the phone I stand for a moment, holding on to the sound of all those voices singing to me. So many good smells are floating through the house—cinnamon scones, lemon pound cake, chocolate cake. Mrs. Malloy has also baked oatmeal cookies and shortbread cookies. I think maybe this might be the best birthday ever.

  Once Suesetta comes over, Mrs. Malloy says, “I’m going to teach you how to make lavender lemonade.” She sets the ingredients out on the counter: lemons, raw honey, and dried lavender. She tells Suesetta, “Now, I want you to measure eight cups of water and a half cup of manuka honey, and let’s get that pot on the stove.” Then she takes a small bag of lemons, cuts each one in half, and hands the halves over to me. “You’ll work on the lemonade,” she says. “Start squeezing these.”

  Once I’m finished squeezing lemons, I pour the juice into two pitchers that are half full of cold water. Suesetta strains the lavender out of the boiling water. Now that the lavender has been simmering, the whole house smells like spring.

  “Okay, it’s time to combine everything,” Mrs. Malloy says. Suesetta pours her concoction into both pitchers. We each get to sample it just before she puts it in the refrigerator to chill. It’s the best lemonade I’ve ever tasted.

  “Now, let’s get the buffet set up.” Mrs. Malloy hands us silver serving trays and white china. We set the desserts and beverages on the dining room table with the crystal glasses. Mr. Malloy has taken the white wooden chairs from the basement into the living room to make sure everyone has a seat. Fresh bouquets of lavender and white roses are in the living room and the dining room.

  “Ladies, we sure know how to host a tea,” Mrs. Malloy says.

  “We sure do,” I say. I step back and take a look at everything. “It’s perfect.”

  We rush to get dressed before our guests arrive, and once everyone shows up, Suesetta and I blend into the wallpaper. We don’t say anything, just take it all in. We’re the youngest girls in the junior league. Kay and three other girls are here, too, but two are sixteen and the other is seventeen.

  Before the official meeting begins, the women eat and sip tea, and catch each other up on the community happenings. Mrs. Malloy starts the meeting. “Good afternoon, ladies. As you know, Mrs. Peck is not aware of this meeting today because we have secretly gathered here to finish planning her appreciation service. All of the Housewives’ League chapters from around the nation will join us next month to celebrate the accomplishments of the League and honor our fearless leader.”

  The women respond with smiles, little claps, and nods. Then Mrs. Malloy tells everyone the date of the event and says, “This date was selected because Paul Robeson will also be in town campaigning and he’s agreed to come to Bethel, ladies, and bless us with his wisdom and a song,” she says.

  “Sing?” a woman shouts. “He doesn’t need to sing a note so long as I see that handsome face, yes, Lord.” Suesetta and I look at each other and bust out laughing. We put our hands on our faces, covering our mouths so Mrs. Malloy doesn’t see us and send us upstairs.

  I don’t know who this Paul Robeson is, but every time his name comes up, women start blushing. He must be a really good speaker, the way he makes smiles appear on all the ladies’ faces.

  Mrs. Malloy says, “Now, ladies, let’s focus. I only bring him up because I think we should meet with him and talk about the work we’re doing. We need him to lend his voice to our cause. He’s world-renowned, and if we are smart, we will get him to use his national platform to shed light on what we’re doing right here in Detroit.”

  One of the women adds, “It’s a wonder he’s making the time to visit with us, with all the advocating he’s doing with President Truman to put an end to the lynching of people all over the South. Doesn’t look like it’s working, but at least he’s trying.”

  The woman sitting next to her shakes her head, says, “How in the world is Truman going to say he upholds the Constitution when he won’t pass legislation to end lynching?”

  “And to think,” another Housewife adds, “the Negro has traveled far away from his family an
d laid down his life in a war for this country only to return back to a system of laws that still allows him to be tied up helpless and hung from a tree while people just stand around watching the life go out of him. I will never understand this kind of hatred and barbarism. Lord help me, I won’t.”

  Mrs. Malloy picks up a lemon-ginger cookie from the plate in the middle of the table. She bites into the cookie, wipes the fallen crumbs from her lap, and says, “By not doing anything, Truman is telling all of us—Negroes and whites—that it’s perfectly fine to murder a Negro in this country and get away with it.”

  One of the women adds, “Some of those folks will kill their own kind if they stand for justice. Can you believe that?”

  I think maybe Mrs. Malloy forgot that Suesetta and I are in the room, because as soon as she looks over at us, she says, “Oh, girls, you can excuse yourselves now.” But then as we walk away, she adds, “But one more thing—I’d like the two of you to introduce Mrs. Peck at the event.”

  “In front of everyone?” I ask.

  “Yes—you’ll talk about the League and the work Mrs. Peck has done and what she means to you.” She says it like it’s not a big deal, what she’s asking us to do. “We’ll talk more later,” she says. This, I know, is her way of telling us to go to my room, close the door, and let the grown folk be. Except everyone here isn’t grown—Kay and her three friends are here, nodding and snacking, and fitting right in with all of the adults. I am nowhere close to being Kay’s age. But once I am older, I plan to sit in on all the conversations, tell everyone how I feel.

  * * *

  Suesetta plops down on my bed. “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  “We can paint our nails,” Suesetta says. She goes into her overnight bag and pulls out the red nail polish Kay let us borrow.

  Once we paint our nails, there isn’t much more we can do for a while. We just sit and wait, and blow on our fingers, and shake our wrists, and wait some more. This goes on for about an hour. Mine dry faster because I didn’t use as much as Suesetta, who has put such a thick coat on, it will take all night for hers to dry.