Betty Before X

by Ilyasah Shabazz

  Pastor Dames announces that Deacon Willis passed away last night. A fog of grief hangs over the sanctuary. He’d been diagnosed with tuberculosis and was sick a lot less time than Uncle Clyde was. I know Suesetta is thinking, If Deacon Willis wasn’t as sick as Uncle Clyde, will Uncle Clyde die, too? I take her hand, at first just to hold it during prayer, but then I keep holding it through the choir’s first and second songs, the sermon, and the special prayer Pastor Dames says at the end of service for all the sick members of the church. Pastor Dames ends his prayer, saying, “Lord, we pray for all families with a loved one who is suffering.” When he says this, Suesetta squeezes my hand and we both say amen at the same time, but now is no time for a pinkie swear, so we look at each other with a half smile.

  After church I sit in the last pew with Shirley, Jimmie, and Juanita, keeping an eye on them while Ollie Mae talks with Mrs. Murphy. I ask Shirley, “How is everybody?”

  “Fine,” Shirley says.

  Jimmie and Juanita are playing with the Bibles and hymnals, sliding them and rearranging them.

  Shirley tells me, “Momma’s birthday is coming up.”

  “What are you going to get her?” I ask. I know how birthdays are a big deal with Ollie Mae. She says birthdays are our own personal holiday.

  “Papa said we’re going to take her out for dinner, but I want to do something else, too.”

  “You should make her something,” I tell Shirley. “You’re so good at drawing. You could draw something and we could frame it.”

  “Yeah, and Jimmie and Juanita can help, too. They’re pretty good at coloring, so maybe they can help with that.”

  I can tell Shirley’s mind has gone on to thinking about what she’ll draw for Ollie Mae. “What are you going to give Momma?” she asks.

  I don’t say anything for a while. I shrug, tell Shirley, “I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

  “You could draw something, too,” Shirley says.

  “I’m not good at drawing. Besides, you’re doing that.”

  “You could make her a cake,” Shirley says.

  When Shirley says this, I get an idea. I won’t make Ollie Mae a cake, but I will make her something special.

  * * *

  The sky gets hotter and hotter with each passing day. July’s sun beams down bright and lasts long into the evening. Today, I am adding the finishing touches to my blouse and skirt for Ollie Mae. She usually wears dresses, and I have no idea what she’ll think of me making her something, giving her something. Seems like she can’t take anything from me except my help watching Shirley, Juanita, and Jimmie. She doesn’t even say a friendly How are you? or Do you have any special plans for this week? When I try to talk with her, she just complains, “Child, if I had a coin for every question you ask…”

  When I finish with the garments, I wrap them in the leftover paper Mother bought last Christmas. It seems silly to give someone a gift in July that’s wrapped in holiday paper, but it’s all there is and I’ve spent my candy and records budget on the fabric, buttons, and zipper.

  Father puts the gifts in the trunk of the car. As we walk inside the sanctuary, Mother tells me, “Now do it discreetly, okay? Call her over to the car and give your gifts to her in private.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  All through church the only thing I can think about is giving my gift to Ollie Mae.

  At the end of service, Pastor Dames reminds everyone that today we are having a family day barbecue out back. Once he dismisses us, the congregation goes outside, where a few of the deacons are flipping burgers and hot dogs on the grills. The women have set up long tables and laid out side dishes, desserts, and cold drinks. Some of the younger children are already playing with water balloons.

  I ask Ollie Mae to walk to the car with me. “What’s over there, child?” she asks.

  “I have a surprise for you,” I say.

  “Shirley, keep an eye on your sisters,” Ollie Mae says. She walks to the parking lot. I follow her, keys in hand, and open the trunk. I take the gifts out and hand them to Ollie Mae. “What is all of this?” she asks.

  “It’s for you. Open them.”

  Ollie Mae sighs, like she would rather I just tell her.

  “Happy birthday!”

  “But my birthday isn’t for three more days.”

  “I know, but I won’t see you so I thought I’d give them to you today.”

  “I … You didn’t have to—I can’t accept this.”

  “But it’s your birthday gift,” I tell her.

  Ollie Mae hands the boxes back to me. “You didn’t have to give me anything.” She starts to walk away. “I don’t want you spending money on me, Betty Dean.”

  “But I—I made this. Can you open it?” I call out to her, “I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate the sewing machine. Just wanted you to know that I still have it and use it almost every day, and how much I practice, just like you.”

  I don’t think Ollie Mae even hears me.

  I stand in the parking lot holding the boxes, not able to move or speak or do anything. I don’t know how much time passes before Kay is standing next to me. I don’t realize that she’s holding my hand until she says my name. “Betty? Betty, not here. Don’t cry. Not here,” Kay says. I put the gift back in the trunk. “Come with me. Let’s walk,” Kay says. She leads the way down the block, past the candy store, the bakery, the diner, to the park on the corner. We don’t talk on our way. When we get to the park, we sit on swings and barely muster a sway. “What happened?” she asks.

  I tell her about Ollie Mae. Tell her how mean she is, how she gave back my gift. A gift that I had made with my own hands, just for her. I tell Kay, “What’s the point of doing unto others as you want them to do for you if this is what you get in return?”

  Kay doesn’t answer.

  “And Pastor Dames can keep all those scriptures about sowing and reaping, because no matter how much good I try to do for Ollie Mae, nothing changes in our relationship. I just want her to love me. And even the Housewives’ League keeps trying to do good, but things aren’t really changing there, either. There are still stores that refuse to hire Negroes, still places where we go and get treated like we’re nothing.” My feet drag along in the dirt, then I push myself just a little and swing back and forth.

  Kay lets me sit in my sadness for a moment longer before asking, “Betty, have you ever planted anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. It’s hard work,” Kay says. “My family had a farm down South. I helped my mom with the garden. Before we could even plant, we’d have to get rid of the rocks, do a lot of digging, and do what my mom calls ‘breaking the earth.’” Kay is swinging now. Back and forth, back and forth. She says, “When I first started helping in the garden, I was like you.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I was impatient and I didn’t understand how seeds and harvesttime work. I thought as soon as I planted the seeds, I’d see growth the next day. But sometimes we wouldn’t see any sign of growth for ten days, or seventy, or even three years.”

  “Three years?”

  “The apple tree my dad planted took forever to have fruit. I’d walk past it every day for three years, just waiting.”

  “I’d be miserable if I had to wait that long. Didn’t you get frustrated?”

  “Well, there was always work to do somewhere else on the farm. Depending on the time of the year, something is always being planted, or taking root, or being watered, or sprouting. And then there was the prepping for winter and recovering from seasons when there was a bad crop—so, yes, we got frustrated a lot. Sometimes my mom would cry, she’d be so devastated. We had done the best we could and, all because of a drought or too much rain, we’d lose everything,” Kay says. “But just because you have a bad season doesn’t mean you stop planting.”

  We swing, propelling ourselves into the sky. No words, just the squeaky swing set, the clinking chains. Kay says, “I think m
aybe that scripture is not only about the harvest, but the work it takes to get a harvest, and the patience it takes to wait.”

  Twenty-Seven

  I am sitting on the porch watching Suesetta and Kay, who are pacing back and forth, looking down the street. Uncle Clyde is coming home from the hospital today. Aunt Nina left with Father to pick him up. Every time a car turns down our street we all hold our breath, but then when it doesn’t slow down and stop, we keep talking.

  “You think he’ll be tired when he gets here? Maybe he won’t want the lunch we made for him,” Suesetta says.

  “He’ll probably be hungry for a good, home-cooked meal,” Kay says.

  I hear a car coming and see it’s Father driving onto the street. I stand up, walk down the steps. We all crowd at the curb, waiting for him to pull the car up to the house. “Step back, step back,” Kay says. She is smiling and crying all at once.

  Father parks the car, gets out, and helps Uncle Clyde up the steps. Uncle Clyde is thinner and moving slower, but when he sees us, he smiles the same smile. And his hello is all his—the way he sings it, holding on to the o. Kay gives him the first hug, then Suesetta, then the little ones come running out of the house, joy all over everybody’s faces. I feel like I’m spying on something sacred, something not meant for people outside of their family to see, but then Aunt Nina calls over to me, says, “Go get your mother. Come on over and join us for lunch.” And when we sit around the big table thanking God for this day, this moment, Aunt Nina prays, “And God, we especially thank you for the Malloys and Miss Betty. For without them being our extended family and being so kind and generous, we don’t know what we would have done.” In unison, everyone says, “Amen.”

  We eat and laugh and fill Uncle Clyde in on all that he missed, but he can only take in so much. Soon, he is tired and we say our goodbyes so he can get settled and rest.

  * * *

  Later, before the sun goes down, I take out my notebook and write a letter to Ollie Mae. I fold it into an envelope and make my way to her house, the gifts tucked under my arm. When I get to the house, I don’t knock or wait around to be seen. I put the boxes on the doorstep with the note and leave.

  I think about what Kay said, think: this is me watering the soil, this is me waiting for the harvest.

  Twenty-Eight

  The next day the doorbell rings, and when I go to answer, I peep through the hole and I see a white lady standing at the door. She is fidgeting with her clothes, her hair, her purse. I call to Mother. She opens the door.

  “Mrs. Malloy?”

  “Yes.”

  She stammers, “Hi, I, uh, I am Rebecca Olsen. My husband and I just opened a little bakery not too far from here. I’ve heard about your Housewives’ League campaign, and I, uh, I’m hoping we can talk about ways I can support your efforts.”

  Never could I have imagined that a white person would show up on our doorstep and offer to join our campaign.

  “Well, nice to meet you. Why don’t you come on in,” Mother says.

  They sit in the living room. I get a serving tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses and serve them.

  Before Mother even asks me, I go to my room. I know this is a conversation for adults. I leave the door cracked open just a bit. I sit on the floor right next to the door so I can hear what they’re talking about.

  Mother says, “What can I do for you, Mrs. Olsen?”

  “I’ll get right to it, if you, uh, if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind at all, dear.”

  The two of them talk for an hour and by the time they finish, Mrs. Olsen has promised to accept Negroes to apply for work at her bakery. “And I’ll see to it that they are not just hired, but that they are treated equally,” she says. “Our store is one you will be able to guarantee on the list of places you encourage your community to patronize.” Just as Mrs. Olsen leaves, she says, “Mrs. Malloy, please consider me a friend.”

  I look through the crack from my bedroom door and see Mrs. Olsen and Mother shaking hands.

  As soon as Mrs. Olsen leaves, Mother sits down and telephones Mrs. Peck. “Fannie, you are not going to believe this,” she says. “God has opened a door we didn’t even knock on.”

  * * *

  The next time we’re in church, Pastor Dames asks, “Are there any testimonies in the house?”

  Mrs. Peck calls Mother up to tell their story. The church is full of whispers and praises, and more and more people stand in line at the microphone to tell of God’s goodness. Aunt Nina and Uncle Clyde are next, and both of them are overflowing with tears and gratitude. They can’t even finish talking they are so moved.

  And then, Ollie Mae walks to the microphone. “Church, I’ll be brief,” she says. “I am thanking God today for His grace and mercy.” She goes on to talk about the goodness of the Lord. I look at her and it takes a moment for me to really believe what I am seeing, because at first it looks like she is wearing something I’ve seen before, but under that familiar blazer is the blouse I made her. She’s wearing the skirt, too.

  And they’re both a perfect fit.

  Detroit, Michigan

  1948

  Freedom

  Is a strong seed.

  —Langston Hughes

  Twenty-Nine

  Counting Blessings:

  I could count all the times I had a snowball fight with Suesetta and Bernice, all the times I tried to sew a dress and failed, then tried again and made it just right. I could count how many laughs Shirley and I shared, how many times I told Jimmie and Juanita that I love them more than any of my favorite possessions. I could count the hugs from Mrs. Collins, the smiles from Mrs. Peck. I could count every nod from a stranger who passes by. I could count each rising and setting of the sun, every glistening star in the night sky.

  But that would be too many numbers and I might not ever fall asleep.

  Thirty

  School just let out for summer and the next time I enter a school building, it will be Northern High. Shirley keeps asking me if I’m scared to go to high school, and how does it feel to be so grown up, and what am I excited about the most. I don’t really have all the answers, except to say that I can’t wait to join the Delta Sigma Theta Sorority. As a high school student, I can join the Delsprites. It’s by invitation only and today, my invitation came.

  Being a Delsprite means red will be one of my favorite colors, second to purple. I’ll get to go to debutante balls and dinner parties, but the best part will be volunteering for local organizations that work with children. I think I’d be good at that since Mother is always saying that I have lots of compassion. Plus, I’m a good big sister, so it’s probably the same kind of thing.

  Suesetta hasn’t received her invitation yet, but I’m sure it’s coming. We’re walking home from the park plotting out what we want our first year of high school to be like. The June sky dripped its sunshine on us all day. All afternoon we feasted on Popsicles to keep cool. Now our tongues are rainbows.

  The day faded and now the sun is sleeping and the stars are awake and dancing above us. We are about three blocks away from my house when a boy runs down the street, yelling, “The police out here are killing people! The police out here are killing people!” The boy runs right past us, yelling the whole way. Porches fill up with curious neighbors who’ve come outside to see what all the commotion is about. They tell us, “You all hurry and get home, you hear? Hurry and get home.” A man comes outside and walks us.

  We walk faster than I’ve ever walked, and when I get to my house, Mother insists that Father turn the radio off and I get ready for bed.

  It isn’t until the next morning that I learn what happened. Father and I are sitting at the dining room table listening to the radio. A man’s voice just announced that Leon Mosley, a fifteen-year-old Negro boy, was shot in the back by the police. He died. “Police say he was joyriding in a stolen car after attending a dance,” the voice says so matter-of-factly, so empty of any feeling.

 
Mother comes into the kitchen and before she says Good morning or asks How did you sleep? she starts fussing at Father. “Lorenzo, now, this is no way to start the morning. Please turn that off.”

  Father gets up and turns the knob slow enough that we hear the voice say there are conflicting eyewitness stories about what happened before the officer shot Leon—some say they beat the boy and he broke free, was running away, and then they shot him. Others don’t mention a beating, just say he was shot. But all eleven witnesses say he was shot in the back, which means he didn’t pose a threat to anyone.

  They didn’t have to shoot him, kill him dead. Did they?

  Now that the radio is off, the dining room is silent like a moonless sky. I can’t eat my breakfast. I feel sick and all I want to do is go back to yesterday, when it was a nice June day and the sun was melting my Popsicle and I was dreaming of being a Delsprite and walking and talking in the park with Suesetta.

  Just as I am thinking this, there’s a knock on our door. Kay and Suesetta are standing there, all dressed up in their finest. Kay says, “There’s going to be a march this afternoon. We stopped by to see if you want to come.”

  Seeing them on my doorstep reminds me of Phyllis. We haven’t talked in a while, except for a casual hello at church. But looking at Suesetta and Kay right now makes me remember everything Phyllis said about how silly we were to think that passing out flyers would change things. “Um, I’m going to stay home today.”

  They both look surprised, but they don’t push me to change my mind.

  I close the door and join Mother in the kitchen as she starts our Saturday-morning cleaning. She hands me a bottle of bleach. “Pour a little of this into that water and add some soap.”

  I take the bleach, pour a capful into the bucket of water so I can mop.

  “Not too much now,” Mother says. “Too much and we’ll get to coughing and our eyes will be stinging.”

  I mop the floor, she washes dishes, and we go about our cleaning like this is a regular day. But there is nothing normal about today. The whole time we clean, I whisper a prayer for the family of the fifteen-year-old boy with a bullet in his back lying somewhere in a morgue.