by ANDREA SMITH
“I understand.” Tally started out the door.
She was about to follow him to the porch when the phone rang again. “Thora. Yes, dahlin’. I know it’s gettin’ dark, but…jes’ stay put. Girl, set on down and ha’ yo’self a slice of that apple pie.” Bonnie waved Tally out of the door. “He’s on his way. Okay…yes, honey…bye-bye.”
Bonnie hung up the receiver. She stepped outside just as Tally pulled out of the yard. She watched until his car had disappeared. Bonnie heard the phone ring again. As strong as Thora seemed, it was strange how a small chink in her chain could completely throw the woman off. “Thora, honey, he’s on his way…”
“Is this Bonnie Wilder?” a young woman’s voice asked.
Bonnie paused.
“Mrs. Wilder?”
Though Bonnie instinctively knew the answer, she steeled herself to ask: “To whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Augusta Randall,” the woman said. “I wrote you a letter a few weeks ago. But you might not have gotten it because I didn’t have your full address.”
“I did get yo’ letter, honey,” Bonnie said.
The girl sighed happily. “I’m so glad.” Bonnie could hear the relief in Augusta Randall’s tiny voice. “Sorry I took so long to call, but I wanted to give my letter some time to find you.”
“I understand,” Bonnie told her.
“It’s wonderful to actually talk to you,” Augusta said. “How have you been getting along, Mrs. Wilder?”
“I’m in good health. Thank you for asking.”
“That’s a blessing…”
“Indeed.” Bonnie knew that the woman wanted to get right to the point. But she could tell that Augusta had been raised to be polite. Bonnie could feel the woman’s breeding—her respect for tradition and formality. “So…you’re a schoolteacher?” Bonnie asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I teach math to third graders.”
“Math?” Bonnie gasped. “Never was good at numbers and figurin’.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said.
“And yo’ husband…he’s a teacher too?”
“Joe’s a professor at Rutgers University,” Augusta answered.
“Two such smart people,” Bonnie said.
“He teaches social science to incoming freshmen and also a course in pre-law.”
Bonnie listened for any sign of Lucinda in the girl’s voice. And what would it sound like? Would her words sound loose and uncaring—her voice sensual and hard-bitten? Bonnie suddenly hated herself for trying to find Lucinda in the girl. Of all people, Bonnie knew that these rough traits didn’t come through the blood.
“Can you…help me, Mrs. Wilder?” Augusta asked. “I would love to, one day, give my own son or daughter a sense of where they came from…who their people were.”
“It wouldn’t serve nobody to know they mama was somebody like Lucinda.” And right now, hearing this woman’s voice—so excited, so hopeful, Bonnie was convinced of that fact more than ever. She held the receiver with two hands. “I’m afraid I cain’t help you, sugar.”
“Surely you can tell me something…”
Bonnie had always admired people who clung to their convictions. And she could tell that this young woman wouldn’t easily give up. Perhaps she was as stubborn as Lucinda once was. Bonnie closed her eyes and offered up a silent apology. She was doing it again. She was assuming traits in this young woman that surely had nothing to do with Lucinda. Then too, stubbornness was a quality that lived in a lot of people, including Bonnie herself. And stubbornness in a woman could often be a strength.
“Is there anything you can remember?” the girl pressed.
“You said that yo’ mama—yo’ adopted mama—was named Evelyn Porter?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Augusta replied.
“Small, brown-skinned gal? And yo’ daddy, Dorsey…he was a high-toned, good-looking man?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Augusta said. “My daddy died about fifteen years ago.”
“Nice folks,” Bonnie said. “They wanted a child so bad and I was happy when I was finally able to give them a little girl.”
“And that child was me?” Augusta’s voice brimmed with anticipation.
“Yes, dear, that was you.”
It took a while to recall, but Bonnie vaguely remembered. She recalled that Evelyn, petite and soft-spoken, seemed so nervous. When she shook Bonnie’s hand, her palm was cool and moist.
“I do remember Evelyn,” Bonnie said. “She seemed like a lovely lady.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Augusta paused. “But can you remember anything about my biological mother?”
Bonnie sat down in the chair beside the phone. “You say Evelyn was a good mama?”
“I loved her dearly.”
“How ’bout yo’ daddy?” Bonnie asked.
“They were both wonderful parents.”
Bonnie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Then maybe you should…jes’ let things be,” she said. For a moment all she could hear was the long-distance static over the phone line.
“Let things be?”
“You are havin’ a baby,” Bonnie said. “That is such a blessing. And yo’ letter say that you need to take it easy. I know many women in my day that had beautiful, healthy babies after months of bed rest. Ain’t no need in gettin’ yo’self in a state about the past.”
“But isn’t that for me to decide?” Augusta asked almost desperately. “Isn’t that my call?” She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Wilder,” she said, “is it that you can’t help me, or that you won’t?”
“Oh, gal,” Bonnie said wearily. “We didn’t see most of the women that dropped these children. They arrived in the night with so many secrets…most in a lot of pain. Yo’ mama coulda come from a whole ’nother county, a whole ’nother state, even.”
“I guess you won’t help me, then.”
Bonnie could hear the disappointment in the silence that followed.
“Well…thank you, ma’am,” Augusta said.
“Sound like you got a good life,” Bonnie ventured. “A good husband! And you’re havin’ a baby! Right there…right there are three blessings that many women will never have.”
“I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Just give thanks, gal,” Bonnie said. “Relax yo’self and don’t be worryin’ ’bout all this old nonsense.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
Bonnie wasn’t quite sure how long she sat in the dark room. It wasn’t until she heard the insistent drone from the phone that she realized she hadn’t even hung up.
FIVE
Canaan Creek, 1957
Mayweather’s Diner was right across from the Grove Cinema Playhouse. Bonnie and Thora paused at the corner of Main Street and waited until Canaan Creek’s one and only traffic light had turned green. They had just cried through two showings of From Here to Eternity and now headed to the diner for dessert. Bonnie closed the tiny pearl button at the top of her white cardigan. She loved this time of year, when the stifling summer had given way to a fresh autumn chill. Most of the shops were decorated with the orange and brown colors of the All Hallows’ season. Flickering white lights were strung from telephone pole to telephone pole, through the entire length of the two-block shopping district.
The untroubled mood that had always prevailed in the Three Sisters had finally returned. After four months, questions about the dead child had stopped. Absent of any credible explanation from the Sheriff’s office, folks had contrived their own theories, ranging from a band of Gypsies to hoodoo sacrifices. Whatever they had supposed seemed to allow them to sleep, worship peacefully and go on about the business of living.
The light finally clicked to green and Thora took Bonnie’s hand as the two friends crossed the street. They were usually delighted to have a bit of time without their husbands. In fact, Bonnie and Thora planned the whole weekend together while the men traveled to see a baseball game in Nashville. And it wasn’t just a regular game for Naz Wilder. He and Horace were
driving Naz’s green pickup truck all the way to Tennessee to see Jackie Robinson play. Early that Saturday morning, Bonnie had served her man a breakfast of French toast and honey ham, then Naz grabbed his old Black Crackers cap from the drawer, kissed her on the cheek and bounded out of the house to pick up Horace.
“Is that Ruby-Pearl Yancy?” Thora asked as they stopped in front of the diner.
Bonnie saw the small woman standing at the box office of the movie house.
“Ain’t she the saddest thing,” Thora said.
The image of Ruby-Pearl, cloaked in a dark chiffon scarf, plucking her own movie fare from her purse, was a sorrowful sight. Ruby-Pearl looked up just in time to notice Bonnie and Thora staring from across the street. Bonnie wanted to let her go on, but they had already seen each other and it would be beyond rude not to speak. Bonnie grabbed Thora’s arm and the two dashed back across the street, just as the light was about to change again.
“Why, Ruby-Pearl,” Bonnie said, brightening her voice.
“How you doin’, honey,” Thora said kindly.
Ruby-Pearl nodded at them both. She fiddled with the strap of her purse. “I was gonna call you, Bonnie…”
“You got a phone?” Thora blurted.
Bonnie elbowed Thora in her ribs.
“Just a party line,” Ruby-Pearl answered. “If you ever need to reach me,” she said, “jes’ call Ruth and she’ll jangle me out there on Route 9.”
“That’s wonderful,” Bonnie said.
“It’s jes’ a phone,” she said modestly. “And it sho’ly took me long enough.”
“Folks gotta do things in they own time,” Thora said.
Ruby-Pearl closed the cinema ticket in her hand. “I was thinkin’,” she said to Bonnie. “Thinkin’ that maybe one day I’d come to one of yo’ ladies’ meetin’s…”
“Why in the world you wanna do that,” Thora put in. “I wouldn’t wish any of them Harvest ladies—and especially that damn Tilde Monroe—on my worse enemy.”
Ruby-Pearl laughed. “You are a caution, Thora Dean!”
“Ain’t she, though,” Bonnie said.
“I guess I’m…tryin’ to get myself out the house a lil’,” Ruby-Pearl said.
“That’s a fine idea,” Bonnie said.
Mrs. Mayfield, the movie usher, was about to close the doors.
“I better get on,” Ruby-Pearl said.
Bonnie embraced the woman. “You have yo’self a good time,” Bonnie said. “And I will certainly call you befo’ our next Harvest meeting.”
“Take care of yo’self, girl,” Thora said. They were about to walk away. “And you gon’ like the movie,” Thora called. “Make sho’ you got yourself a load o’ hankies.”
Ruby-Pearl wagged her finger at Thora, then she hurried into the theater.
“Look like she finally comin’ along in the world,” Bonnie said as they crossed the street.
“About damn time.”
“The woman lost her family, Thora! She been to hell and back.” Bonnie suddenly stopped on the sidewalk in front of the diner. “And weren’t you the one who jes’ said that ever’body got to do things at they own pace. Wadn’t that jes’ you?”
“Well, yeah…”
“I was proud of you…bein’ so sensitive and all.”
“And I meant it,” Thora insisted. “But I guess bein’ gentle and understandin’ jes’ don’t come natural fo’ me.”
The glass door at Mayweather’s chimed when they entered the diner. A large jukebox by the entrance played “The Woo Woo Train” by the Valentines. “Hey there, Polly,” Bonnie called. Thora waved to the slight white woman counting change behind the cash register.
“How do there, Bonnie, Thora,” Polly called. “Just set anywhere!” Polly pushed open a door that looked like a pink-wrapped present and went into the kitchen.
Thora chose a booth. She and Bonnie slid in on either side.
“Slow tonight,” Thora said, noticing the sparse crowd.
“It’s comin’ on that time a year when folks like to stay home.”
Decorated with pastel pink and blue curtains, Mayweather’s was lined with a long brassy counter that practically extended the length of the place. Back in the forties, Polly made the decision to open her door to all people, and some of the local white folk decided to frequent Arnold Byer’s place instead. Polly didn’t much care. She made more than a good living serving the colored folks in the Three Sisters. Bonnie and Naz ate there once in a while, but Thora and Horace were regular customers. It was a little joke around the Wilder and Dean houses that Thora was such a bad cook that Horace knew Mayweather’s menu by heart.
Mayweather’s did have the best desserts. This time of the evening, after a movie or a late church service, dessert is what most people ordered. Bonnie decided on the fried peach pie and coffee. It took only a few minutes for her to gobble it down. Thora took her time and sat cutting the chocolate swirl from the yellow part of her marble cake.
“Why didn’t you jes’ order the pound cake?” Bonnie asked.
Thora’s attention was focused a couple of booths away. She didn’t answer.
“If you gon’ cut the dark part out,” Bonnie continued, “why not jes’ ha’ the yellow cake to begin wit’?”
Thora glanced over Bonnie’s shoulder. “That’s Cal Monroe,” she said.
Bonnie turned to look. She could only see the back of a man. A round-faced dark brown woman that Bonnie hadn’t seen before was sitting across from him. “No.”
“Yeah, it is too.”
“You sho’ that’s Cal?” Bonnie whispered.
“He jes’ peeked over his shoulder, lookin’ all guilty and everythin’.” Thora raised one thin brow. She always raised her brow when she had devilment on her mind. “Think Tilde know her man done skipped out?”
“They only sittin’ together, Thora.”
“My ass! They’s lookin’ mighty cozy there.”
Bonnie turned again. The woman’s hair was swept off her chubby neck and wound on the top of her head like a cinnamon bun. Thora was right. She did appear captivated by Cal’s words. And that was saying a lot because Cal Monroe wasn’t the most interesting fella in town. Every once in a while, the woman reached across the table and stroked his hand.
“That man love hisself some fat women,” Thora said.
“That’s fo’ sho’.” Bonnie giggled. She suddenly felt bad that Cal Monroe might actually be cheating.
“Ole loudmouth Tilde always into somebody else’s affairs,” Thora went on, “and here her man done gone to town. Now, there’s some justice.”
Bonnie put her empty coffee cup on top of her dessert plate. She set a dollar and seven cents on the table before she got up. “I ain’t crazy ’bout Tilde’s ways,” Bonnie said, “but I don’t think this has anythin’ to do wit’ justice. And I know that you don’t really feel that way either.”
“Come on, now,” Thora said, batting her lashes. “This don’t gi’ you jes’ a little satisfaction after hearin’ that woman’s mouth all these years?”
“No,” Bonnie said. Then she thought about it. “Well, not much.”
“You jes’ as bad as me,” Thora laughed.
They walked past Cal. Thora, in all her brazenness, couldn’t help but slow her pace. Cal’s appetite suddenly became so ravenous that he barely looked up. Bonnie could hear his fork nervously tap against the beige glass plate. Thora was about to confront him until Bonnie yanked at her hand and the women left the restaurant. As they walked to the car, Bonnie couldn’t help but wonder what made a man go to a woman like that. She wasn’t any younger than Tilde, and not even prettier. Yes, Tilde was a loudmouth, but so was Cal. Naz once joked that Cal and Tilde Monroe were a match made in heaven. He said that the only somebody who could tolerate either one was the other.
Thora drove along Baychester Parkway and Bonnie sat silently. After a while, the stores and paved roads turned to thick trees and dry red clay.
“Why you so quiet, Bonnie?
”
“Thinkin’ of Tilde.”
Thora sucked her teeth. “There’s a whole lot of other subjects worth considerin’.”
“I jes’ mean…well, why would her husband sneak ’round like that?”
“You know Tilde and still gotta ask why?”
“Oh, come on now, Thora. That’s not what I mean!”
“He’s a man, Bonnie.”
“They don’t all do that.”
“Most of ’em…at some point.”
“How can you say that? Horace never stepped out on you.”
Thora’s eyes stayed on the road.
“Right?” Bonnie asked. Thora didn’t answer. “Right?” Bonnie asked again.
“I ’spect he did,” Thora finally said. “Once.”
“What?” Bonnie gasped. “When?”
“’Bout two years ago.”
Bonnie was stunned. “And you didn’t tell me, Thora?”
“It’s embarrassing,” she said. “’Sides, Horace swo’ up and down that I was talkin’ crazy. But a woman know these things.”
“I cain’t believe this,” Bonnie started. “I tell you all my most inner secrets and you ain’t said boo ’bout this! This!”
“It all passed so quick.”
“With who? Who was the woman?”
Thora paused. “One of the Bell sisters.”
“Shut yo’ mouth right now!”
“I ain’t lyin’,” Thora said.
“Birdie?”
“Bessie.”
“Get on away from me!”
“Horace is good wit’ people,” Thora said. “You know how charmin’ he is. But I noticed that they seemed to avoid each other in church. Then he started actin’ funny ’round Bessie. Cuttin’ his eyes toward her, twirlin’ his hat all nervous-like when she come ’round. And the other Bell sisters, they lookin’ at him sideways, clickin’ they teeth and carryin’ on. They all such trollops in the first place.”