Blanche Cleans Up

by Barbara Neely

The audience laughed with him.

  “But I looked up one day and understood I’d been doing wrong and what I needed to do to make things right. So me and a couple other brothers started Ex-Cons for Community Safety. Our group tries to get brothers coming home from prison to take responsibility for making our neighborhoods safe and to help turn our young brothers around so they don’t go the prison route. As far as lead poisoning and the environment is concerned, we have an environmental patrol that deals with illegal dumping and trashing. We make sure abandoned buildings are secured and not being used by junkies or drug dealers. We also provide security for meetings like this and escorts for our elders and other people who need it. We’re working with some of the youth to start a breakfast program for the little ones next year. Thank you.”

  A chorus of “Amen” and “Good for you, brother” went up from the audience. You could secure me anytime, you fine thing, Blanche thought. She crossed her legs and tried to pay attention to what the man was saying instead of the size of his hands and the way the light played on his cheekbones. He responded to the applause with a big grin that made him look very, very sweet. Blanche licked her lips.

  After the meeting, some people lined up to sign the volunteer sheet and pick up the brochures on lead poisoning. Maybe she and the kids should get involved. After all, if the environment went, nothing else mattered. It would also give her a way to be with Malik and Taifa where she wasn’t giving orders and correcting them all the time. And it would be good for them to have something to do with all that energy that would benefit somebody besides themselves. On the other hand, she didn’t think this was the right organization. Too much pain.

  The front of the room was quickly transformed into a buffet with huge jimmiejohns of orange soda and cola and mountains of sandwiches separated by mounds of fresh fruit. Malik excused himself and headed for Aminata. Blanche was tempted to go see what they were talking about but knew better.

  She walked deliberately to the back of the room and stood near Lacey and Joanie, who were talking about where to find the freshest fish in the ’hood. Blanche gave Lacey a sly looking-over and felt curiosity gnawing at her belly like hunger: Lacey was a good-looking woman, not pretty, but with the kind of regular, narrow features that got attention. She was smaller than Blanche expected—one of those short women with a tall presence. There was an elegant drape to her wool knit pants, and her blouse had a made-to-fit look. Blanche figured the pants alone probably cost her five or six hundred bucks. Her rings, bracelet, and earrings weren’t gold plate, either. Blanche wondered just what kind of sex work she did.

  Blanche turned, her blue-black searching for Malik. He was still talking to Aminata, who was watching him closely, nodding her head every once in a while. Even from here there was something forlorn about her. Blanche thought about Miz Pearl, her mother’s old hairdresser. When Miz Pearl’s husband of thirty years died, Miz Pearl expected to die of grief. When she didn’t, she turned her life into a monument to her husband. She sent his clothes to the cleaners twice a year to keep them fresh, joined the women’s auxiliary of the lodge he’d belonged to, and held poker parties for his cronies. The walking wounded, Blanche thought.

  Lacey’s eyes followed Blanche’s. “It’s a real shame. She was—I guess I should say is—one of the best mothers I ever saw. Patient, loving, involved. For all the good it did her.”

  “I was just thinking how life can carve us out a path we had no plans to take,” Blanche said.

  “The three of us went to high school together,” Joanie said. “Losing her son really messed her up.”

  “Remember all that volunteer stuff she used to do?” Lacey said. “Working on public housing tenants’ rights, helping homeless girls—and didn’t she start a food pantry at some church around here? She gave all that up when her boy went to jail.”

  “Not exactly,” Joanie said. “You know she’d been hassling with a couple of them groups for years.”

  “About what?” Blanche wanted to know.

  “The same old thing,” Joanie told her. “Women doin’ the work, men getting the glory. But writing that letter to the feds about the housing development boys ripping off the funds ended her thing with most organizations around here.”

  Now Blanche understood why none of the well-known community groups she read about in the black newspaper had been represented at the meeting. Being down on crooked male leadership was one thing, but writing letters to try to stop it was something else. Honesty might be the best policy, but it didn’t necessarily lead to popularity.

  “You know, she used to live in this apartment,” Joanie said. “Moved out and got a room so she can use this place for the organization.”

  Blanche was momentarily distracted by the sight of Othello Flood in the front of the room. He definitely reminded her of Leo. He didn’t look like Leo, except that they were both big and dark-skinned. It was his air that really called Leo to mind—that same gentle, slow way that, to Blanche, meant a man sure enough of himself not to have to prove anything to anybody. She wondered if, like Leo’s, his skin felt tight as a drum and extra warm, like there was a banked fire waiting inside to set her parts ablaze. Now, what could she go talk to him about? Suddenly, it dawned on her that Othello was watching Aminata as though she were the last bit of sandwich in a soon-to-be-foodless world. Damn! Blanche turned to Lacey.

  “So what line of sex work are you in, exactly?”

  “The rent-my-body-for-pleasure line.” Lacey took a leather case from her handbag and handed Blanche her card. “We’re a cooperative. We work the big hotels and private parties for men with lots of money.”

  Blanche looked down at the card:

  Family Values, Inc.

  555-767-7979

  She covered her mouth with her hand, but not quite soon enough to stifle the whoop of laughter that turned the heads of people standing nearby.

  “Girl! Are you serious?”

  “As any other incorporated entity out here.” Lacey didn’t even smile when she said it.

  “Yeah, I nearly split my sides the first time I saw that card,” Joanie said. “They even got an investment club.”

  “You should hear some of the phone calls we get,” Lacey told them. “People thinking we’re part of the religious right. I give them some righteous religion, all right.” Lacey tipped her head toward Maurice Samuelson, who was in the middle of a group of smiling women. “Of course, for some religious folks, our brand of family values is just what they’re looking for.”

  “No shit! You never told me Samuelson was one of your customers!” Joanie sounded seriously cheated.

  “He’s not one of ours. I hear he likes them white, young, and not too expensive—which keeps him away from us.”

  Blanche looked at Samuelson and wondered what he would say if he knew Lacey was back here putting his business in the street.

  Samuelson looked up and caught Blanche’s eye. He began working his way toward her.

  “Uh-oh. I’m outta here.” Joanie turned toward the door.

  “Next time we’ll talk about your sex life, or should I say, the lack of it?” Lacey winked at Blanche and hurried out the door behind Joanie.

  Blanche made a wide circle around the room and joined Aminata and Malik.

  “You’re lucky,” Aminata said after Malik introduced her to Blanche. “He’s a fine young man. Concerned about his community.”

  Malik ducked his head. Blanche grinned her pleasure.

  “He’s been telling me about this paper he’s gotta do. I’m honored he’s decided to focus on the Community Reawakening Project. It’s important to get our message out to young people before they start having kids.”

  Blanche put her arm through Malik’s.

  Malik turned to Aminata. “I’m gonna read these pamphlets and papers you gave me and write my outline; then I’ll call you, okay?”

  “You can call me anytime, Malik,” Aminata told him.

  Blanche and Malik had nearly made it to the door when
Blanche realized Samuelson was there and waiting for her.

  “Well, hello! You’re the sister who almost knocked me over yesterday.”

  Blanche just looked at him.

  “Reverend Maurice Samuelson at your service, my sister.” He bowed to her, then turned to the two men behind him. “Y’all wait by the car.” Facing Blanche again, he pressed his hand to his heart. “I’m just sorry our first encounter had to be while I was trying to get the man to do right by our people.”

  “Oh, is that what you were doing?”

  Samuelson gave a little laugh that made Blanche think of having her pockets picked. She waited for him to ask what she meant, but he didn’t.

  She understood what he wanted from her, but she’d be damned if she’d help him convince himself it was all right to dis blacks to Brindle.

  “We all got to do the distasteful sometimes,” he said. “I’m sure you run into this problem in your line of work.”

  “I try to do my job in a way that don’t make me ashamed to look black people in the eye,” she told him.

  Samuelson refused to bite. “May I know your name, sister?”

  Blanche told him and introduced him to Malik.

  “I’m at your service, Sister Blanche. May I call you that?” Samuelson’s voice was as greasy as his hair.

  “Certainly, Brother Maurice.”

  His face went sour for half a second, but he recovered quickly enough. “Have you considered joining us at the Temple? Many have found peace there, Sister Blanche. Many. Some have come from Islam; some have come from the Baptist, Catholic, Pentecostal, or other faiths. All have found a home in the Temple. Join us.” The last was said in a whisper she thought was meant to be spiritual but reminded her of an obscene phone call.

  His invitation to the Temple of Divine Enlightenment made her wonder if he thought she’d be more respectful on his turf.

  “What a creep,” Malik said.

  “He is that,” Blanche agreed. “Kind of preacher that gives God a bad name.”

  “So why’d you decide on this group for your paper, Malik?” Blanche asked while they waited for the bus.

  Malik turned bright eyes toward her. “She da bomb, Moms! Don’t you like her?”

  “But you’re supposed to do a paper on an organization, not a person.”

  “Yeah?”

  Blanche always marveled over how much defensiveness the boy could load into one word.

  “Well, I just wondered, why this one? I know you weren’t crazy about the other groups, but…”

  “You don’t like her.”

  “Malik, it’s not about Aminata. It’s the Community Reawakening Project I wonder about. I mean, is she the whole organization? I didn’t see nobody else there who claimed to be a member, did you?”

  Malik thought for a second. “Well, just because people didn’t say they were members don’t mean they weren’t. She gave me a whole lot of pamphlets and stuff. And she didn’t treat me like a dumb kid when I tried to talk to her, like those guys at the other places we went to.”

  “Well, I just wondered if you didn’t want a more…” A more what? An organization that wasn’t run by a woman drowning in grief, who talked like she just might be across the street from sane? An organization that didn’t meet in the founder’s ex–living room? That didn’t invite Samuelson to speak?

  “This is the only group that talked about teenagers and violence and lead poisoning,” Malik said.

  Exactly, Blanche thought. She’d never seen or heard any news reports that said lead poisoning could cause violence. She was sure the lead poisoning–violence connection was something Aminata had cooked up to ease the pain of a murdering son. But if she said as much to Malik, he’d likely take it as another sign that she didn’t like Aminata. She just hoped he wouldn’t be too crushed when he found out Aminata didn’t know what she was talking about.

  “But nobody else who spoke said anything about lead and violence. Just Aminata.”

  “Yeah?”

  Here we go again. Tension seized Blanche’s back and lifted her shoulders nearly to her ears.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that nobody else mentioned it?”

  “Maybe the others don’t care as much about teens. Maybe they just care about little kids. Miz Aminata said sometimes it’s hard to make people see what’s right in front of their noses.”

  Blanche twitched. “Miz Aminata said” was a phrase she had a feeling she could get sick of hearing. “Well, you don’t have to decide tonight, you—”

  “Mom, I already decided.” Malik looked at her from stern eyes nearly level with her own. “Miz Aminata’s gonna see if she can get some interviews with the parents of the four guys in jail for killing people to see if they had lead poisoning when they were little.”

  “I don’t know about that, Malik. Maybe you need to think about this. If Miss Wagner already believes nobody cares about the environment in Roxbury, does a paper on an organization with one member prove her wrong? At least you need to find out if there really are other members of the organization, or if the whole thing is Aminata.”

  “So what if it’s just her? You gotta start somewhere. Probably a lot of groups had just a couple of people in the beginning. You’re always saying if you want something done, get up and do it. That’s what Miz Aminata’s doing.”

  Blanche wanted to shout “No fair!” She wasn’t raising him to use her own arguments against her! But he was right. Whatever problems Aminata might be having, she was living what she believed. Malik could probably do a lot worse.

  “Okay, Malik. It’s your choice, but I want to think about this interviewing parents thing.” What she really meant was that she wasn’t sure she wanted him off doing interviews with Aminata about something that could cause her to get lost in her gentle-son story and scare somebody half to death. What happened when Othello wasn’t there to call her back?

  Blanche settled into her bus seat and wished it were her bed.

  Malik poked her in the side. “Moms! What exactly is a sex worker?”

  Shit! Didn’t she ever get a break? She pulled herself up and cleared her throat. “A sex worker is somebody who sells sex for a living, or maybe a counselor or somebody who works with people who sell sex.”

  “You mean like ho—prostitutes?”

  “Um-hum.”

  “Is that what she is, that lady we met? Lacey?”

  “Yes.”

  “She don’t look like a ho—prostitute.”

  “And what do prostitutes look like?”

  “You know, Moms, they wear a lot of makeup and their…all their stuff is hanging out.” Malik hesitated a moment. “And they don’t go to meetings about the environment, either.”

  She thought about the times in her life when her money was so low, her prospects so dim that if the right stranger had asked her to have sex for the right price, she didn’t know how she would have answered. She thought about the more than a handful of women she knew and worked for who talked about sex with their husbands and lovers as though it were a price they had to pay for help with the cost of food or school clothes for their children.

  “Looks like you’re wrong on all counts,” Blanche told him. “Looks like prostitutes are the same as computer programmers and lawyers.”

  “What do you mean?” Malik gave her a suspicious look.

  “I mean you can’t tell what they do by looking at them—or whether they’re interested in the environment.” Was this where she should launch into her thing about the need to legalize prostitution or jail more johns? She knew parents were supposed to know shit like how much to tell a child and when, but she sure as hell didn’t. The books generally said something about when the child is ready and nothing about how to recognize ready when it asked you a question.

  Malik poked her again. “Moms, what did you mean about being a temporary celib—”

  “Here’s our stop,” Blanche was delighted to announce. She jumped out of her seat. “Hurry up, I gotta pee!”<
br />
  As she scurried to the bathroom, she saw Shaquita curled up on the extra cot in Taifa’s room looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Maybe it’s just boyfriend trouble. Maybe it was something else.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Blanche stuck her head in Taifa’s room and asked Shaquita to come with her. Blanche waved Shaquita into her own room and closed the door. She took off her shoes and knee-highs.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, honey.” Blanche looked straight at her.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Aunt Blanche. Nothing’s wrong, honest.”

  Blanche gave the girl a close, hard look. Was her face even fuller than usual? Her eyes were certainly bright, and her skin almost glowed, even though she didn’t look particularly happy. Damn!

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  The tears that quickly sprang to Shaquita’s eyes were all the answer Blanche needed.

  “Oh, Shaquita!” Blanche plopped down on the bed and turned her face away so that the girl couldn’t see how deeply disappointed she felt.

  “Don’t tell Grandma, please, Aunt Blanche. I know I have to tell her, but…”

  “I don’t hardly mind not being the one to break the news to Cousin Charlotte, believe me.” Blanche took Shaquita’s hand and pulled her down on the bed beside her. “How far along are you?”

  “Five weeks. I just found out today.” Her voice broke like a dropped glass.

  Blanche almost jumped for joy. There was still time. She looked at Shaquita. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

  Shaquita shrugged and looked like she wanted to cry.

  “I mean, you’re not very far gone, you could still…”

  “Pookie doesn’t know yet.”

  “Pookie?” Was this child telling her she was pregnant by somebody called Pookie? Ancestors save us!

  “I tried to tell him this afternoon, but…”

  “Well, maybe you should think about whether you want to tell him at all. Depending on what you decide to do, he—”

  “He’s my baby’s father!” Shaquita sounded as though not telling Pookie was a crime that could land her in jail. Worse yet was the way she said “my baby.” Blanche thought she heard jail doors clanging shut. Poor Cousin Charlotte. Shaquita wasn’t the only one caught between a rock and a hard place.