Blanche Cleans Up

by Barbara Neely

  “Before I get to the point, for those of you who don’t know her, this sister”—Aminata held her arm out toward the suited woman standing near her—“is Marilyn Wharton, the lawyer for the Community Reawakening Project.” She paused, moved a step closer to the audience, and began speaking again. “You know,” she said, “it’s always hard criticizing our own. White America gives our leaders so much flack, we feel like we always got to be out in front with praise for them, and come to their defense, no matter what they do. Now, that would be just fine if our leaders weren’t human beings like the rest of us. Being human, they do what humans do: They sometimes make mistakes. But what about when they choose to do wrong? What are we supposed to do then?” Once again, she stopped talking and looked around the room, this time waiting for a response. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Fry their asses!” someone shouted. Not-quite-easy laughter washed across the room. “Give ’em hell!” someone else called out. “Chastise their butts!” a woman said in a commanding voice.

  “That’s right!” Aminata said. “That’s right, chastise them. And that’s why we’re here this evening.” She held up the papers she had in her hand. “These documents make it clear that the Reverend Maurice Samuelson, of the Temple of Divine Enlightenment, has made a mistake. Not by accident, but on purpose. One child may have died because of it. Other children were certainly poisoned by lead because of the mistake Reverend Samuelson chose to make.”

  A rumble rose up from the room.

  “These papers prove that Reverend Samuelson is the owner of a boarded-up building on Register Street where there were once four apartments, apartments in which children were poisoned by lead. These papers show that Reverend Samuelson knew there was lead in this building. We talked to people who used to live there. They told us that someone who worked for the owner showed them certificates that proved the buildings had been deleaded. Those certificates were phony. And the good reverend hid his ownership of this building behind a corporation. His dead first wife is supposed to be the president, even though the corporation wasn’t established till after she died. We also believe he bribed a…”

  The door to the room crashed open. Samuelson and four of his boys stomped in. Security guards quickly formed a human fence around them, but allowed Samuelson to pass.

  “I’m glad you decided to come, Reverend Samuelson,” Aminata called out. “I was just planning to tell folks you’d been invited here tonight but had decided not to face the community. I’m glad you changed your mind. Please have a seat.”

  Samuelson hesitated. He’d obviously expected his entrance to stop Aminata in her tracks. He stood in the aisle, seeming uncertain about his next move. Aminata went on.

  “As I was saying, Reverend Samuelson, here, has made some bad mistakes. Y’all know what lead poisoning does to our children. And you know what it does to our kids when they get older, making them violent, making them hurt their friends, like my sweet son did. My boy…but I ain’t going to talk about that now.” She turned and gave Othello a big smile before she went on.

  Blanche thought she felt a shift in people’s attention. She looked around the room. Was everyone as uncomfortable as she was with Aminata’s wishful thinking about a connection between lead poisoning and violence? It was almost embarrassing to hear her talk about it.

  “…four youths from Roxbury waiting to go to trial for killing somebody,” Aminata said. “Three of those four boys had lead-paint poisoning when they were kids. The effects of mistakes like Reverend Samuelson’s don’t just make us sick. They can kill us and make us kill.”

  “Hold up, young lady. I’m a man of the cloth. I’m an upstanding member of this community. You better be careful about what you say. I could sue you and your ragtag organization for every nickel you got.”

  Aminata waved the papers in the air and spoke with even more vigor. “And furthermore, the Reverend’s phony corporation owns other buildings in this neighborhood, too. We need to be talking to people who live in them to see if—”

  “Woman! You don’t know who you messin’ with,” Samuelson huffed. “I got friends downtown. Friends who won’t take kindly to some crazy woman trying to make me look bad.” Samuelson looked at the people around him. He spread his hands, palms up. “You all know me. You know what I done for this community. You gonna sit here and listen to this—”

  “Man, just tell us what you gonna do ’bout this lead-poison mess you done made for our kids,” a man called out.

  “That’s right!” a number of people agreed.

  “I ain’t got to explain nothing to y’all bunch of…” Samuelson changed direction and eased toward the back of the room, where his boys were still surrounded by security men.

  “You need to pay attention to the message on your car, Rev,” a deep voice down front suggested.

  “His car? What’s his car got to do with it?” someone else wanted to know.

  “Somebody sent him a message,” a deep voice replied. “It said ‘God don’t like ugly’ in big orange letters, right on his hood.”

  The room rocked with laughter.

  “That’s what I call a serious monogram,” a woman called out to more hoots of laughter.

  Samuelson’s eyes darted from side to side. He looked like a bully losing his first fight.

  “You ain’t heard the last of this,” he shouted. “I got lawyers, too. And if any of you niggers is responsible for fucking up my car, I’ll…”

  Hoots and jeers cut him off.

  “And God bless you, too, Reverend,” someone called after him, which caused even more hilarity.

  “Traitor! Slumlord!” people hollered after Samuelson. He tried to bluff as he turned and strutted toward the door, but everyone had seen the shock on his face. He slammed out the door, his boys close behind him. The room broke out in applause.

  After the meeting, people milled around talking in excited voices and signing up for Aminata’s reparations committee that would work with the authorities to break Samuelson’s back. Blanche made her way over to Othello.

  “What happened?” she asked him.

  He looked puzzled.

  “I thought you were going to tell folks who killed Miz Barker and Ray-Ray.”

  He looked at her for a long time. “Sorry, sister, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  For a moment, Blanche was too shocked to protest. He was walking away when she found her voice. “Wait a minute, I want to know why—”

  He held up his hand to silence her. He gave her a look so intense, Blanche could feel it trying to touch her brain.

  “Remember what I told you when you first called me? A hundred and ten percent, remember? That’s how Ex-Cons for Community Safety deals with problems. One hundred and ten percent. Forget him. I already have.”

  Blanche would have liked to pretend she didn’t know what Othello meant, but she couldn’t. “But he’s got a wife and kids!”

  “He should have thought of that,” Othello told her. “So long, Blanche.”

  Blanche was as chilled as if she were outside in a snowstorm without a coat. She’d called on Othello because she never liked getting involved with the police, never trusted them to do the decent thing. She stared at Othello’s back moving away from her. Why had she expected him to have more faith in the system than she did—he, who’d already been through it? Yet she really thought he’d turn Donnie and the recording of his confession over to the police. She’d thought there would be a trial where she’d get the answers to her questions—like how exactly had Donnie killed Ray-Ray, who was so much stronger? Had Donnie and Ray-Ray had a real relationship besides the one Lucinda saw in the bar? Had Donnie tried to talk Ray-Ray into whitemailing Brindle, or had Donnie decided from jump to kill Ray-Ray for the tape? Now she would never have her questions answered, because Othello hadn’t turned Donnie over to the police. And never would. Never could now. But why did she care what Othello had done to Donnie when just last night she’d been ready to kill Donnie he
rself?

  But I didn’t, she thought, I didn’t kill him. She’d known without thinking that pulling that trigger would have changed her into a different person—a woman who had taken somebody’s life. Now she felt as responsible for and changed by Donnie’s death as if she’d gone and killed him herself. She could feel the weight of his death like a fifty-pound hump on her back.

  Taifa tugged at her sweater. “Let’s go, Moms.”

  Blanche turned and headed toward the door, but Malik was still talking to Aminata. Blanche ducked her head. She didn’t think she could talk to Aminata right now, not so soon after what she’d learned about Othello. She knew that men like General Schwarzkopf could send people’s children into war and still be nice to their wives, that the men who dropped the atomic bombs on Japan were all supposed to be decent, sane people, but she didn’t believe it for a minute. All she wanted to say to Aminata was “Run!”

  As soon as she could, Blanche beckoned to Taifa and Malik, and the three of them left.

  “We really nailed him, didn’t we, Moms!” Malik was as excited as Blanche had ever seen him.

  She threw an arm around his shoulders. “I’m really proud of you, Malik. I’m glad you dug your heels in about doing this project with Aminata.”

  Malik grinned at her.

  “And to think,” Taifa chimed in, “he couldn’t have done any of this if he hadn’t been lucky enough to be born my baby brother.”

  “Oh yeah?” Malik made a grab for her hair. Taifa shrieked and took off down the block with Malik right behind her. Blanche was surprised at how pleased she was to see them still doing their kid thing. Not yet, she thought, not yet.

  The phone was ringing as Blanche put her key in the front door. She ran to it, a grin on her face.

  “Hey, girl! How’d you know I needed to talk to you?”

  Ardell laughed. “It ain’t always about you, Blanche. I got some talking I need to do, too. Serious talk.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong. Ain’t nobody sick and I ain’t bringin’ no bad news.”

  “Well, what’s up?” Blanche settled into her favorite armchair, ready for a long listen. Then she sat up straight. “Wait a minute. Did you say ‘bringing’?”

  “Train gets into Boston at seven-twenty-five Saturday evening.”

  “Get off at Back Bay Station,” Blanche told her. “I’ll be waiting for you, you know that.” She had fifty questions, but she recognized Ardell’s I-ain’t-talking tone of voice. Blanche decided to wait to tell Ardell her news, too. It was the kind of story that could wait.

  SIXTEEN

  DAY SIXTEEN—FRIDAY

  Blanche spent Friday morning calling her clients to let them know she’d be back to work on Monday. They all seemed pleased, and none of them had any complaints against Cousin Charlotte’s niece, who’d replaced her.

  It was a real spring day, and she was eager to get out of doors, maybe find her way over to Jamaica Pond and walk along the other side—the side opposite the Brindle house. She stood in her doorway for a few minutes appreciating the coming green, watching the way the sun etched gold on the houses across the way. But she couldn’t get herself out the door. She didn’t know why until the phone rang.

  “Well, darlin’, what do you think of it all?”

  “Wanda?”

  “The very same. I got your number from our Inez.”

  “How you doin’?”

  “All well on my end. You’re the one, darlin’, bein’ there when the boy died, I mean.”

  “Yeah, it was rough, but I’m okay now.”

  “I should think so, darlin’. We don’t get paroled from hell every day.”

  Blanche laughed. “Working for them wasn’t no picnic, it’s true.”

  “It’s not workin’ for ’em I’m talkin’ about, darlin’. I take it you haven’t seen the papers yet?”

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Well, darlin’, it seems our Allister’s been caught with his pants down in front of the underaged. It’s all over the front page. Something about a video with children and animals. Quite a nasty business. Even I’m a bit shocked, and I never put anythin’ past that lot!”

  So it was out. “Have they arrested him?”

  “Not yet, but there’s talk of, how do they put it? Ah yes, serious criminal charges.”

  The memory of Brindle talking to her as though she wasn’t fit to breathe faded beneath the picture of him being dragged away in handcuffs. “No more than he deserves.”

  “My very thought, darlin’. And what a blessin’ for the people of this state! People can forgive a hand in the till or a pack of lies, but not fornicatin’ with wee kiddies.”

  Blanche remembered Ray-Ray telling her that what he was doing would be good for her and everybody in the Commonwealth. Too bad there wasn’t some way he could get credit for it.

  “It was good working with you, Wanda. I truly enjoyed it.”

  “As did I, darlin’, especially the lovely tea. Come to my place and I’ll fix you a cup of my special blend.”

  “One of these days,” Blanche said, and wondered if it was true as she wrote down Wanda’s phone number and address.

  She reminded herself to get Carrie’s number from Inez. She owed her a call.

  SEVENTEEN

  DAY SEVENTEEN—SATURDAY

  The next morning, Blanche spent nearly an hour in front of her Ancestor altar, trying to find a way to make peace with the knowledge that Donnie’s family didn’t and would likely never know what had happened to him. She knew she couldn’t tell his wife, could never do anything that would endanger Othello and the Ex-Cons for Community. She also knew this wasn’t justice, and apologized to her forebears for it. When she’d first gotten Othello’s group to help her, she’d been glad to know there were black men in the community prepared to protect people, make the bad actors pay for what they did, and keep the neighborhood safe. She still thought this was a good idea—just as soon as folks figured out how to solve the same problem they had with the downtown system: Who polices the police? Who decides who should be punished and how?

  She spent the rest of the day getting ready for the evening. She cleaned the living room, bathroom, and her own room—changing the curtains as well as the sheets, washing the windows and sprucing the place up for her friend’s visit.

  Cousin Charlotte stopped by around noon.

  “So, what’s Shaquita gonna do?” Blanche asked her.

  Cousin Charlotte adjusted today’s hat—a porkpie with a bright green band and a huge pink rose in the front. “We still talkin’ about it,” she said. Her voice told the disappointment her words didn’t express.

  Blanche took a deep breath. “Make sure the doctor tests her for AIDS, Cousin Charlotte.”

  Cousin Charlotte seemed to collapse like a deflated balloon, but only for a few seconds before her shoulders rose to their usual height. “Well, she’s finishin’ high school and goin’ outta here to college, baby or no baby. I made sure she knows that.”

  “If she has it, are you gonna take care of the baby while she’s in school?”

  Cousin Charlotte set her lips in a firm line. “No, I ain’t havin’ that mess. I don’t want no baby, and I ain’t havin’ no baby. If she want a baby, she gon have to take care of it. If she decides to have it, she and that baby goin’ to college.”

  “What about Pookie?”

  “She probably all up in his face right now, stupid child.”

  Tears filmed Cousin Charlotte’s eyes. Blanche gave her a long hug before she left.

  Blanche was too excited about Ardell’s coming to pay much attention to Taifa and Malik’s bickering. She fed them early and set them free to visit friends. She turned on the radio for the evening news and heard something that stopped her cold:

  A new study suggests that childhood exposure to lead increases the chances of juvenile delinquency. Low-level lead has previously been found to lower IQs in children. The latest study suggests that le
ad’s effect on behavior could be even more significant. NPR’s Richard Harris has the story.

  Blanche ran to the phone and called Aminata. Her line was busy. Blanche grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote down as much information as she could, being extra careful to get the name of the doctor who had done the research, Herbert Nedelman at the University of Pittsburgh, who certainly sounded like a brother to her on the radio.

  She tried Aminata’s number again. Still busy. The woman might be half crazy, but she’d been right about lead poisoning and violence in teenagers.

  “I knew it. I always knew it,” Aminata said when Blanche finally reached her.

  There was no bus in sight when Blanche left the house to go meet Ardell’s train, so she decided to walk a block or two and was almost instantly sorry she had: Just as she turned the corner, Pookie came out of a house farther along the block and began walking ahead of her. He hadn’t seen her. Blanche felt her face tighten and her back do a ramrod thing. She was tempted to slip back around the corner until he got farther away. Why? Because he was one of those young men some people called an endangered species? Was that a reason to turn up her nose at him? After all, people didn’t stop speaking to FDR’s granddad when he was dealing drugs. His little enterprise got him into the president’s family. Maybe Pookie would get lucky. He’d tried in his own way to get Shaquita to change her mind about the baby, and it still might work. Anyway, treating him like he was dog poop on the pavement wasn’t likely to help him come to a good end. If nobody even wanted to speak to these kids, how could anyone then turn around and criticize them for their choices?

  “Hey, Pookie! Wait up,” she called.

  True to her word, Blanche was waiting on the platform at Back Bay Station when Ardell’s train arrived. They hugged for a long time. When they moved apart, Blanche could see tears about to fall behind Ardell’s glasses, just as they were misting Blanche’s own eyes.