Over the Fence

by Mary Monroe

  Almost all eight of our tables, four booths, and half of the counter was occupied. Compared to Mosella’s, the biggest and most expensive colored-owned restaurant in Branson, Cunningham’s Grill was a shack. But it was the only colored roadhouse in town and a lot cheaper than Mosella’s. Within walking distance was our rinky-dink train station, our city dump, and several cotton and sugarcane fields. We fed a lot of the folks that worked for them businesses and passengers that had long layovers between trains. We was near the main highway, so a few times a week, folks traveling through stopped to rest and eat at the grill.

  Most of our customers was colored, but a lot of white folks came in too. Every single one of the white-owned restaurants in Branson was segregated. If we wanted to eat their food, we was only allowed to get orders to go, and we had to come and go through the back door. We couldn’t use their toilets or talk to none of their white customers. White folks waltzed into Cunningham’s Grill like they owned the place, and there was nothing we could do about it. A few complained about the service and didn’t tip too good, if they tipped at all.

  I went to the kitchen to wash my hands. When I got back to the main floor, a couple of stout white women was waddling through the door. They didn’t wait for me or one of the other waitresses to seat them. They snatched menus off the counter and plopped down at the biggest table in the middle of the room, which we liked to keep available for the preachers and important white folks that came in.

  “You girl. Get a rag and come clean off this table,” one of the women grunted, snapping her fingers.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of that right away.” I cringed and turned around quick so she wouldn’t see my eyeballs rolling and skittered back to the kitchen like a squirrel running from a bobcat. I had learned early in life to be as humble as possible when dealing with white folks. We was not to say or do nothing that would agitate them, especially the females. I avoided looking them in their eyes because I didn’t want them to see the contempt in mine. Besides, acting the way they wanted us to got me better tips.

  “You look like you seen a ghost,” Milton commented as I rushed past him. He was standing over the stove, stirring the oxtail stew, our special every Monday.

  I didn’t stop or say nothing until I made it to the sink behind him and swirled a rag in a dishpan full of soapy water. “Worse,” I said in a low tone. “Two husky white women just pranced in and grabbed the main table. And unless they can’t read, they had to see that big sign on the stand by the door telling customers to wait to be seated.”

  Before I could get another word out, Milton trotted to the door, cracked it open, and peeped out. When he came back over to where I was, he was grinning. “Don’t you know who the one with the red hair is?”

  I hunched my shoulders. “White women her age all look the same to me.”

  “That’s Lyla Bullard,” he laughed. “She’s good people and ain’t got a mean bone in her body.”

  I looked at Milton with my mouth hanging open. “Maybe you don’t think so. But you should have heard the way she hollered at me to clean off her table,” I grumbled.

  “Aw, you just too sensitive.” Milton waved his hand in my face and gave me a mean look hisself, but I knew he was just playing with me. “Lyla’s family used to be real prominent and noble to a fault. Years ago, her granddaddy and grandmama moved to Africa to do missionary work for them natives. When Lyla was a young girl, my aunt Delphine was her and her sisters’ mammy. I ain’t never seen a white woman love colored folks as much as Lyla do. Her daddy used to own a bunch of cotton fields. But he was one of the first ones to lose almost everything when the Great Depression hit. He took it so hard, he went to Mobile and jumped off a bridge. She had already moved to Michigan and got married when that happened. When her husband took off with another woman, she moved back here. Her divorce settlement was so sweet, she had enough money to buy that hat store on Franklin Street.”

  “Oh yeah! I remember her. She used to have brown hair and was a lot skinnier. A few weeks before my mama died, Lyla gave us a ride to town in her daddy’s brand-new Model T. I wondered what had happened to her. How do you know so much about what she been up to?”

  “I used to pick cotton for her daddy, and I got along good with her whole family. And after she moved north, I would bump into some of her kinfolks every now and then, and they would update me on her. I seen Lyla and her cousin Emmalou at a jook joint last Thursday. They told me they going to start coming to the house to drink with us.”

  I scrunched my lips to the side while I tried to think of what to say next. I usually went along with whatever Milton wanted to do when it came to our business. But us socializing with a white woman—especially one from a used-to-be prominent family—was a awkward and scary subject.

  “How come you looking so distressed?” he wanted to know.

  I took my time answering. “Baby, Willie Frank and his family is one thing, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea to start letting other white folks come to the house.”

  “Pffft. Don’t be no worrywart. The only color we need to be concerned about is dollar-bill green. That’s the only color the Jim Crow laws don’t care nothing about.”

  CHAPTER 10

  YVONNE

  I WENT BACK OUT TO THE DINING AREA AND WIPED OFF THE TABLE where the white women was sitting. They stopped talking until I finished. Then Lyla looked at me and wagged her plump finger in my face.

  “Wasn’t Maybelle and Roscoe your mama and daddy?” she asked, gazing at me with her eyes narrowed. People rarely asked about my dead parents. Whenever they did, it made me sad. I had to blink hard to hold back my tears.

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered.

  “That was my uncle’s tractor they was on when they got squashed. Uncle Lucas never got over what happened. He died in the same hospital that was just half a mile from the accident and had refused to admit your folks because they was colored. If they had got medical attention in time, they would have made it.” Lyla gave me a sympathetic look and let out a loud sigh. “I hope I live long enough to see the end of segregation.”

  “Me too,” I said firmly.

  “Bless your heart. Lean down so I can give you a hug,” she ordered.

  I held my breath and leaned toward her. After the quick hug, she gave me a pat on the shoulder. I straightened up, still holding my breath, because being hugged by a white woman was a first for me. Lyla was in her forties and looked it. She had a few strands of gray hair, her eyes was puffy and had dark circles and wrinkles around the rims, but she wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Rumors had been floating around for years that she’d spread her legs for a snake. When I was a teenager, people used to talk about how she’d hang out at the colored jook joints and fool around with some of the men. But she was smart enough not to let no white folks hear about her loose behavior with colored men. I was glad she interrupted my thoughts, because my mind was wandering way off course.

  “I liked your mama and daddy so much, I still think about them.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me!” she scolded. “I ain’t that much older than you. I was just telling my cousin here, me and Milton go way back.” The other woman looked up at me and smiled. “Emmalou, Yvonne here is Milton’s wife.”

  “Howdy do, Yvonne.” Emmalou’s voice was as deep as a man’s. She eyeballed me with a lopsided smile on her moon face. “Bless your heart. I knew your parents, too. It’s a crying shame they died so young. Your daddy didn’t look too hot, but your mama was a beauty. I’m pleased as punch to see you took after her.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t think I could stand to hear another comment about my mama and daddy, or my good looks, so I changed the subject. “Lyla, Milton told me he seen you at a colored jook joint last week.”

  “Sure enough. I was just at the same one two nights ago. During Prohibition, the jook joints was the only places me and my family and friends would drink at. The white bootleggers wasn’t much fun. And ev
en when the law made drinking legal again a few years ago, we still went to the places run by colored folks. The bars and stores was too expensive, and they served weak drinks. But in the future, I won’t be drinking at none of the same jook joints I used to go. The jokers running them places nowadays serve the nastiest-tasting shine I ever drunk. I hear tell you and Milton is at the top of the game, so I got a itching to pay y’all a visit real soon. Me and Emmalou both,” she said, looking at the other woman. “Right, cuz?”

  “Yessiree,” the Emmalou woman chirped. Looking at her closer now, I could see that she was not bad looking, either. She had thick brown hair hanging halfway down her back, pretty blue eyes, and dimples in both cheeks.

  “I’m pleased to hear that. Can’t nobody say we serve nasty-tasting drinks. Our guests always go home happy. That’s why they keep coming back.”

  “Ooh-wee,” Lyla squealed. “I hear tell y’all live over there in that well-to-do neighborhood, among them highfalutin colored folks.”

  “That’s right.” I grinned.

  “I can’t wait to pay you nice folks a visit,” Emmalou tossed in. “I’m pleased to hear that your house is in a much safer and cleaner neighborhood. The colored bootleggers on the lower south side can be so inhospitable. A few are downright savage.”

  I was so happy when they finally placed their orders—chicken feet and corn on the cob—so I could leave before I said something I’d regret. I never bad-mouthed people in my own race when I conversated with white folks. But there was things about some of our new colored neighbors that I didn’t like, which me and Milton discussed when we was alone. Most of the folks had been kind of standoffish when they found out we had moved from a shack on the lower south side. But they had gradually got friendlier when they found out we was bootleggers. They was happy that they didn’t have to go to the rough areas and rowdy jook joints to drink now.

  And Joyce and Odell was the happiest ones. One of the things I regretted now was us offering them two oddballs drinks on the house the first night they came over. That had been a stupid move on our part. Now they was so used to us serving them drinks and not asking for no money, they never offered to pay. And we didn’t ask them to. But we made up for it by serving them recycled booze. When guests didn’t finish their drinks, we poured every drop back into the original containers when they went home. After all the bragging Joyce and Odell had already done about drinking high-quality booze at some of the uppity restaurants they went to, I felt right justified giving them second-or thirdhand drinks.

  * * *

  I didn’t expect Odell and Joyce to show up tonight, but they showed up around nine. They hugged and greeted a few folks before they sat down on the couch. I occupied the footstool across the room, facing the couch. Milton was in the kitchen with Willie Frank.

  It wasn’t long before Joyce started bragging about the expensive whiskey they had recently started buying from a liquor store. “We only serve it to our special guests, and everybody else gets elderberry wine,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. Since elderberry wine was all they ever offered us when we went to their house, she was also letting me know that their “special guests” didn’t include me and Milton. And she had the nerve to say it right in front of me! That heifer had no shame. But, since I was trying to be more of a “lady,” I let that go . . . for now.

  “This sure is some good home brew,” Odell commented. He had swallowed almost half of what I’d poured into his jar in one gulp, and they’d been in the house only ten minutes. When Milton came into the living room and sat down on the couch next to Odell, he started drinking even faster. A few minutes later, him and Milton got up and left the room.

  Right away, Joyce started her “my life is so blessed” routine. Tonight most of her bragging was about Odell. If I’d had a muzzle, I would have strapped it on her face to shut her up. I wasn’t the only one getting fed up with her out-of-control chattering. She was too blind to see the exasperated looks on other people’s faces and all the eyeballs rolling. A married couple that had been standing close by abruptly moved across the room. I figured they was just as tired of hearing about the wonderful Odell as I was.

  “I’m happy to see Milton and Odell getting closer,” Joyce said, rambling on. “Milton can learn a lot from Odell.”

  “My husband is okay just the way he is,” I insisted. I felt slighted because she was implying that my man needed improvement.

  “Is having somebody that is just ‘okay’ all you want, Yvonne?”

  I smiled, but I didn’t answer her question. I knew that no matter what came out of my mouth, it wouldn’t make us look no better in Joyce’s and Odell’s eyes. If we stood on a rooftop, they’d still find a way to look down on us. “Excuse me. I need to go tend to them folks waving their empty jars at me.”

  It was a profitable night. If anybody had ever doubted that we was the best bootleggers in Branson, they couldn’t say that now. Compliments was flying at my ears left and right. I was pleased to see everybody having such a good time. We couldn’t change the records fast enough. Middle-aged folks that hadn’t been on a dance floor since they was teenagers was dancing up a storm. I was also pleased to see people I hadn’t seen in months. There was the lady who used to do my hair before she retired, and a man that lived next door to us in our old neighborhood. I roamed around with a jug, refilling jars and thanking folks for their business.

  “Yvonne, I’m going to spread the word about how much fun I had over here tonight. This is where me and my man will be coming to party from now on. Most of the other bootleggers and jook joints don’t offer free snacks. The ones that do never have nothing but stale cookies and peanuts. The only music they got is somebody blowing on a harmonica or strumming a guitar. Who can dance to something that lame? Thank God y’all got a record player and some of the latest records.” Talking to me as I poured her another drink was a woman I’d gone to school with. She worked as a live-in maid for our mayor’s daughter.

  “Thank you, Della. Please tell all your friends and neighbors about us. Make sure you let them know we don’t put up with no rowdy mess like they do in them other places, so they ain’t got to worry about getting shot or cut up.” I excused myself so I could go pour another drink for myself.

  CHAPTER 11

  MILTON

  AFTER ME AND WILLIE FRANK HAD DISCUSSED A BUSINESS DETAIL in the kitchen, I went back to the living room and chatted with folks. A few minutes later, I took Odell to the kitchen so I could discuss a business detail with him.

  “I need a extra five dollars tonight,” I told him, speaking in a low tone.

  Just like I’d expected, he got hot and bothered. The way he screwed up his face, you would have thought he’d just bit into a sour apple. “What? I’m already giving you a extra six dollars tonight,” he snapped, handing me some crumpled-up one-dollar bills.

  “I mean extra to this.”

  “Look, Milton. You getting way out of hand. When you came to the store today, you told me you needed five dollars so you could get in a card game tonight. That turned into six, not counting the one I gave you before you left the store. And that’s all I’d planned on giving you until Wednesday.”

  “Shoot! You didn’t get here in time for me to get in the game,” I complained.

  “So? That ain’t my fault!”

  “But I told you to be here by six o’clock. You dragged your tail up in here almost three hours later.”

  “Well, something came up. Anyway, you got the money. Use it in your next game.”

  “Let’s get something straight, Prince Charming.” He didn’t even bat a eye when I accidentally called him by the nickname me and Yvonne used behind his back. “When you don’t do like I tell you, you make it harder on me, and on yourself. If you want us to stay friends and keep everything going smooth, when I tell you to do something, you do exactly that.”

  “Milton, I couldn’t get here no sooner than I did. My in-laws was at the house, and we couldn’t leave until they did. Man, be
reasonable. There is going to be other times when I can’t follow all your rules. Give me a break!”

  “I’m giving you a break already. Do you think anybody else would let you off with only eight dollars a week with all the stuff I got on you?”

  “You right. I’m sorry for flying off the handle.” Odell swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his neck. I still had a hard time believing he was such a pushover. I couldn’t have stumbled upon a weaker person on a deathbed! He pulled out his wallet and handed me five more one-dollar bills.

  “See there. Now, that wasn’t so hard.” I clapped him on his back. “Now let’s get back outside and have some fun.”

  I was in a very good mood the rest of the night. Even though Odell was grinning and chitchatting with folks, I knew he was faking. I had to admire him for being able to act so normal. Who would have thought that he was leading a double life? Or that he was being blackmailed? Because of my allegiance to the Lord, I still had a conscience. Every now and then, I felt a teeny-weeny bit of guilt about what I was doing. But I needed the money more than I needed a good conscience.

  I thought that if my early life hadn’t been so hard, I might have turned out better than I did. But now I had so much going for me, I didn’t want to change.

  * * *

  I should have never hitched a ride after work over to that Brewster Road jook joint Tuesday evening. Within ten minutes after I walked into that shack behind a cornfield, I lost all the money Odell had gave me last night. It was a good thing my next payment from him was due tomorrow. And if I wasn’t in a crappy mood by then, I’d be nice and not ask for more than the eight dollars he owed me.

  Willie Frank was at the house when I got home a few minutes past 8:00 p.m. He immediately pulled me into my bedroom and locked the door, so we could conversate in private. I couldn’t remember the last time I seen him looking so hyped up. His eyes was sparkling like diamonds, and he couldn’t stop wringing his hands.