by Fauna Hodel
With those words, Jimmie Lee left Pat alone to daydream. After the sun went down, Pat slept the rest of the way. When they reached Sparks, the cold night air made Pat shiver. It was late and they took a cab to a small house that Pat had never seen before. It wasn’t anything like the home they lived in with Chris and certainly nothing like Big Momma’s. The light was on and the door was unlocked. Jimmie, carrying some paper bags with Pat’s things, let the child in first. As she entered from the darkness, Pat noticed only one big room. As her eyes focused, she become aware of a small kitchen area off to the left with dirty dishes piled on a counter and half-filled beer bottles cluttering a small, painted wooden table. The room smelled old and musty in contrast to the clean, night air outside. She heard her momma’s footsteps from behind, then the door slammed shut. She looked up at Jimmie who was glaring at the bed and watched her gasp momentarily.
Jimmie screeched, “what da fuck is this damn shit!” She threw the packages at the icebox across the room and fixed her hands firmly to her hips. The force knocked a small picture from the wall. Jimmie’s rage stunned Pat and quickly she stepped to one side out of harm’s way.
Suddenly, to the right of the doorway, a solitary figure wearing a torn, white t-shirt over slumped shoulders arose from the bed. His brown skin and bald head appearing out of nowhere startled Pat. As she focused on his face, she saw that his dark, bloodshot eyes were filled with fear.
“Oh shit!” He said, when he saw Jimmie.
It made Pat relax some.
An instant later, a woman popped up from the same bed. She was rubbing her eyes, trying to block the light with her hand. Just as suddenly, a second woman emerged, “Who da hell is this?” She asked irritatingly.
“Now, now, now Jimmie Lee, it ain’t what ya think,” said the man with a slight stammer.
Pat tightened her shoulders as she watched Jimmie’s face stiffen, her eyes bulge, and her hands stretch out in front of her. Jimmie rushed to the bed and grabbed one of the women by the hair and dragged her out onto the floor. The woman started screaming. “Let go of me! Let go!” Pat could see the pain in her face but Jimmie didn’t let go. She held onto her hair with one hand and began pounding her head with the other.
“You damn whore! I go away for one fuckin’ day and you think you could jump in my bed with my man! I’ll teach you who’s in goddamn charge around here!”
The other woman was now wide-awake hugging the wall on the other side of the bed, clear of Jimmie. The stocky man shuffled out of the bed and tried to stop Jimmie Lee. Pat watched in horror, hiding behind the door, as the four adults screamed and grappled with each other. Jimmie let go of the woman’s hair and took a swing at the man. He blocked it with his shoulder and quickly picked Jimmie up, his arms wrapped around her waist. She continued to yell and wiggle trying to get out of his grip. As he struggled with her, the veins popped from his shiny head and his brow was scrunched and wrinkled. “This isn’t what you think!” he said, “We all went fishing s’afternoon.”
“Fishin’ my ass!” Jimmie screamed, twisting in every direction to release herself.
“We caught a whole mess of fish and fried them . . . right here . . . in the kitchen. There. . . .” He let her go and pointed to the table with all the dirty dishes filled with fish heads and bones.
“You’re a damn lying nigger!” She yelled.
“No . . . No . . . it’s the truth, Jimmie Lee. We ate like hogs and drank too much beer. We just fell asleep . . . that’s all!”
Pat watched this older man as he spoke to Jimmie and knew from the softness in his eyes that he was telling the truth. She believed him even though her momma didn’t. When he peeked down at Pat with his soft, glassy eyes, she felt a warm gentleness just like Big Momma. He smiled at Pat and said, “Is this your daughter! She’s just about the most beautiful little thing I ever seen!”
Jimmie Lee began to calm down. “You see what your doing to my daughter, you good for nothing bastard!”
The man just ignored her. He struggled to kneel on one knee and then stroked Pat’s face with the back of his hands; they felt soft.
“I’m Homer,” he said, “you must be Pat.” She nodded nervously, clearly frightened, but not of this man. She knew from that first moment that this gentle and kindly man would be her friend.
Jimmie ranted on with the two women. She stayed angry with Homer until well after they left. Pat went off to bed, still listening to them argue.
The following morning when Pat awoke, it was as if nothing had happened. The dreary image of a two-room shack disappeared with the night. Jimmie had the house spotless. Doilies were neatly placed on top of the end tables with small knickknacks perfectly arranged. The curtains appeared to be stiff with starch. There were flowers in vases atop the TV and a bouquet in the center of the table. Jimmie was ironing a pink blouse. Homer was sitting at the table drinking a big mug of coffee. The air was fresh and clean; the fishy odors from the night before had vanished. All traces of the nightmare were gone.
Homer got up from the table and limped toward Pat wearing a big smile on his face. “Good morning, Sunshine! Did ya get a good night’s sleep?”
“Yeah,” she answered, nodding affirmatively.
“Good! Your momma’s made you some hot cakes. I got to go to work. If you were up earlier, I’d take ya with me.”
“Where do ya have to go to work?”
“At the barber shop”
“You cut momma’s hair?”
“No . . . I shine shoes . . . and help keep the store ship shape for the customers. But I’ll tell you about that later. I got to go now.” He kissed Pat on the forehead and limped out the door.
Pat turned to her momma and said, “Why’s Homer walk so funny, like his shoes don’t work?”
“There ain’t nothing wrong with his shoes. He had a bad leg that never got fixed, so he walks funny. But don’t you ever make fun of him, ya hear me?” Jimmie said.
“Now eat your breakfast while I get ready.”
Jimmie came out of the bedroom wearing a soft, yellow blouse and matching pedal pushers. Pat watched her delicately trace the outline of her mouth with a bright red lipstick.
“Where we going, Momma?” Pat asked.
“Well, you been gone for such a long time, and you been wearing them same old clothes. It’s time I got you some new dresses. We don’t want you looking like some poor white trash when you start kindergarten, do we?”
“I don’t want to look like no white trash, I want to look like you,” Pat said.
Jimmie Lee picked out two new dresses, socks, and matching new shoes from the Carousel Dress Shop, to make Pat look like another version of Shirley Temple. Jimmie took the scenic route home, making sure that everyone in town feasted their eyes on the little white girl walking with the stunning black temptress. Pat reveled in the attention almost as much as Jimmie.
“You got to make sure you always look your best. After all, your real momma always wore the finest clothes and had servants and everything. She didn’t need to take a bus nowhere. No baby, she had her own limousine with a chauffeur and everything—that’s how she got to school.”
“I want a limousine when I go to school.” Pat beamed while she strutted smugly, knowing her real momma rode in fancy cars.
Jimmie Lee raised her head and puffed out her chest, feasting on the contemptuous eyes that watched the enigma step proudly down the street. “See, this is how y’all walk and strut when you get to be famous.”
“I’m gonna be famous too, just like you.”
“Well, a course ya are. You’re the daughter of Pretty Jimmie Lee. You are the little queen.”
About two weeks after they moved to Sparks, Pat was playing with clothespins in the dirt when she spotted Homer walking toward her only a couple of hours after he left for work. Affectionately, she jumped up and hugged his good leg, trying not to let him go, but something was wrong. She heard the distress in his voice, “Not now, Pat. Why don’t you come into the house,
your momma needs you,” Homer said. Pat smiled but didn’t let go. He carried Pat in anyway.
“What’s you doin’ here so early?” Jimmie asked.
“Dolly called me at the shop just a little while ago,” he said. Jimmie stood up from the table, instinctively she knew something was wrong. “It’s your momma, baby. I’m sorry. She passed on. She’s with Jesus now.”
He put the child down. Jimmie’s mouth opened wide, but no sound emerged except that of a faint gasp while her eyes filled. Pat watched Jimmie as Homer tried to comfort her. Pat didn’t understand what it meant to be dead, other than going to heaven, but from Jimmie’s reaction, she knew it wasn’t such a good thing. Before Pat knew it, they were back on the Greyhound, heading toward Los Angeles. For most of the trip Pat remained silent sadly watching her momma whimper.
CHAPTER 8
When they arrived at Big Momma’s house, dozens of people moped about, some sobbing, others quietly murmuring, and still others eating. The kitchen table served as the main area where trays were half-filled with cheeses, rolled baloney, ham, and beans all mixed between cans of beer and soda, and salads, and cakes. Dolly lifted Pat in her arms and hugged tightly. “Oh Pat . . . oh Pat,” she exclaimed. “Big Momma loved you so much.” Pat felt Dolly’s wet tears press against her face. She tried to feel sad emulating the gloom that choked the atmosphere and cry with her, but death had no meaning. They all thought that Big Momma was gone forever, but Pat knew she wasn’t dead. The last thing she told Pat was that she’d always be there when she needed her, and her Big Momma would never lie to her.
Like a sharp blare from a foghorn, Pat heard a man’s agony cut through the hum. “You killed her! You killed her!” All eyes locked on the kitchen. Pat’s skin quivered when she heard Jimmie Lee screeched back. “I didn’t kill nobody!”
“Yes ya did! You wished her dead,” Jesse said, “all because of that white Patty you got!” He was Jimmie’s brother, a man she warned Pat to stay away from. Pat worked her way through the adults to see what all the commotion was about.
“Don’t you blame me for your momma’s death. She died from a heart attack!”
“No . . . it’s your fault . . . you rotten bitch!” Jesse continued, “You put an evil spell on her and wished her dead.”
“And don’t you be blamin’ nothin’ on that little girl, either,” Jimmie said.
“It’s your fault . . . who told you to take in a white baby! If you wanted a kid, why didn’t you help out ya own kind . . . why didn’t ya take one a mine . . . you knew how hard it was for me to take care of eleven children. No! . . . you had to adopt a ‘white patty’ just to be different from all the rest of us!”
“Ya dumb fuckin’ fool . . . who told you to have that many kids in the first place! If you’re man enough to take that thing outta ya pants, then ya should be man enough ta support eleven kids . . . that’s if they all yours in the first place,” she said.
“Aaahhh! You . . . you . . . filthy, shit! Somebody shoulda killed you, instead a you killin’ Momma!” Jesse said.
“I didn’t kill yo’ momma . . . and don’t ya be sayin’ I did . . . that old woman tried to give my baby away.”
You’re a murderer, a murderer! . . . Ya killed Big Momma! . . . and if I see you at that funeral tomorrow, I’m gonna kill you!” He kept shouting louder and louder.
“Shut up! . . . Shut up! . . . ya dumb bastard!” Jimmie screamed back.
To Pat, it seemed like everyone was trying to talk at the same time, but the two siblings were louder than the rest, until a roar went out from the crowd. Pat’s eyes were glued to Jimmie as she watched her momma grab a knife from the sink and go after Jesse. Quickly, a man grabbed her arm and wrestled the knife away. Jimmie was hustled out of the room. The cacophony of voices was quickly muffled when Lucille held Pat close to her side.
The next morning, as Lucille fixed breakfast for Pat, Jimmie sat down with Pat. “I want you to try and understand what’s gonna happen this morning. Big Momma has passed away . . . and we’re all going to the church to pay our last respects. There’ll be lots of people crying and shouting, but I don’t want you to be scared. Just pray for Big Momma. Tell those angels she taught you about to usher her directly to God. Oh, and stay with Aunt Lucille.”
Pat didn’t understand what she was talking about, but staying with her favorite Aunt Lucille was fine with her. Many times Pat watched lots of people cry out loud at church before. Why should this be any different?
As they were leaving the house Pat, holding her aunt’s hand, turned to see if her Momma was following when she noticed Jimmie slip a kitchen knife into her purse. Pat pretended it didn’t happen.
As they approached the block where Big Momma lived, there were black, shiny limousines parked in the middle of the street with chauffeurs standing by each door, waiting for scores of people milling about the sidewalk. Everything looked black: the people; the cars; the drivers and their clothes; everything except Jimmie. She wore a bright red sequined dress. They were the last to arrive.
The hearse carrying Big Momma’s remains stopped in front of the church. Pat watched the men, including Jesse, lift the casket on their shoulders and slowly march in unison into the wood framed building. Pat held on to her aunt Lucille’s hand as they entered the church. Lucille led her to a seat right in front of the large white casket passed the many parishioners already seated in the pews. Pat stood on her toes and looked up into it and saw Big Momma lying down. She looked beautiful and peaceful, dressed as Pat always remembered—in the white church uniform she always wore when it was her Sunday to be usherette. There were flowers placed all around her. She was the center of attention.
Strangers sobbed, a few wailed as if they were getting their teeth pulled out. Pat looked over at Dolly and watched her vomit into a brown paper bag. She didn’t understand what was going on.
Unexpectedly, Jimmie ran up to the casket shouting, “Momma . . . Momma! . . . I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!” Lucille rushed up and tried to make her sit down. Jimmie was no more hysterical than any of the other mourners, just more noticeable in her red dress.
Pat noticed Jesse first glare at Jimmie, then turn his head toward Pat and give her a look filled with contempt. She felt the chill rush through her tiny body. Pat knew she did nothing to invite his hostility, other than looking white. She would remember to stay out of his way.
Slowly the noise, the confusion, the crying, and shouting seemed to fade away. Everyone was moving just as before, but Pat couldn’t hear it. Instead, she heard Big Momma calling her from the Sunday school room at the side of the church. “Pat, Pat I love you . . . and I will always be with you, don’t worry.” She couldn’t have been there; Pat was looking right at her, right in front of her. “I’m not dead . . .” she continued, “I’m just away for awhile. I’m in the Sunday school room watching everything. I’m praying my children will stop all this stuff. I am happier than I’ve ever been.
“Pat, I love you. You have a special mission on earth, and I will help guide you through. I will always be with you, don’t worry, keep praying, everything will be OK.”
Her voice stopped, and the noise and confusion continued again . . . just as before. Pat tugged at Lucille’s dress and asked, “Is Big Momma playing a trick on us?” Pat noticed the puzzled expression and continued, “Big Momma’s not dead, I could hear her, she’s in the Sunday school room . . . she said so!”
Lucille patted her head and held the child close to her bosom. Pat knew then that her Big Momma would always be with her. Her voice was real and she was the only one who could hear her. She realized from that moment that she was different from all the other people around her; and she was different from her real family, too. She believed that God put her on this earth for a special purpose. In time, she hoped to find out its meaning.
CHAPTER 9
The one-room shack was constructed some twenty years earlier, during the Great Depression It sat clumsily between two other shanties, about thre
e miles from the Reno city line in Sparks. It featured a black, cast iron stove that used coal for both cooking and heating during the cold winters. In the summer, when it was too hot to use, the stove became an ideal spot for the TV. It was a rarity for Jimmie to cook and even more so when she ate. Her diet consisted of mixing gin and 7-Up. But for Pat it was different, Jimmie fed her neck bones, fried pork with fat, or sometimes just peanut butter and bread without the jelly. Homer ate out a lot, preferring a hot dog and fries to Jimmie’s unique cuisine.
Together, they eked out a living. Jimmie ironing or cleaning sporadically as day labor, and Homer in front of the Esquire shining shoes, for which he charged 25 cents per shine, and the ten dollars per week he received to clean up the shop. Although the poverty was unrelenting, Jimmie made sure that Pat’s clothes were of the latest styles, and always washed and neatly pressed.
On Saturday, Jimmie allowed Pat to come along with her on her weekly cleaning job on the other side of town. “Now don’t you be causing no trouble, or asking no questions either. And don’t be givin’ no answers either, no matter what the question,” Jimmie said to Pat as they walked to the back of the two-story, Victorian-style home that seemed to go around the block, “You hear me?”
“I hear ya,” she replied. “Why ain’t we going in the front door?”
“We the servants. Servants use the servant’s entrance. Someday you’ll be able to go in the front door, but right now we using in the rear.” Jimmie watched Pat’s eyes wander, awestruck by the size of the home and attached garage. She knew Pat was impressed.