by Fauna Hodel
“Well, let me tell you something, Doctor. I won’t let anyone or anything get in the way of Patta. She’s the only thing I got and I’d die before I let anything happen to her. So you just mind your own business and take care of her sickness, and tell them nosy body nurses the same. She’s my daughter and I’ll take care of her.”
“Oh, Mrs. Faison,” said Berger, regaining his composure. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood. I only meant to give her an option. She is malnourished and that’s a fact. As a doctor, I have to look at the whole picture—not just the current illness, but what caused it. I don’t want anything to happen to her, either.”
Jimmie Lee stuck her nose in the air and sauntered off back to Pat.
Her full recovery took almost a year. Pat dropped behind in school. But the vision of that Lady in Blue gave her hope. When Pat first arrived home, she felt strange. After being in the hospital with all those white people, Pat was a little disoriented. For the first few months after they moved into the cottage, Pat’s solitude remained noticeable, but the Lady in Blue stayed with her.
“Patta baby,” said Jimmie Lee, “why don’t you go outside and play with the other kids while I finish my ironing? You can’t be mopin’ around the house all the time. Are you trying to be some kind of hermit? It’s not good for you.”
“You always ironin’ something, Momma. Besides, I don’t want to, I’d rather stay here,” she replied. She had been gone from the neighborhood a long time and was still shy. It wasn’t that Pat was afraid of them; she was afraid of being different. After being in the hospital, and now back with her momma and her drinking, she was embarrassed. Pat picked up a glamour magazine and started flipping through it.
“Why you actin’ so blue, child?”
Pat didn’t look up at Jimmie, she kept flipping through the magazine. “Why ain’t I Negro looking like my daddy was? Why ain’t I like everybody else?”
Jimmie snickered, “You don’t want to be like everybody else. If you was like everybody else nobody would notice you, and you’d wind up cleaning rooms, and ironing other people’s clothes, and getting cussed at, and treated like dog shit on somebody’s shoe,” Jimmie was getting angrier as she spoke. “You wouldn’t have people move away from you when you come into a store, or watch your every step as if you was gonna steal something, or be afraid to touch you cause they think the color’s gonna rub off on them. If you was like everybody else who is Negro, you wouldn’t get to do the things that you want to do, you wouldn’t get to be famous. Only white people get to do what they want and get to be famous. They got all the power. They got all the money. We jus’ do the work!” She continued ironing while mumbling to herself. “And you ain’t gonna do the work!”
“Then what am I gonna do?”
“Well, you’re always reading something, magazines, books. You’re always writing something, so I guess you’re gonna be a writer. You’re gonna be a famous writer. And everybody’s gonna know who you are.
If you was like me, then nobody would ever pay attention to you, as much as you tried to let them know who you are. It just ain’t the way it is. You got to be white. So you should use that to your own good.”
“But I don’t want to be white. It don’t do me no good. White people look at me like I’m a disease. And everybody else just laughs at me for saying I’m Negro.
“If I was really like my daddy, then nobody would make fun and I’d be like everybody else.”
Jimmie just shook her head, “Child, you don’t know nothing, but you’ll see when you get to be famous. See if you could’ve done it if you was Negro. There ain’t no famous Negroes—and the ones who are, got to fight every day for the fame. So you just better be grateful that you ain’t like everybody else.”
After her prolonged stay in the hospital, Pat enjoyed the solitude and safety of home. Homer didn’t wake her up to go with him to the shop. Pat slept until noon, escaping into fantasy dreams spotted with wordless musings of another life with her real mother. She dreamed of living in a fairy-tale castle next to the ocean, staffed with servants, filled with toys, chocolate candy, and a stable of the finest white ponies. She dreamed of being a movie star, dressed up in front of the camera.
When Pat finally awoke, she spent part of the day at the Sparks library, an old facility with wide concrete steps leading to a world less stimulating than her dreams. In between browsing Nancy Drew Mysteries and other children’s books, she leafed through a few biographies of famous people and then headed home to watch TV. The small black-and-white Philco stayed on from early in the morning until late at night, providing both company and a program timed clock based on the TV schedule. Both Jimmie and Pat’s favorite was Queen for a Day, and they loved to watch it together, reflecting on who had the worst circumstances, always comparing each to their own pathos. Homer watched baseball. Sometimes Jimmie Lee would act out some of the characters on the variety shows, particularly the famous actresses. “That should be me talkin’ with Milton Berle!” she said more than once. “I could’ve played that part with a much better accent.”
Later, when Jimmie, in a jovial mood, returned home from the New China Club with one of her suitors, Pat was pasting pictures in a scrapbook while the TV blared.
“This is my daughter, Pat,” Jimmie said to the older man.
“How do you do?” he said to Pat.
She didn’t answer, just nodded her head and went about her business.
“Why don’t you go on outside and play for a while,” Jimmie said to her daughter.
Pat remained silent, picked up her cutouts and scissor and went off to her room. She overheard her momma.
“I took that child in when she was but three weeks old. Her folks didn’t want her—thought she was gonna be mixed. Her momma claims her daddy was Negro.” She’d laugh, and then, pointing to her own black skin. “That gal ain’t no more mixed than I am,” she said, “but keep it under your hat.”
Pat came out of the bedroom and glared at the man as she walked toward the door. “Hey, you like ice cream?” He said.
Pat turned toward him and nodded without a word.
“Don’t you talk?” He asked.
“Sure, I can talk. I just don’t have nothing to say,” She replied.
He reached into his pocket and handed Pat a dollar bill, “Here, why don’t you head over to store and get yourself some ice cream or something.”
Pat took the money and started to walk away.
“Hey,” Jimmie said, “don’t you got something to say?”
“Thank you,” Pat said and continued out the door. Her thoughts wandered to Homer, wondering if he was aware of Jimmie’s other men friends. She never saw Homer upset or jealous. He worked six days a week and she knew that he loved Jimmie’s sassy, sexy side, but loathed and feared her vile temper. Pat knew that her momma couldn’t change.
It was a month later when another friend of Jimmie’s stopped by for a visit. She sent Pat out to play as usual, but dark clouds covered most of the early afternoon sky. As Pat wandered about trying to entertain herself, finally setting down on a rock in the back yard forming faces in the dirt with a stick, a few droplets of rain sprinkled on her arm. She left the stick in a hole, hoping the images would be there when she returned after the drizzle stopped. She brushed the dirt from her hands and walked toward the cottage.
When Pat entered the house, a muscular built man named Blackie was sitting naked on the bed with his wide back glistening like a sweaty prizefighter. Jimmie was leaning up against the headboard with the white cotton sheets pulled up to her waist. She had on a yellow blouse, unbuttoned, draped about her shoulders with the collar turned under on one side. In that afternoon light, the contrast of their skin against the white and yellow fabrics fixed Pat’s eyes into a blank stare.
“Thought I told you to stay outside,” Jimmie said.
“It’s rainin’.” Pat jumped at the sound of Jimmie’s voice and then closed the door.
“Rainin’ my damn ass. You just wanna
sneak up on me to see what’s goin’ on. All you whiteys wanna see is black meat—even when they’s a little shit, like you! Y’all the same, thinking ‘are they as big as they say? Are they as big as they say?’” She mimicked a bobbing head and her eyes opened wide. “Well, ya wanna see?” she said, stretching open her blouse. “I’ll show ya.” She thrust forth her naked black breasts. “See how big they are?! Ya wanna suck on them?” Jimmie screeched while flouncing up and down on the bed, making her breasts bounce up and down in unison. “Are you happy now?”
Pat shook with fear and embarrassment. Her eyes locked on Blackie, who returned the stare. He studied her for a moment and then turned to Jimmie. “Wut da fuck are you doin’?” he asked.
Jimmie ignored his question and peered contemptuously at Pat. “Now get your ass outta here,” she growled, “and don’t come back till I say so!”
Pat dashed out the door into the rain and then quickly ran to the side of the house, shivering under the overhang trying to stay dry. She heard the screen open and Blackie calling her name.
Pat stepped from the side of the cottage and peeked up at Blackie. He returned the look with a big smile. “You momma is drunk. Don’t pay her no mind. You know how she gets. It’s got nothing to do with you, just remember that.” He patted her head, gave her a dollar and headed off into the rain. Pat watched him jog along the dirt road and out of sight.
Three weeks later, Pat and Homer were at the kitchen table on a rare occasion when Jimmie Lee was on the wagon and calmness prevailed. Pat never attributed her momma’s erratic behavior to bouts of drinking; she blamed herself for Jimmie’s unpredictability. But she always noticed when Homer was around, her momma relaxed. And now she watched Jimmie fussed about cleaning up after dinner. “How come Momma’s so calm when she’s around you?” Pat asked Homer.
“I’m always calm,” Jimmie said, “he ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
Homer chuckled and said, “I’m the spike in the track, I keep everything tied down so the train rides smooth.”
“Huh, you keep talking nonsense like that, this trains gonna run you over,” Jimmie said.
Pat giggled and then asked Homer, “When did you two meet? I mean, like how did it happen?”
“Why you want to know that for?” Jimmie asked.
“I dunno, just because.”
“Well, just cause there ain’t no reason to be snoopin’ into anybody’s business,” Jimmie said.
“You want to know?” Homer said, “Well I’ll tell you. When I first met your momma, she was in the China Club all looking fine and chattin’ up with some Orientals. Neither one knew what the other was talking about, till I come along. I tried to do the intrepretin’ for those nice men. But it seems they didn’t want to pay the freight. They kept asking for a discount.”
“You lying,” Jimmie chuckled, “that ain’t the truth.”
“Well, I kept bargaining with her and finally got it down to as low as she was gonna go. I turned to those Oriental fellows and they just shook their heads and walked away.”
“What did they say?” Pat asked.
“How was I supposed to know? I don’t speak no Chinese.” He said as Pat laughed and Jimmie snickered. “So I took the deal for myself. I never guessed that a two-dollar trick would get me a whole family.”
Two nights later, while Homer moonlighted at the Nugget for a few extra dollars, Pat played alone at the cottage, listening to the radio and coloring in her book. Homer called on the phone. “Pat, are you all right?” he asked.
“Yeah, when ya comin’ home?”
“I’ll be there in a little while. Ya Jimmie’s in trouble, and we got to help her,” he said.
“Wut kinda trouble? Did she get hurt? Was she in a accident?” Pat asked.
“She’s in jail. We got ta bail her out.”
CHAPTER 10
Pat was perched on a bench by the front window as the taxi stopped in front of the cottage. Homer motioned from the back seat for her to get in. “What happened?” Pat asked.
“Don’t know, but we’re off to the rescue.”
The police station was intimidating. In the darkness the building looked old. They made their way through a heavy door that led through a vestibule and into a larger room, bare except for one wooden bench. The musty smell reminded her of an old school that Homer took her to a year earlier. There were “Wanted” posters and official-looking notices on the wall. A tall counter extended from one end of the room to the other. The eight-year-old child barely reached the top, let alone be able to see what was on the other side. Pat held on to Homer’s hand as she heard a faceless voice from beyond the cage. “Homer! What brings you down here?”
“I come to get my old lady outta jail,” Homer said. His voice yielding and placid.
“I didn’t know you even had an old lady,” replied the officer.
“Sometimes she don’t know it either.”
“What’s her name?”
“Jimmie. Jimmie Lee Faison.”
“Faison. Faison. Now why does that sound familiar? Let me see.” He shuffled through a few papers. “Oh shit!” he chuckled and then burst into a high-pitched giggle. His laughter was contagious. Pat began to snicker herself, not knowing why, or at what.
“Wutcha laughing’ at? My woman’s in jail, and you’s cacklin’ like a barn full of hens.”
“Sorry, Homer, it’s not funny. It’s serious, but, well, never mind.”
“Wut she do, anyway?”
“Well,” said the officer, “it says here in the report that while leaving the parking lot of a liquor store, she struck a telephone pole.”
“Struck a telephone pole? Struck it with what?”
“She was driving a vehicle.”
“Jimmie don’t drive no vehicle. That’s crazy!” said Homer.
“A man . . .” the officer stifled a giggle, “a little man, no, a very little man was seriously injured and he’s in the hospital. She’s been charged with disorderly conduct.”
“I don’t believe that shit!” objected Homer. “I’m tellin’ ya, she don’t drive no vehicle. We don’t even got a vehicle!”
“Apparently she was driving the vehicle,” said the officer. “It was a Cadillac that belonged to the victim in the hospital. There was a witness; a woman in the liquor store saw her drive out of the parking lot in the vehicle, where she collided into a pole. The car was totaled, and she was arrested.”
“Damn that woman! Wut she doin’ drivin’ some car when she don’t know how to?” Homer thought a moment. “Wut I gotta do to get her out?” he asked.
“You need to go and find out how much the bail is going to be. Now you can wait here until the paperwork comes back, or you can go over to Night Court.” He pointed toward the big clock on the wall and said, “It’s already started, so you might be able to say something to the judge.”
Homer turned and yanked Pat by the hand and they started out the door.
“Good luck, Homer,” the officer yelled. “Hey, who’s the little girl?”
Homer glanced back and mumbled, “Jimmie’s daughter.”
Pat glanced over her shoulder to see the face that belonged to the voice that laughed so heartily and saw a young man with thick glasses scratching his head.
They rushed over to the courthouse. Homer made Pat sit in the last seat while he limped up to the front. She could see Jimmie easily. The judge’s chin rested heavily in one hand. Pat thought he looked bored. She noticed his eye wander toward Homer who was tiptoeing respectfully to a seat just behind Jimmie. Pat watched, but couldn’t hear Homer and Jimmie as they exchanged a few words. She quickly became fascinated by what was going on with the two men standing before the judge. Suddenly Pat heard the crack of the gavel hit the wooden surface and the Judge bellowed, “Next case!”
Another man, who Pat couldn’t see, called Jimmie’s name and she stood up and swaggered toward the Judge. Homer limped up beside her. The judge acknowledged Homer with a grin, and then turned his attention t
o Jimmie.
“Do you have an attorney representing you?”
“No, sir. I don’t need no attorney.”
“OK. The charge before you is disorderly conduct. If you are guilty just say ‘guilty,’ if you feel you are not guilty, just say ‘not guilty.’ Nothing else, understand?”
“Yes, Judge, I understand,” replied Jimmie in her most charming manner.
“Do you understand the charges—disorderly conduct and driving without a license?”
“Yeah, I understand them, Your Honor.”
“How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”
Jimmie didn’t wait for him to finish before she burst out with an explanation. “I ain’t done nothing wrong. I wasn’t even driving that car. Whoever said I did is a liar and I want her to come here and say that to. . . .”
“HOLD IT! HOLD IT!” the judge raised his commanding voice, rapping his gavel. “Guilty, or not guilty. That’s all you have to say. Nothing else. This is not a trial.”
“Not guilty.”
“Thank you,” the judge said, annoyed. “A court date is set for the twenty-second at ten o’clock in this courtroom.”
He focused on Homer and paused. “Homer, why are you here?”
“I come to bail out my wife, your Honor,” he said, motioning to Jimmie.
“This is your wife?”
“Yes, sir, Judge.”
“Well then, since she has no previous arrest record and you’ll be responsible for her, then I release her in your custody without bail.”
The prosecutor, a man with a baby face and dark straight hair stood up from his desk and objected. “But Your Honor . . . there is a man in the hospital in critical condition. If he should die, the charges will be changed to involuntary manslaughter, and under the circumstances, the State feels strongly that an amount equal to the degree of involvement be requested to insure the defendant’s return to the court.”
“Homer,” said the judge, “are you going to make sure that your wife returns to this court as I have directed?”