by Fauna Hodel
“Yes, sir, Judge.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me. The defendant will be released in the custody of Homer Faison without bail.”
“But your Honor,” began the young lawyer, but the judge interrupted.
“I have known Homer for a long time,” the judge interrupted firmly. “He’s been shining my shoes at the Esquire for years. If he says he’ll bring her here, then he will.” He slammed the gavel down again. “Next case.”
Jimmie Lee walked out with Homer in tow through the small wooden gates. The lawyer began putting his papers aside; the judge already looked bored again. When she saw Pat, Jimmie glared at Homer and asked, “What she doin’ here?”
Pat sensed Jimmie’s resentment at her presence in the courtroom. This was a world of rules, procedures, and the law dominated by white men. It was an arena that Pat, until that day, never knew existed. She noticed Jimmie’s embarrassment. It was the first time Jimmie allowed the whites to have control over her in front of her daughter. Jimmie’s disdain for the whites was beginning to spread like a rash. She was humiliated and angry with them and would do her utmost to outsmart them.
Pat felt guilty for being the cause of such contempt. But now that Pat was here, watching all of this, she wanted to know more.
“Momma,” Pat asked, “why was you in jail?”
“You’d like to see me in jail, huh?” snapped Jimmie. It wasn’t an answer, but from the tone, Pat knew not to pry further.
Back home, Jimmie, sullen and silent, downed a glass of gin. Homer went back to the Nugget. Pat went to bed, pulled the covers over her head, and attempted to escape into a fantasyland of pleasant dreams and the safety of Big Momma.
Pat awoke the next morning at about ten o’clock. Homer had already left for the shop and she stayed snuggled in bed. Suddenly, she overheard laughing voices in the other room.
“Tsk, tsk, that’s awful!” It was Aunt Rosie. “How bad’s the car?” Rosie asked.
“The car? Ha! It’s all fucked up. He ain’t never gonna be able to fix that sucker. You shoulda seen the midget fly off the front seat. Like a little rag doll, head first, right into the windshield!”
“Well you just better pray to God that he don’t die, or your butt’s gonna be in jail for a long time.”
“Yeah, it would’ve been a lot better if he was a regular-size man—with a harder head,” Jimmie said, laughing again. She couldn’t contain herself. “Yeah,” she went on, “but if he was a regular size then I woulda had a lot more trouble trying to pick him up and move him into the driver’s seat.”
A knock on the door interrupted their laughter. Two detectives from the Sparks Police Department wanted to know more details about the accident. They told Jimmie there was an eyewitness to the mishap—a woman who said Jimmie was driving the car when it hit the pole.
Jimmie Lee was adamant; she stuck to her story. She was polite and formal, acting as if it was all just a misunderstanding. The detectives suggested that she take a lie-detector test to prove that she was telling the truth. Jimmie pretended to be insulted by any insinuation of a discrepancy between her story and that of the witness. But then she reluctantly agreed to submit to the interrogation at the police station the following Monday.
Then the officers changed the subject to Pat. “This little white girl is supposed to be your daughter,” said the older one. “Is this true?”
“Who told you that?” Jimmie asked.
The two men looked at each other. The younger one replied, “Homer Faison told the officer on duty last night.”
Jimmie was silently fuming. As many times as the police came to the house in the past to quiet her down after a routine incident with one of the neighbors or one of her boyfriends, she never allowed anyone to see Pat. And now, Homer, of all people, volunteered the information that she herself so closely guarded.
“Yeah, she’s my daughter,” she said. “What about it?”
“Can you prove it? Do you have adoption papers, birth certificate—any legal documentation?”
Jimmie glanced up to the ceiling in thought for a second. “Yeah, I have all that stuff, but not here. My lawyer’s got it and he’s in San Francisco.”
“Then I suggest you contact him and have it sent to you. I think you’re gonna need them. This is not a police matter—not yet, anyway. We’ll be turning over our report to welfare and they will contact you. In the meantime, the little girl can stay with you, at least for a day or two until the report is filed, but I think they’ll probably take her into custody and place her in a foster home until this matter is settled.”
Pat was very much aware of what was going on, even though she didn’t understand all of the technicalities. When Pat heard the words “foster home” she became frightened. Her fear was over leaving Momma. Even if she was difficult, Jimmie Lee was all she had. The thought of being taken from her was terrifying—especially if it meant going to the white people Jimmie so hated.
While the adults chatted, Pat slipped out of the house, strolled down to the creek and sat at the side of the big boulder that jutted out a few feet beyond the bank. Even with the slight breeze that rustled the branches of the nearby willow tree, the water was still at that point in the small stream. In the distance, Pat heard the faint clacking of the train passing over the track. She stared down into the clear water, past her reflection. Her mind wandered to more pleasant thoughts as her fear dissipated. It wasn’t long before visions of her real mother materialized. Pat’s image of her real mother was a cross between Doris Day and an adult version of herself. As she sat, safely behind the boulder, she wondered if her mother, at this very moment, was sitting somewhere staring into her own reflection thinking the same thoughts. As her own image remained etched on the still surface, beneath it she caught glimpses of a woman in a pale green gown, similar to the one Doris Day wore in a movie. That was her mother, her real mother. The sounds of the stream became silent; her mind wandered. Dreams blended one into another, bringing her deeper and deeper into an imaginary world. A world of . . . peace and happiness . . . without guilt, or anger, or fighting . . . a world where she had everything she wanted. And everyone was the same color. How could all this be happening to me? Now, after everything, they want to put me in a foster home! How could they be so mean to me? What have I done? Suddenly, as if her dream had come alive, Pat was startled by a second image in her reflection. It was a black face with pigtails. It was Joyce, her girlfriend from the neighborhood who was just a year older than Pat.
“Where did ya come from?” Pat asked.
“God, I was standin’ here fo’ a long time and you ain’t even heard a thing!” Joyce stood closer to the edge of the water and looked down into the spot where their reflections were. “Wut did you see, a fish?”
“No. I ain’t see no fish. Jus’ myself.”
“Wut ya doing here so long?”
“Just thinking about her,” Pat said pensively.
“Ya mean ya white momma?”
“Yeah. Someday I’m gonna find her.”
“Miss Jimmie says you’re white.”
“No I ain’t!” Pat yelled. “I’m mixed!”
“Then how come you ain’t colored like everybody else is?”
“Cause my momma’s white and her skin’s white, but my Daddy’s colored. And I’m colored on the inside, jus’ like you is!”
Joyce didn’t argue, she just picked up a stone and skimmed it across the water.
How come she doesn’t understand? How many times do I have to tell her my story? I guess I’ll be telling it forever. Finally, Pat smiled at Joyce and said nothing about it.
“If you say so, Patty, I believe what ya tellin’ me.”
“Hey, let’s play the game.” Pat said.
Joyce and Pat often played a special game they’d call the “her” game. The plan was to create ways for Pat to find her real mother, and act out reunion scenarios. But on this day, Joyce didn’t want to play the “her” game with Pat. Then Joyce changed
the subject, “Then how come the police was at your house?”
“Cause they want to take me away and put me . . . I mean they came to ask questions ’bout the car accident, that’s all.”
Joyce gave a perplexing glance. Pat knew Joyce didn’t believe her, but rather then trying to explain, she said, “I hear Jimmie callin’ me, I gotta go.” Pat skipped off and left her friend wondering what was going on.
The police were gone by the time Pat reached the cottage, but she could still hear Jimmie cussing and ranting. This time it was Mrs. Atkinson, their landlady, upset at the frequent visits by the police. No one in the neighborhood wanted the cops snooping around. Since Jimmie, Homer, and Pat moved in, there were more cops stopping at their cottage in just a few months than at any time since the old campground days.
Jimmie had a kitchen knife in her hand and threatened Mrs. Atkinson. Aunt Rosie stepped in between them and hustled the elderly woman out the door. Jimmie was still screaming and cussing.
“Wut’s going on?” Pat asked Aunt Rosie as she watched Mrs. Atkinson waddle toward the big house.
Aunt Rosie didn’t answer. She watched cautiously, glancing back and forth between Jimmie in the cottage with the knife and Mrs. Atkinson, who kept looking back at them. When Rosie felt it was safe, she closed the door, leaving Jimmie Lee alone with her misery. Rosie placed her hand firmly on Pat’s shoulder and motioned for her to walk around the side of the house toward the open field.
“Your momma’s been drinkin’ again, Patty. And you know how she gets when she’s like that. She blames everything on you. But don’t yo’ worry, it ain’t your fault, none of it. She says she wouldn’t be with that midget if she didn’t need the extra money to buy you things. And now the new trouble with the police. It’s starting to get to her.”
Pat looked down at the ground as they walked and began to cry. Rosie continued, “It’s true. Your momma takes care of you, and makes sure you don’t get into no trouble, and she sacrifices a lot for you. But she could be dangerous when she drinks.
“Down deep inside she really loves you, but when she’s drinking, she thinks she actually hates you. She’s told you that herself.”
Pat loved Aunt Rosie and instinctively knew she was trustworthy. So why would she say such awful things about Jimmie—unless they were true?
“So I want you to promise me something,” Rosie continued. “If at any time, you see your momma in one of her moods—that is, when she’s drunk, and you feel danger brewin’, then you come to me. I’ll protect you. I ain’t afraid of her. I got a lot of tricks and magical spells that’ll keep the devil away. So taking care of a high-strung woman like Jimmie Lee is kid’s stuff.” She shrugged and acted sassy. “Why I got some special herbs and leaves that’ll keep even the strongest evil from entering my front door. So don’t you worry, child. When the time comes you just make sure you get your little behind to me. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Pat knew Aunt Rosie believed in magic and incantations. Jimmie had often told Pat stories about her and how she learned about chanting, and spirits, and potions from her spiritual advisors in the South. Her psychic abilities, which Rosie said were a gift from God, were unusual. Pat never did understand how she knew so much about people, and events—particularly before they happened. Rosie taught Pat about ESP and paranormal mysteries that she had learned from books. That’s all she ever read about—that, and the Bible. Her neighbors and sisters at the church believed she was a true witch. Aunt Rosie knew they talked behind her back, but never confronted them. Instead, she watched them step aside when she came near. She believed in the supernatural, and left everyone alone in his or her ignorance.
Homer and Pat stayed away from Jimmie and tried to ignore her antics. However, the following morning, she was a new person. She had a good night’s sleep and was cool and relaxed. Pat was constantly amazed at her instant transformation. It was time for Jimmie to take a polygraph and make her statement to the police.
Pat trekked off to school that day, but her mind was far away. There was so much riding on the lie-detector test and Pat knew Jimmie couldn’t fool the police. If she failed the test, then for sure she would go to jail, which would in turn force Pat into the care of an old, nasty white woman—a thought that made her stomach feel queasy. Even if Jimmie passed the test, there was still the matter of her uncompleted adoption. It looked as though there was no way out. As the thoughts rolled around in her head, Pat wrote down her feelings on small scraps of paper.
What am I guilty of?
Everyone blames me.
I have Negro blood.
I am not a Whitey.
I am not White.
It was all she knew how to do without letting anyone know her feelings; she felt ashamed.
As she folded the scraps of writing and placed them into her pocket, her face suddenly turned red. She realized that Aunt Rosie said her momma hated her and that was too distressing think about. As tears swelled in her eyes, she quickly visualized her Big Momma and all the love that woman had for her. She sensed her warm touch, her safe embrace, and sucked in her wonderful scent. As Pat wandered deep into her imagination, blocking out all that was around her, she could hear Big Momma’s calm voice calling her.
“Don’t worry, my child, my dear Pat. I’m with you. God has great plans for you. You’ll make it through these trials. Everything will work out—you’ll see.”
She kept Big Momma’s voice in her head, letting those soothing words fill her empty heart.
While deep into her daydreams, a voice rang out. “Patricia! Patricia! Are you with us today?” Her teacher snapped. Pat jumped in her seat but only for a moment.
When school let out, Pat remained aloof and sullen, avoiding her friends. Instead of heading home, she wandered by the stream and slowly headed back toward the open field behind the cottage, not wanting to face the reality of Jimmie failing the lie-detector test and trying to put the inevitable off for just a little longer. In her pocket, she felt the crumpled bits of paper and studied them one more time. Her words were private, her thoughts secret, and she dreaded letting anyone know her true feelings. She dropped to her knees and dug several holes. She placed the private reflections in an empty soda bottle and buried it, along with her embarrassment, in an unmarked grave. It was one of the rituals that Aunt Rosie taught her: the way to get anything she wanted was to bury her wishes in God’s earth. It was the same custom that Big Momma mentioned. This powerful ritual of writing, then burying her thoughts gave her courage to defend herself against the endless rejection from the black neighborhood.
As Pat approached the front door, the merriment and laughter drowned out the music in the background. She stepped inside and scanned the familiar faces as each glanced back on cue, but no one nodded or acknowledged her presence, preferring to continue on with their prattle. She blended in easily without interrupting their impromptu celebration and allowed the jovial atmosphere to cheer her up. She recognized Jimmie’s cronies—Barbara, her cousin, Blackie, Daddy-O from the hobo camp, and some other familiar faces. They each had a drink or cigarette while listening to Jimmie unfold her story with the flair and drama of a movie queen. She was at the center, on stage, performing her scene as if it was opening night. Pat caught only the tail end of the performance, but enough to know that Jimmie Lee beat the lie detector test. And that provided relief all around, even though she knew Jimmie would brag until the winter’s snow. Although the truth might still come out if the dwarf recovered, for now that concern remained on the shelf while Pat savored the moment of her momma’s triumph over the machine.
As the music echoed loudly off the sparse walls, Pat hummed along, tapping her feet to the syncopation. It wasn’t long before Pat, bopping her head to the beat, became the focus of her momma.
Barbara pointed toward Pat, “Hey, that girl’s got some rhythm!”
“Rhythm, shit!” said Jimmie. “This child’s got more moves than a bedbug!”
The adults giggled.
Pat felt embarrassed. She knew what Jimmie wanted her to do and warily dropped to her knees and slid under the table.
“Come on outta there. Show ’em how you can dance,” she said as she dragged Pat by the arm until she was out on the open floor. Daddy-O turned the music up and the coaxing began. Pat hid her reddened face behind her arm trying to disappear, yet, still bouncing rhythmically to the beat.
“Come on Patty, show us your stuff. Yeah, they wanna see ya dance,” Barbara said clapping her hands. The cheering only made Pat more embarrassed until she realized the only way out was to comply. Hesitantly, she started to shuffle her feet and prance about, allowing the music to take over, dancing until she became the main attraction.
“Look at ’er go, she’s da only white Patty with soul!” Jimmie said. “Ain’t no doubt ’bout where she gets them moves—not from da honky side, dats fo’ sure!”
At that moment, Pat wished her skin were black like theirs.
CHAPTER 11
In the weeks that followed, the imminent crisis that Pat had anticipated slowly diminished. The attorney Homer pleaded with agreed to look into the adoption and that kept the Social Services at bay for the time being. The midget recovered from the coma. His family didn’t want it known that their son was involved in an accident with Jimmie Lee and dropped the charges against her. Pat’s anxiety dissipated as each calamity petered out. The only serious problem they had to face was Mrs. Atkinson. The landlord was adamant about getting Jimmie, Homer, and Pat out of her cottage.
Once a month, Reverend Mayfield, a Baptist minister, left off a pair of black leather shoes for Homer to shine and pick up the following day. Each time he encouraged the shoeshine man to attend his services, but Homer, not being much of a churchgoer, politely backed off.
Jimmie, on the other hand, was raised in the Pentecostal Church and had no time for the tight-assed Baptists. But local gossip inferred that Reverend Mayfield was okay as far as ministers go. His congregation had prospered and he was planning to build a new church. He also owned a couple of small houses nearby. Although Jimmie didn’t have much use for his church or sermons, she did manage to persuade Mayfield to rent her one of the small houses on Wadsworth Street.